University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene 1:

Music. The Temple of Diana. Priestess and Virgins bearing offerings.
Priest.
Daughter of Jove, Artemis, virgin-eyed,
Swift-footed goddess of the sylvan shade,
Release the fawn within thy silver leash,
Restrain th' impatience of thy bounding feet,
And gladden her who brings thee votive gifts. [Enter Artemis, C.]


Art.
With joy I answer to your duteous greeting;
Where are the offerings?

Priest.
At thy feet we lay them,
Flowers from the chaste, the huntsman's spear and shaft,
And cakes, the timid offering of a slave,
Who for libation poured abundant tears,
And prayed protection from her master's will.

Art.
Nor shall she want it. Heaven o'erwhelm the man,
Who with unholy purpose dares o'erstep
The sad defenses of captivity.
What hast thou else?

Priest.
An arrow tipped with flame,
All vibrant with the light of shining gold,
For thee, the fairest.

Art.
From his hand it comes!
The Athenian youth—has he then passed this way?

Priest.
With eyes averted he approached the shrine
At early dawn—upon his buskined feet
The dew shone pearl-like, in his locks as well.
The breeze scarce stirred their golden cinctured wealth,
His eye and cheek were fresher than the dawn.
Aurora, passing in her purple car,
Stooped to caress them, every god looked down,
And envied Artemis her worshipper.

Art.
So young, so wise? with eyes averted came he?
Relate his words, as thou art wont to do.

Priest.
He seemed intent upon the holy rite,
For long he stood and bowed his head before thee,
But taking voice at last, with ringing speech:
“Artemis, reign within this heart forever!
Thou art the chosen goddess of my faith.”
He cried: “Oh! take my life ere other love
Than thine, profane the breast I vow to thee!”

Art.
And then he passed?

Priest.
A bugle note did sound
From the green-roofed recesses of the wood,
And reverent he departed.

Art.
'Tis enough.
[Priestess retires, with Virgins]
The gods have written that Hippolytus
Die young, but I will intercede with Jove
To stretch the golden spanning of his years
To utmost bound of Fate. Then, what's too short
In length of days, I'll piece with length of fame.
Immortal love shall hedge thy path about.
The evil shall not taint thee with their breath,
Nor to vile passion bend thy hero soul.
And dying, thou shalt live before men's eyes,
The fairest thing remembered as a man.
Come hither, Priestess—come, ye virgin bands!
Ourselves are harnessed for the chase to-day,
And we must find our quarry in the woods
Before the heats compel to bower and bath.
Sound out our summons! What? Away, away.

Scene 2:

The woods. Enter Aphrodite, R.
Aphro.
My sister doats on this Athenian youth,
Hated of me, whose mother brought him forth
In savage spots, and reared him in the wilds,
A stranger to my venerable rule,
Which he is bold to mock at and contemn.
Be not too sure, chill-bosomed Artemis!
Ice melts not ice, but ice doth melt at will
When fire leaps out to quench its frostiness.
Beware—I weave a plot thou canst not know,
And in a corner where thine eyes reach not
The embers burn that shall consume thy joy.
I'll raise the love-sick Phaedra from her couch
With the sweet venom of a flatterer's tongue.
She shall encounter him who fires her soul,
And scorch his marble manhood with her flame;
For 'tis against Jove's promise that her suit
Should conquer mine, who am invincible.
So, Dian, take your pleasure in the woods,
So, friend, be strong, and conquer Aphrodite.

[Exit, L. Enter Hippolytus, in hunting dress, R.]
Hipp.
Whichever way I thread the woods to-day
Doth a white garment flutter in my sight,
That then eludes my seeking—'tis most strange.
When first the stag awoke, and swept away,
Crushing the boughs before him, this appeared,
As though one were before me in the chase,
And hither, thither must I follow it,
Following the beast that takes the water now,
Now dashes to the blue and distant hills,
Till the hot drops stand out upon my brow,
And my vexed soul's at fault. What ho! hillo!
I'll follow till I see the face of her
Whose daring steps between me and my prey.

