Chapter: SCENE VI
          THESEUS, THERAMENES


          THESEUS
          Theramenes, is't thou? Where is my son?
          I gave him to thy charge from tenderest childhood.
          But whence these tears that overflow thine eyes?
          How is it with my son?

          THERAMENES
          Concern too late!
          Affection vain! Hippolytus is dead.

          THESEUS
          Gods!

          THERAMENES
          I have seen the flow'r of all mankind
          Cut off, and I am bold to say that none
          Deserved it less.

          THESEUS
          What! My son dead! When I
          Was stretching out my arms to him, has Heav'n
          Hasten'd his end? What was this sudden stroke?

          THERAMENES
          Scarce had we pass'd out of the gates of Troezen,
          He silent in his chariot, and his guards
          Downcast and silent too, around him ranged;
          To the Mycenian road he turn'd his steeds,
          Then, lost in thought, allow'd the reins to lie
          Loose on their backs. His noble chargers, erst
          So full of ardour to obey his voice,
          With head depress'd and melancholy eye
          Seem'd now to mark his sadness and to share it.
          A frightful cry, that issues from the deep,
          With sudden discord rends the troubled air;
          And from the bosom of the earth a groan
          Is heard in answer to that voice of terror.
          Our blood is frozen at our very hearts;
          With bristling manes the list'ning steeds stand still.
          Meanwhile upon the watery plain there rises
          A mountain billow with a mighty crest
          Of foam, that shoreward rolls, and, as it breaks
          Before our eyes vomits a furious monster.
          With formidable horns its brow is arm'd,
          And all its body clothed with yellow scales,
          In front a savage bull, behind a dragon
          Turning and twisting in impatient rage.
          Its long continued bellowings make the shore
          Tremble; the sky seems horror-struck to see it;
          The earth with terror quakes; its poisonous breath
          Infects the air. The wave that brought it ebbs
          In fear. All fly, forgetful of the courage
          That cannot aid, and in a neighbouring temple
          Take refuge--all save bold Hippolytus.
          A hero's worthy son, he stays his steeds,
          Seizes his darts, and, rushing forward, hurls
          A missile with sure aim that wounds the monster
          Deep in the flank. With rage and pain it springs
          E'en to the horses' feet, and, roaring, falls,
          Writhes in the dust, and shows a fiery throat
          That covers them with flames, and blood, and smoke.
          Fear lends them wings; deaf to his voice for once,
          And heedless of the curb, they onward fly.
          Their master wastes his strength in efforts vain;
          With foam and blood each courser's bit is red.
          Some say a god, amid this wild disorder,
          Was seen with goads pricking their dusty flanks.
          O'er jagged rocks they rush urged on by terror;
          Crash! goes the axle-tree. Th' intrepid youth
          Sees his car broken up, flying to pieces;
          He falls himself entangled in the reins.
          Pardon my grief. That cruel spectacle
          Will be for me a source of endless tears.
          I saw thy hapless son, I saw him, Sire,
          Drag'd by the horses that his hands had fed,
          Pow'rless to check their fierce career, his voice
          But adding to their fright, his body soon
          One mass of wounds. Our cries of anguish fill
          The plain. At last they slacken their swift pace,
          Then stop, not far from those old tombs that mark
          Where lie the ashes of his royal sires.
          Panting I thither run, and after me
          His guard, along the track stain'd with fresh blood
          That reddens all the rocks; caught in the briers
          Locks of his hair hang dripping, gory spoils!
          I come, I call him. Stretching forth his hand,
          He opens his dying eyes, soon closed again.
          "The gods have robb'd me of a guiltless life,"
          I hear him say: "Take care of sad Aricia
          When I am dead. Dear friend, if e'er my father
          Mourn, undeceived, his son's unhappy fate
          Falsely accused; to give my spirit peace,
          Tell him to treat his captive tenderly,
          And to restore--" With that the hero's breath
          Fails, and a mangled corpse lies in my arms,
          A piteous object, trophy of the wrath
          Of Heav'n--so changed, his father would not know him.

          THESEUS
          Alas, my son! Dear hope for ever lost!
          The ruthless gods have served me but too well.
          For what a life of anguish and remorse
          Am I reserved!

          THERAMENES
          Aricia at that instant,
          Flying from you, comes timidly, to take him
          For husband, there, in presence of the gods.
          Thus drawing nigh, she sees the grass all red
          And reeking, sees (sad sight for lover's eye!)
          Hippolytus stretch'd there, pale and disfigured.
          But, for a time doubtful of her misfortune,
          Unrecognized the hero she adores,
          She looks, and asks--"Where is Hippolytus?"
          Only too sure at last that he lies there
          Before her, with sad eyes that silently
          Reproach the gods, she shudders, groans, and falls
          Swooning and all but lifeless, at his feet.
          Ismene, all in tears, kneels down beside her,
          And calls her back to life--life that is naught
          But sense of pain. And I, to whom this light
          Is darkness now, come to discharge the duty
          The hero has imposed on me, to tell thee
          His last request--a melancholy task.
          But hither comes his mortal enemy.




