University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Lamachus' Palace, Cherson.
Gycia and Irene.
Gycia.
Sweetest Irene,
What joy it is to see thee once again
After so long an absence! We had grown
Together on one stalk so long, since first
Our girlish lives began to burst to flower,
That it was hard to part us. But me thinks
That something of the rose from off thy cheek
Has faded, and its rounded outline fair
Seems grown a little thinner.

Ire.
Gycia,
The flower, once severed from the stalk, no more
Grows as before.

Gycia.
Thou strange girl, to put on
Such grave airs! Ah! I fear at Bosphorus
Some gay knight has bewitched thee; thou has fallen
In love, as girls say—though what it may be
To fall in love, I know not, thank the gods,
Having much else to think of.

Ire.
Prithee, dear,
Speak not of this.

Gycia.
Ah! then I know 'tis true.
Confess what manner of thing love is.

Ire.
Nay, nay, I cannot tell thee (weeping)
, Gycia;
Thou knowest not what thou askest. What is love?
Seek not to know it. 'Tis to be no more
Thy own, but all another's; 'tis to dwell
By day and night on one fixed madding thought,
Till the form wastes, and with the form the heart
Is warped from right to wrong, and can forget
All that it loved before, faith, duty, country,
Friendship, affection—everything but love.
Seek not to know it, dear; or, knowing it,
Be happier than I.

Gycia.
My poor Irene!
Then, 'tis indeed a misery to love.
I do repent that I have tortured thee
By such unthinking jests. Forgive me, dear,
I will speak no more of it; with me thy secret
Is safe as with a sister. Shouldst thou wish
To unburden to me thy unhappy heart,
If haply I might bring thy love to thee.
Thou shalt his name divulge and quality,
And I will do my best.

Ire.
Never, dear Gycia.
Forget my weakness; 'twas a passing folly,
I love a man who loves me not again,
And that is very hell. I would die sooner
Than breathe his name to thee. Fare-well, dear lady!
Thou canst not aid me.

[Exit Irene.
Gycia.
Hapless girl! Praise Heaven
That I am fancy-free!

Enter Lamachus.
Lama.
My dearest daughter, why this solemn aspect?
I have glad news for thee. Thou knowest of old
The weary jealousies, the bloody feuds,
Which 'twixt our Cherson and her neighbour City
Have raged ere I was born—nay, ere my grandsire
First saw the light of heaven. Both our States
Are crippled by this brainless enmity.
And now the Empire, now the Scythian, threatens
Destruction to our Cities, whom, united,
We might defy with scorn. Seeing this weakness,
Thy father, wishful, ere his race be run,
To save our much-loved Cherson, sent of late
Politic envoys to our former foe,
And now—i' faith, I am not so old, 'twould seem
That I have lost my state-craft—comes a message.
The Prince Asander, heir of Bosphorus,
Touches our shores to-day, and presently
Will be with us.

Gycia.
Oh, father, is it wise?
Do fire and water mingle? Does the hawk
Mate with the dove; the tiger with the lamb;
The tyrant with the peaceful common-wealth;
Fair commerce with the unfruitful works of war?
What union can there be 'twixt our fair city
And this half-barbarous race? 'Twere against nature
To bid these opposite elements combine—
The Greek with the Cimmerian. Father, pray you,
Send them away, with honour if you please,
And soothing words and gifts—only, I pray you,
Send them away, this Prince who doth despise us,
And his false retinue of slaves.

Lama.
My daughter,
Thy words are wanting in thy wonted love
And dutiful observance. 'Twere an insult
Unwashed by streams of bloodshed, should our City
Scorn thus the guests it summoned. Come they must,
And with all hospitable care and honour,
Else were thy sire dishonoured. Thou wilt give them
A fitting welcome.

Gycia.
Pardon me, my father,
That I spoke rashly. I obey thy will.

[Going.
Lama.
Stay, Gycia. Dost thou know what 'tis to love?

Gycia.
Ay, thee, dear father.

Lama.
Nay, I know it well.
But has no noble youth e'er touched thy heart?

Gycia.
None, father, Heaven be praised! The young Irene
Was with me when thou cam'st, and all her life
Seems blighted by this curse of love for one
Whose name she hides, with whom in Bosphorus
She met, when there she sojourned. Her young brother,
The noble Theodorus, whom thou knowest,
Lets all the world go by him and grows pale
For love, and pines, and wherefore?—For thy daughter,
Who knows not what love means, and cannot brook
Such brain-sick folly. Nay, be sure, good father,
I love not thus, and shall not.

Lama.
Well, well, girl,
Thou wilt know it yet. I fetter not thy choice,
But if thou couldst by loving bind together
Not two hearts only, but opposing peoples;
Supplant by halcyon days long years of strife,
And link them in unbroken harmony;—
Were this no glory for a woman, this
No worthy price of her heart?

Gycia.
Tell me, I pray,
What mean you by this riddle?

Lama.
Prince Asander
Comes here to ask your hand, and with it take
A gracious dower of peace and amity.
He does not ask thee to forsake thy home,
But leaves for thee his own. All tongues together
Are full of praise of him: virgin in love,
A brave youth in the field, as we have proved
In many a mortal fight; a face and form
Like a young god's. I would, my love, thy heart
Might turn to him, and find thy happiness
In that which makes me happy. I am old
And failing, and I fain would see thee blest
Before I die, and at thy kness an heir
To all my riches, and the State of Cherson
From anxious cares delivered, and through thee.

Gycia.
Father, we are of the Athenian race,
Which was the flower of Hellas. Ours the fame
Of Poets, Statesmen, Orators, whose works
And thoughts upon the forehead of mankind
Shine like a precious jewel; ours the glory
Of those great Soldiers who by sea and land
Scattered the foemen to the winds of heaven,
First in the files of time. And though our mother,
Our Athens, sank, crushed by the might of Rome,
What is Rome now?—An Empire rent in twain;
An Empire sinking 'neath the unwieldy weight
Of its own power; an Empire where the Senate
Ranks lower than the Circus, and a wanton
Degrades the Imperial throne. But though to its fall
The monster totters, this our Cherson keeps
The bravery of old, and still maintains
The old Hellenic spirit and some likeness
Of the fair Commonwealth which ruled the world.
Surely, my father, 'tis a glorious spring
Drawn from the heaven-kissed summits whence we come;
And shall we, then, defile our noble blood
By mixture with this upstart tyranny
Which fouls the Hellenic pureness of its source
In countless bastard channels? If our State
Ask of its children sacrifice, 'tis well.
It shall be given; only I prithee, father,
Seek not that I should with barbaric blood
Taint the pure stream, which flows from Pericles.
Let me abide unwedded, if I may,
A Greek girl as before.

Lama.
Daughter, thy choice
Is free as air to accept or to reject
This suitor; only, in the name of Cherson,
Do nothing rashly, and meanwhile take care
That naught that fits a Grecian State be wanting
To do him honour.

Gycia.
Sir, it shall be done.