[Exit, L. Enter Polydorus and Thenexetes, R.]
Poly.
Witch-haunted are the woods. An hundred times
I've seen, methought, the shadowy Amazons,
Whom Theseus slew, disporting through the boughs.
I've felt an anxious trampling in the air,
A rustling, as of winds in women's hair,
Yet one finds nothing. Were it well, think you,
That we should pour libations to the gods?

Then.
'Twere very well, so there were wine enough,
That we should pour a second to ourselves.
If not enough for both, the gods can wait.
These fancies, Polydorus, only come
Of fasting, and th' untempered morning air.
Our lord is young and eager, but for me,
I'd rather have his venison than his sport.

Poly.
Fie, thou gross-bellied lounger, stay at home,
To turn the chestnuts buried in the coals,
Or help the housewife wind her tangled wool,
Or, at the bravest, brace thy forces up
To try a bold encounter with the cock.
Who singled thee to follow Theseus' son?

Then.
I am as good to follow, friend, as thou,
When dinner's called. [A shout is heard]


Poly.
The prince doth call us now.

[Exeunt, L. Enter Hippolytus, R.]
Hipp.
This morning's chase doth baffle human skill;
Almost I could be weary. Artemis,
Assist my striving—were't not shame to thee
I came, without a gift, before thy shrine? [Enter Artemis, C.]


Art.
Who calls the froward huntress of the wood,
Haughty and wild? Fair youth, praise other gods—
To Aphrodite give thy voice, to her,
The smiling goddess of delight. Invoke
Hera or Pallas, who have might with Jove;
'Twere pity thou shouldst waste thy vows on her
Who hath the single grace of chastity.

Hipp.
But that thy looks belie thy thoughtless words,
We who ne'er met before, should part in anger.
Thus much at least—grow reverent in thy speech,
Who'er thou art, when things so holy move it.

Art.
Speak on. I'll hear thee on the theme thou lovest.

Hipp.
My mother was the lofty Amazon—
Wedded by Theseus—she bequeathed to me
Her worship, dearer than my father's fame.
But much I marvel, now I look on thee,
Thou shouldst impede the praise of her whose seal
Is set upon thy gracious countenance.
Thou wearest the very garb of Artemis,
The garments white, the vest of starry fur,
Stript from the tiger—see, the moonèd shield,
The quiver, braced against the hardy breast,
The knotted hair the morning's breeze doth fill.
And over all, as moonlight in the skies,
The presence of the high, immortal gift
That Jove made hers forever! Thou art silent,
Say, hast thou seen her! Doth this make thee bright
Beyond thy peers, that she hath looked on thee?
Where doth she hide, when her fair footsteps deign
To touch this humble earth? What shade so blest
That one with duteous eyes might visit it
Afar, and with bowed heart, and bated breath,
Attend her passing? Shew me such a place
And I will borrow Hermes' wingèd heels
To seek it, and Apollo's high-tuned lyre
To praise her with the cunning of a God.

Art.
Let deadly terror seize the heart of him
Who would aspire to see what thou dost name.
Know'st thou that men have been so rash?

Hipp.
I do.

Art.
Let me so ring the warning in thine ears
That in thy purpose it shall sink and stay.
The Elian shepherd nursed this fearful thought;
Three nights he cried: “Oh! Artemis, appear!”
The fourth, his prayer was heard. In silver veil
The goddess stood—environed by the clouds
White-fleeced, the flock she leads thro' summer nights;
“Unveil!” he cried, and raised the impious hand,
And stretched entreating arms to hold her fast.
The veil was rent, the shepherd fell to earth,
Transfixed with death and madness; dost thou tremble?

Hipp.
Now by my manhood, I am touched with awe,
But fear I know not.

Art.
On his purple bier
They laid the youth, with tender lilies strewn,
While tears unfailing mourned his stricken bloom;
And, as they bore him to the funeral pile,
Men's lips did mutter: “Shame on Artemis!”

Hipp.
Shame on such false reproach—a thousand shames!
Was it not merciful that he did die?

