University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Cherson, two years after. The palace of Lamachus.
Asander and Gycia.
Gycia.
What day is this, Asander?
Canst thou tell me?

Asan.
Not I, my love. All days are now alike;
The weeks fleet by, the days equivalent gems
Strung on a golden thread.

Gycia.
Thou careless darling!
I did not ask thee of the calendar.
Dost think a merchant's daughter knows not that?
Nay, nay; I only asked thee if thou knewest
If aught upon this day had ever brought
Some great change to thee.

Asan.
Sweetest, dearest wife,
Our marriage! Thinkest thou I should forget,
Ay, though the chills of age had froze my brain,
That day of all my life?

Gycia.
Dost thou regret it?
I think thou dost not, but 'tis sweet to hear
The avowal from thy lips?

Asan.
Nay, never a moment.
And thou?

Gycia.
Nay, never for a passing thought.
I did not know what life was till I knew thee.
Dost thou remember it, how I came forth,
Looking incuriously to see the stranger,
And lo! I spied my love, and could not murmur
A word of courtesy?

Asan.
Dost thou remember
How I, a feverish and hot-brained youth,
Full of rash pride and princely arrogance,
Lifted my eyes and saw a goddess coming—

Gycia.
Nay, a weak woman only.

Asan.
And was tamed
By the first glance?

Gycia.
What! are we lovers still,
After two years of marriage?

Asan.
Is it two years,
Or twenty? By my faith, I know not which,
For happy lives glide on like seaward streams
Which keep their peaceful and unruffled course
So smoothly that the voyager hardly notes
The progress of the tide. Ay, two years 'tis,
And now it seems a day, now twenty years,
But always, always happy.

[Embraces Gycia.
Gycia.
Yet, my love,
We have known trials too. My honoured sire
Has gone and left us since.

Asan.
Ay, he had reaped
The harvest of his days, and fell asleep
Amid the garnered sheaves.

Gycia.
Dearest, I know
He loved thee as a son, and always strove
To fit thee for the place within our State
Which one day should be thine. Sometimes I think,
Since he has gone, I have been covetous
Of thy dear love, and kept thee from the labour
Of State-craft, and the daily manly toils
Which do befit thy age; and I have thought,
Viewing thee with the jealous eyes of love,
That I have marked some shade of melancholy
Creep on when none else saw thee, and desired
If only I might share it.

Asan.
Nay, my love,
I have been happy truly, though sometimes,
It may be, I have missed the clear, brisk air
Of the free plains; the trumpet-notes of war,
When far against the sky the glint of spears
Lit by the rising sun revealed the ranks
Of the opposing host, the thundering onset
Of fierce conflicting squadrons, and the advance
Of the victorious hosts. Oh for the vigour
And freshness of such life! But I have chosen
To sleep on beds of down, as Cæsar might,
And live a woman's minion.

Gycia.
Good my husband,
Thou shouldst not speak thus. I would have thee win
Thy place in the Senate, rule our Cherson's fortunes,
Be what my father was without the name,
And gain that too in time.

Asan.
What! You would have me
Cozen, intrigue, and cheat, and play the huckster,
As your republicans, peace on their lips
And subtle scheming treaties, till the moment
When it is safe to spring? Would you have me cringe
To the ignorant mob of churls, through whose sweet voices
The road to greatness lies? Nay, nay; I am
A King's son, and of Bosphorus, not Cherson—
A Scythian more than Greek.

Gycia.
Nay, my good lord,
Scythian or Greek, to me thou art more dear
Than all the world beside. Yet will not duty,
The memory of the dead, the love of country,
The pride of the great race from which we spring,
Suffer my silence wholly, hearing thee.
It is not true that men Athenian-born
Are of less courage, less of noble nature,
More crafty in design, less frank of purpose,
Than are thy countrymen. They have met and fought them,
Thou knowest with what fate. For polity
I hold it better that self-governed men
Should, using freedom, but eschewing license,
Fare to what chequered fate the will of Heaven
Reserves for them, than shackled by the chains
The wisest tyrant, gilding servitude
With seeming gains, imposes. We are free
In speech, in council, in debate, in act,
As when our great Demosthenes hurled back
Defiance to the tyrant. Nay, my lord,
Forgive my open speech. I have not forgot
That we are one in heart and mind and soul,
Knit in sweet bonds for ever. Put from thee
This jaundiced humour.
If State-craft please not, by the headlong chase
Which once I know thou lovedst. Do not grudge
To leave me; for to-day my bosom friend,
After two years of absence, comes to me.
I shall not feel alone, having Irene.

Asan.
Whom dost thou say? Irene?

Gycia.
Yes, the same.
She was crossed in love, poor girl, dost thou remember,
When we were wed?

Asan.
Gycia, I mind it well.
Send her away—she is no companion for thee;
She is not fit, I say.

Gycia.
What is't thou sayest?
Thou canst know nought of her. Nay, I remember,
When I did ask thee if thou knewest her
At Bosphorus, thou answeredst that thou didst not.

Asan.
I know her. She is no fit mate for thee.

Gycia.
Then, thou didst know her when thy tongue denied it.

Asan.
How 'tis I know her boots not; I forbid
My wife to know that woman. Send her hence.

Gycia.
Nay, nay, my lord, it profits not to quarrel.
Thou art not thyself. Either thou knew'st her name
When we were wedded, or unreasoning spleen
Doth blind thy judgment since. Thou canst not know her
Who has been absent.

Asan.
Ask no more, good wife;
I give no reason.

Gycia.
Nay, indeed, good husband,
Thou hast no reason, and without good reason
I will not spurn my friend.

Asan.
Gycia, forgive me;
I spoke but for our good, and I will tell thee
One day what stirs within me, but to-day
Let us not mar our happy memories
By any shade of discord.

Gycia.
Oh, my love,
Forgive me if I have seemed, but for a moment,
To fail in duty. I am all, all thine;
I have nought but thee to live for.
Childish hands
And baby voices lisping for their mother
Are not for me, nor thee; but, all in all,
We joy together, we sorrow together, and last
Shall die, when the hour comes, as something tells me,
Both in the selfsame hour.

Asan.
Nay, wife, we are young;
Our time is not yet come. Let us speak now
Of what I know thou holdest near thy heart.
I do remember that it was thy wish
To celebrate thy father's name and fame
By some high festal. If thy purpose hold
For such observance, the sad day which took him
Returns a short time hence; I will employ
Whatever wealth is mine to do him honour,
And thee, my Gycia. Honouring the sire,
I honour too the child.

Gycia.
My love, I thank thee
For this spontaneous kindness, and I love thee;
I am all thine own again. Come, let us go;
Nor spare the wealth wherewith his bounty blest us
To do fit honour to the illustrious dead.

[Exeunt.