 | Alcestis |  |
Scene I.
—Pheræ—a Street. Enter a Citizen and a Sailor.Citizen.
They say the King must die.
Sailor.
Die? Ay, we must all die—kings and cow boys, princes and pettifoggers, we must all one day tussle for stowage-room in old Charon's cargo.
Citizen.
But this is death upon strange conditions—thou hast seen the proclamation?
Sailor.
Ay.
Citizen.
Then here's a chance for thee: to die and save the King! How often hast thou pulled death by the beard upon mean occasions, and this would be thy
Sailor.
I had rather be chained to the rowers' benches of this good ship Life. For the statue of gold, its gleam would send small candlelight of honour into the nether darkness; and for my posterity, they are so scattered over this wench-bearing earth that they are beyond knowledge of their roving ancestor. Grant me to live till I can bring my family within the castigation of a single rope's end, and I will die for the King, and welcome. But just now I am in no dying vein. Since Admetus beached the Tisiphone, my old war galley, I have no business with death. Go die thyself, man. The King will father thy children, and thou may'st reign in Hades.
Citizen.
Better be a farmer's slave in Bœotia. Besides it would smack of presumption in me to call myself the King's friend.
I marvel how the Queen can be so fond as to make this proclamation. A man will face some smart chance of death, d'ye see, in the rash heat of life—for his own sake, for his private ends, renown, or duty, or mere love of danger. He would be no man else. But die for another in cold blood—no, by Hercules, not I! But should not old Pheres be content, think you, to hide his palsied head, at this hour of the day, and for his son?
Citizen.
Not he; not he; why, the old cling to life as men sliding over a precipice to every bush. They drop into the grave with its rotten twigs clutched in their feeble fists. No, he'll not die.
Sailor.
But what of his mother, Clymene?
Citizen.
The mother's love, says the saw, thins with the mother's milk. Their embrace is life to us at first: but at last the narrow gripe of their kindness would strangle us.
Or the Queen Alcestis?
Citizen.
Her children will cause the perdition of their father, weighed in an even scale. Trust me, I know the appetites of these women. They hold us mere appendages of our children, once we are fathers.
Sailor.
You think so?
Citizen.
I know it, by Zeus! and to my cost.
Sailor.
Then farewell, poor Admetus! Hath he no mistress, who in the first heat of her affection might e'en die for him?
Citizen.
Not one sweet morsel of Aphrodite's flesh; the chaste husband of a chaste wife—they tell me.
A wonder among kings! How many men in his place would now so dangerously hang by a single woman's hair!
Citizen.
One of his royal whims, sir—peace be with him!
Sailor.
A king to be more constant than a god!
Citizen.
Or a sailor—eh?
Sailor.
But this queen of his might fix the wandering fancy of Zeus himself?
Citizen.
A paragon, a paragon! Shall we go? Business must march, though monarchs die.
Sailor.
Well he was a good king, say I—always stirring— his sails are on all seas.
A good king, as kings go, I grant you; but full of notions—a meddler with old customs—a bringer in of strange cattle.
Sailor.
What, Apollo's sheep?
Citizen.
Ay, sir, I remember our old mountaineers. I have dealt in wool myself in my day. These sheep of Apollo's breed will shew you a heavy fleece, a fine long-stapled wool—I grant you that; but they are given to the rot beyond all beasts of their kind.
Sailor.
Is that so?
Citizen.
Most certain. Come, I can tell you more secrets than this.
[Exeunt.
| Alcestis | |