Art.
This doth not fright thee? hear another tale.
A huntsman, bold as thou, approached too near
The lake where Dian quenched her virgin flame.
Vainly the guardian nymphs did warn him off.
“Away, the goddess takes her pastime here,
Hers are these groves, these waters.” “Is she here!”
He cried, and rudely thrust the boughs aside;
But his offense the gods did not permit.
The man saw not th' Immortal—rooted fast,
He stood a twenty-antlered stag, and lo,
His very hounds did hunt him to the death,
For which we hold them sacred evermore.
Now tell me, is not Dian merciless?

Hipp.
I am too deep in holy Dian's love
For change or turning—thou dost blame the gods
For men's ill-doing—on a deed so rash
What else could wait than deadly punishment?
Hear what I tell thee. Once in trancèd sleep,
Spellbound and dumb, I saw the goddess stand
Before my couch. She turned and looked on me.
“Thou'rt mine,” she said, “I chose thee from thy birth.”
She spake, and I was fain to rend the bonds
Of sleep and cry, “I'll serve thee to the death.”
Then had I sunk in terror, but that she
Caught up my vehement striving with a smile,
And passed without rebuke; since when, my heart
Is all possest with her divinity.

Art.
Thou wilt be false to Artemis.

Hipp.
Thou sayest?
Sooner will I betray my father's faith,
And die an outcast, ruined in his wrath.

[Enter Creon and others, R.]
Creon.
The stag's at bay.

Hipp.
Couple the hounds on him.
Thou bring'st me fortune, gentle Amazon.
Come, my good bow, I hold the prize in sight.
To Artemis I vow this arrow's spoil.

Art.
[Springing past him]
The goddess claims her own.

[Exit, R. All are struck with astonishment]
Hipp.
What have I seen, what heard?

Creon.
Pursue her not.
She is not human who did pass from here.

Hipp.
Oh! what a beast am I! how dull of sense!
The goddess' self did stand and talk with me,
And I withstood her.

Creon.
Like a form of dreams
She passed. My lord, such things should move our fear.
The gods are jealous; Aphrodite's wrath
May dearly visit Dian's love on thee.
Haste we, dear friend, to leave this haunted ground,
And with quick offerings supplicate the gods,
Forestalling anger.

Hipp.
As thou wilt, appease them!
My offering's made. I saw her and I live.
Oh! should an hour of dark foreboding come
To try my virtue with some deadly snare,
Remember, her fair eyes did answer thine,
And grow a hero thus, Hippolytus.

[Exeunt, R. Music. Enter Phaedra and Oenone]
Phaed.
You have heard my spoken passion, in your face
I see it. When the fever loosed my tongue,
You stood to catch the secret I had kept
Else, to the death.

Oenone.
My faithful zeal deserved
To have heard it long ago—yet, dearest child,
I know but half—withhold not what remains.
Recount to me each act and circumstance,
That gave this deadly passion leave to grow.

Phaed.
Oh! shame, whose innocent blush has left my cheek
To waste with deeper fires, stand back awhile,
And let me give my bosom-secret room!
Thou know'st how coldly I was wed, Oenone,
Dropt like an apple from the parent bough
To Theseus' asking hand. I left my home
Thinking to wend so passionless through life,
But Aphrodite willed it otherwise,
And through my bridal vesture sent a shaft
That rankles here forever. As thou knowest,
King Theseus bade I should attend the games
Attired in splendour.

Oenone.
As I well remember.
Did he not cry: “Let Athens see, this once,
The royal beauty Theseus takes to wife?”
And thou wert perfect, as he said, my child,
In all thy form.

