Fiction > Harvard Classics > Jean Racine > Phædra
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Jean Racine (1639–1699).  Phædra.
The Harvard Classics.  1909–14.
 
Act I
 
Scene III
 
 
PHÆDRA,  ŒNONE

Phædra

We have gone far enough. Stay, dear Œnone;
Strength fails me, and I needs must rest awhile.
My eyes are dazzled with this glaring light
So long unseen, my trembling knees refuse
Support. Ah me!        5
 
Œnone

        Would Heaven that our tears
Might bring relief!
 
Phædra

        Ah, how these cumbrous gauds,
These veils oppress me! What officious hand
Has tied these knots, and gather’d o’er my brow        10
These clustering coils? How all conspires to add
To my distress!
 
Œnone

        What is one moment wish’d,
The next, is irksome. Did you not just now,
Sick of inaction, bid us deck you out,        15
And, with your former energy recall’d,
Desire to go abroad, and see the light
Of day once more? You see it, and would fain
Be hidden from the sunshine that you sought.
 
Phædra

Thou glorious author of a hapless race,
        20
Whose daughter ’twas my mother’s boast to be,
Who well may’st blush to see me in such plight,
For the last time I come to look on thee,
O Sun!
 
Œnone

        What! Still are you in love with death?
        25
Shall I ne’er see you, reconciled to life,
Forego these cruel accents of despair?
 
Phædra

Would I were seated in the forest’s shade!
When may I follow with delighted eye,
Thro’ glorious dust flying in full career,        30
A chariot—
 
Œnone

        Madam?
 
Phædra

        Have I lost my senses?
What said I? and where am I? Whither stray
Vain wishes? Ah! The gods have made me mad.        35
I blush, Œnone, and confusion covers
My face, for I have let you see too clearly
The shame of grief that, in my own despite,
O’erflows these eyes of mine.
 
Œnone

        If you must blush,
        40
Blush at a silence that inflames your woes.
Resisting all my care, deaf to my voice,
Will you have no compassion on yourself,
But let your life be ended in mid course?
What evil spell has drain’d its fountain dry?        45
Thrice have the shades of night obscured the heav’ns
Since sleep has enter’d thro’ your eyes, and thrice
The dawn has chased the darkness thence, since food
Pass’d your wan lips, and you are faint and languid.
To what dread purpose is your heart inclined?        50
How dare you make attempts upon your life,
And so offend the gods who gave it you,
Prove false to Theseus and your marriage vows,
Ay, and betray your most unhappy children,
Bending their necks yourself beneath the yoke?        55
That day, be sure, which robs them of their mother,
Will give high hopes back to the stranger’s son,
To that proud enemy of you and yours,
To whom an Amazon gave birth, I mean
Hippolytus—        60
 
Phædra

        Ye gods!
 
Œnone

        Ah, this reproach
Moves you!
 
Phædra

        Unhappy woman, to what name
Gave your mouth utterance?        65
 
Œnone

        Your wrath is just.
’Tis well that that ill-omen’d name can rouse
Such rage. Then live. Let love and duty urge
Their claims. Live, suffer not this son of Scythia,
Crushing your children ’neath his odious sway,        70
To rule the noble offspring of the gods,
The purest blood of Greece. Make no delay;
Each moment threatens death; quickly restore
Your shatter’d strength, while yet the torch of life
Holds out, and can be fann’d into a flame.        75
 
Phædra

Too long have I endured its guilt and shame!
 
Œnone

Why? What remorse gnaws at your heart? What crime
Can have disturb’d you thus? Your hands are not
Polluted with the blood of innocence?
 
Phædra

Thanks be to Heav’n, my hands are free from stain.
        80
Would that my soul were innocent as they!
 
Œnone

What awful project have you then conceived,
Whereat your conscience should be still alarm’d?
 
Phædra

Have I not said enough? Spare me the rest.
I die to save myself a full confession.        85
 
Œnone

Die then, and keep a silence so inhuman;
But seek some other hand to close your eyes.
Tho’ but a spark of life remains within you,
My soul shall go before you to the Shades.
A thousand roads are always open thither;        90
Pain’d at your want of confidence, I’ll choose
The shortest. Cruel one, when has my faith
Deceived you! Think how in my arms you lay
New born. For you, my country and my children
I have forsaken. Do you thus repay        95
My faithful service?
 