SCENE VII
          THESEUS, PHAEDRA, THERAMENES, PANOPE, GUARDS


          THESEUS
          Madame, you've triumph'd, and my son is kill'd!
          Ah, but what room have I for fear! How justly
          Suspicion racks me that in blaming him
          I err'd! But he is dead; accept your victim;
          Rightly or wrongly slain, let your heart leap
          For joy. My eyes shall be for ever blind:
          Since you accuse him, I'll believe him guilty.
          His death affords me cause enough for tears,
          Without a foolish search for further light
          Which, pow'rless to restore him to my grief,
          Might only serve to make me more unhappy,
          Far from this shore and far from you I'll fly,
          For here the image of my mangled son
          Would haunt my memory and drive me mad.
          From the whole world I fain would banish me,
          For all the world seems to rise up in judgment
          Against me; and my very glory weights
          My punishment; for, were my name less known
          'Twere easier to hide me. All the favours
          The gods have granted me I mourn and hate,
          Nor will I importune them with vain pray'rs
          Henceforth for ever. Give me what they may,
          What they have taken will all else outweigh.

          PHAEDRA
          Theseus, I cannot hear you and keep silence:
          I must repair the wrong that he has suffer'd--
          Your son was innocent.

          THESEUS
          Unhappy father!
          And it was on your word that I condemn'd him!
          Think you such cruelty can be excused--

          PHAEDRA
          Moments to me are precious; hear me, Theseus.
          'Twas I who cast an eye of lawless passion
          On chaste and dutiful Hippolytus.
          Heav'n in my bosom kindled baleful fire,
          And vile Oenone's cunning did the rest.
          She fear'd Hippolytus, knowing my madness,
          Would make that passion known which he regarded
          With horror; so advantage of my weakness
          She took, and hasten'd to accuse him first.
          For that she has been punish'd, tho' too mildly;
          Seeking to shun my wrath she cast herself
          Beneath the waves. The sword ere now had cut
          My thread of life, but slander'd innocence
          Made its cry heard, and I resolved to die
          In a more lingering way, confessing first
          My penitence to you. A poison, brought
          To Athens by Medea, runs thro' my veins.
          Already in my heart the venom works,
          Infusing there a strange and fatal chill;
          Already as thro' thickening mists I see
          The spouse to whom my presence is an outrage;
          Death, from mine eyes veiling the light of heav'n,
          Restores its purity that they defiled.

          PANOPE
          She dies my lord!

          THESEUS
          Would that the memory
          Of her disgraceful deed could perish with her!
          Ah, disabused too late! Come, let us go,
          And with the blood of mine unhappy son
          Mingle our tears, clasping his dear remains,
          In deep repentance for a pray'r detested.
          Let him be honour'd as he well deserves;
          And, to appease his sore offended ghost,
          Be her near kinsmen's guilt whate'er it may,
          Aricia shall be held my daughter from to-day.

 It is too late. Theramenes, Hippolytus' tutor, bursts in to tell Theseus that Hippolytus is dead. As they were leaving the gates of Troezen, Hippolytus driving in his chariot, a strange cry came from the sea, and Hippolytus' horses grew restive. Then, in the sea, a great wave arose, from whose foam a monster, half-bull and half-snake, appeared. Theramenes and the guards, terrified, took refuge in a nearby temple; Hippolytus alone stood to face the monster and pierced him with his javelin. The dying monster spewed his blood and flame at the feet of the horses, and they ran wild. Despite Hippolytus' magnificent efforts, he could not control them, and some of the guards even thought they saw a god spurring them on. Dragging the chariot toward the cliffs, they broke the axle and the chariot came apart beneath its driver. The horses dragged Hippolytus to death. Following the traces of his blood and hair, Theramenes arrived at the spot where the horses had stopped, near the temple of Hippolytus' ancestors. With his dying breath, Hippolytus assured his tutor that he was innocent of the accusations against him and begged him to look after Aricia and ask Theseus to be kind to her. Theseus, overcome by grief, cries that the gods have served him only too well and given him a remorse which will last all his life. Theramenes tells him that just as Hippolytus died, Aricia arrived, saw the mutilated body of her lover, and fainted away at his feet. She has now revived, and Ismene, her attendant, is sharing her tears; Theramenes has left her only to bring Theseus his son's last words. At this moment Phaedra enters, and Theseus turns upon her. "My son is dead, Madame, take your victim," he cries, "enjoy his death, legitimate or unjust." He wants to know no more; the truth, if he knew it, might only increase his suffering. It is he, Theseus, who will now go into exile, to hide himself from the memory of his son's death and his name from the knowledge of humans. The gods, with all their kindness to him, have given him at last a fatal gift. Phaedra, unshaken, reveals the truth. "Your son must be given back his innocence," she tells Theseus. "He was not guilty." When Theseus exclaims at her cruelty, she silences him. She has only a few moments to live, and she must tell her story. It was she who, cursed by the heavens, conceived an incestuous love for his son; Oenone did the rest. Fearing that Hippolytus would reveal the truth to his father, the nurse accused him instead, but she has received her punishment. Phaedra would already have slain herself with the sword, but she felt that she must clear Hippolytus' name. She has taken a poison which Medea brought to Athens, and she is dying. Her presence need no longer offend the heavens and the husband she has outraged. The heavens, which she has soiled by her existence, will be restored to purity by her death. She dies. Theseus, left with neither wife nor son, plans to go and weep over the body of his son and to bury him with the honors he deserves. Henceforward, he will consider Aricia -- Hippolytus' only legacy to him -- as his own daughter.