Phaed.
How listlessly I sate
And saw the wrestlers close in tug and strain,
And saw the horses, coupled to the car,
Loosed from the starting-point, with stride and bound,
And marked the contest thro' my half-shut lids,
Dreaming of scenes familiar. But a shout
Went pealing from the eager crowd to Heaven,
And something whispered: “Phaedra. rouse thyself;
See what is now before thee.” As I looked,
A form Elysian leapt into the car
Whose movements scattered beauty as the stars
Shed light—a countenance divinely fair,
A brow of glory unattainable.
I gazed—all else seemed blotted from the world;
But when the circling steeds had borne him round,
And victor at the goal he stood and smiled,
Then came the pang of death. They brought the youth
Close to my feet, and Theseus, well content,
Said, “Phaedra, crown my son!” From my cold hand
The chaplet dropt, and I sank withering down,
The daylight blurr'd before me—only this
Of all my pleasure broke to utterance,
The cry, “Remove him ever from my sight!”
And he was exiled from my presence, he
To kiss whose feet I would have dragged myself
In the extremity of death. Thou'st heard
My dreadful tale; despise me as thou wilt.

Oenone.
Know, royal Phaedra, thou art innocent!
The gods inflict the torment of thy love.
Thy struggling heart doth speak thee free of guilt.
Some awful, some most costly sacrifice
Shall win th' immortals, and appease the pain
That thou resistest.

Phaed.
I resist no more.
Hear me, and know my ill past remedy.
When I lay down upon my bed to die,
With folded palms, I was almost content,
Death-weary with the struggle of my soul.
Ev'n there a thought supreme in joy and crime,
A hope most horrible in fruit or failure
Found me: could but the prince return thy love,
It said, one happy hour were worth the rest.
And this doth drag me from my passive couch,
Doth send me wild before the universe,
Hurled like Fate's arrow pointed at his heart,
To find but that, and have no errand more.

Oenone.
And you are here, in this unusual garb,
The prince abroad and like to choose this way?

Phaed.
Thou hast said it.

Oenone.
Then prevention comes too late
And love for love is only remedy.
I hear a voice, a step—

Phaed.
[Throws herself on Oenone's breast]
'Tis his, Oenone.
Hide me awhile.

Oenone.
This grove shall give us time
To watch the favored moment.

Phaed.
[Pushing her behind the trees]
Stand thou thus.
I must observe him. [She stands half hidden. Enter Hippolytus and Creon, R.]


Hipp.
[Walking across the stage]
Dost thou think, my Creon,
These woods may guard such holy things unseen
As only dreams can show us?

Creon.
Good, my lord,
I do not dream as thou dost.

Hipp.
Wherefore not?

Creon.
Being but a common serviceable man,
Whose sinews, worn apace with following you,
Are like a ploughman's in the bond of sleep.
The gods I thank, who leave my couch in peace,
Sending no earlier vision than the dawn.

Hipp.
Jest as you will, my Creon—still believe
Such things are near us, though we see them not.
Until some wonder makes us 'ware of them.
The goddess of my faith attends my steps,
Keeping the passioned ills of life away,
And with the glory of her countenance,
Enforces the vowed purpose of my soul.

[Exeunt Hippolytus and Creon]
Phaed.
He's gone. Ah! Gods! I could not speak to him.

Oenone.
Shall I not call him back?

Phaed.
I charge thee, no.
There is in him a coldness so divine
That it should teach a virgin modesty,
And, turned against my vexed and angry soul,
Fall on it with the doomèd weight of death.

Oenone.
Speak not of death; why shouldst thou sink and yield,
When bolder counsels blossom to success?
There's not a tree among the whispering pines
But could disclose as wild a tale as thine,
If it had speech. The heavens are merciful.
Ev'n night, the Argus with unnumbered eyes,
Keeps what we trust to him. So, dearest child,
Lift thy fair head and hearken in thine ear.
I have a friend at Aphrodite's shrine,
A wizard who can bid the stars turn back
And wait his pleasure. Every augury
Of earth and air he knows, with awful words
Unwilling wrung from dead Aegyptian lips,
Stifled with balsams. Thither let us go
With costly gifts; the heavens shall lend some sign
To help us further.

Phaed.
[With sudden animation]
Aphrodite's shrine!
Ev'n while thou speak'st, the lightning of my thoughts
Leaps there, and falls before her, asking low
The grace of her who is invincible. [Exeunt]