Phædra

        What do you expect
From words so bitter? Were I to break silence
Horror would freeze your blood.
 
Œnone

        What can you say
        100
To horrify me more than to behold
You die before my eyes?
 
Phædra

    When you shall know
My crime, my death will follow none the less,
But with the added stain of guilt.        105
 
Œnone

        Dear Madam,
By all the tears that I have shed for you,
By these weak knees I clasp, relieve my mind
From torturing doubt.
 
Phædra

        It is your wish. Then rise.
        110
 
Œnone

I hear you. Speak.
 
Phædra

        Heav’ns! How shall I begin?
 
Œnone

Dismiss vain fears, you wound me with distrust.
 
Phædra

O fatal animosity of Venus!
Into what wild distractions did she cast        115
My mother!
 
Œnone

    Be they blotted from remembrance,
And for all time to come buried in silence.
 
Phædra

My sister Ariadne, by what love
Were you betray’d to death, on lonely shores        120
Forsaken!
 
Œnone

        Madam, what deep-seated pain
Prompts these reproaches against all your kin?
 
Phædra

It is the will of Venus, and I perish,
Last, most unhappy of a family        125
Where all were wretched.
 
Œnone

        Do you love?
 
Phædra

        I feel
All its mad fever.
 
Œnone

        Ah! For whom?
        130
 
Phædra

        Hear now
The crowning horror. Yes, I love—my lips
Tremble to say his name.
 
Œnone

        Whom?
 
Phædra

        Know you him,
        135
Son of the Amazon, whom I’ve oppress’d
So long?
 
Œnone

        Hippolytus? Great gods!
 
Phædra

        ’Tis you
Have named him.        140
 
Œnone

        All my blood within my veins
Seems frozen. O despair! O cursèd race!
Ill-omen’d journey! Land of misery!
Why did we ever reach thy dangerous shores?
 
Phædra

My wound is not so recent. Scarcely had I
        145
Been bound to Theseus by the marriage yoke,
And happiness and peace seem’d well secured,
When Athens show’d me my proud enemy.
I look’d, alternately turn’d pale and blush’d
To see him, and my soul grew all distraught;        150
A mist obscured my vision, and my voice
Falter’d, my blood ran cold, then burn’d like fire;
Venus I felt in all my fever’d frame,
Whose fury had so many of my race
Pursued. With fervent vows I sought to shun        155
Her torments, built and deck’d for her a shrine,
And there, ’mid countless victims did I seek
The reason I had lost; but all for naught,
No remedy could cure the wounds of love!
In vain I offer’d incense on her altars;        160
When I invoked her name my heart adored
Hippolytus, before me constantly;
And when I made her altars smoke with victims,
’Twas for a god whose name I dared not utter.
I fled his presence everywhere, but found him—        165
O crowning horror!—in his father’s features.
Against myself, at last, I raised revolt,
And stirr’d my courage up to persecute
The enemy I loved. To banish him
I wore a step-dame’s harsh and jealous carriage,        170
With ceaseless cries I clamour’d for his exile,
Till I had torn him from his father’s arms.
I breathed once more, Œnone; in his absence
My days flow’d on less troubled than before,
And innocent. Submissive to my husband,        175
I hid my grief, and of our fatal marriage
Cherish’d the fruits. Vain caution! Cruel Fate!
Brought hither by my spouse himself, I saw
Again the enemy whom I had banish’d,
And the old wound too quickly bled afresh.        180
No longer is it love hid in my heart,
But Venus in her might seizing her prey.
I have conceived just terror for my crime;
I hate my life, and hold my love in horror.
Dying I wish’d to keep my fame unsullied,        185
And bury in the grave a guilty passion;
But I have been unable to withstand
Tears and entreaties, I have told you all;
Content, if only, as my end draws near,
You do not vex me with unjust reproaches,        190
Nor with vain efforts seek to snatch from death
The last faint lingering sparks of vital breath.
 

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