University of Virginia Library

Philoctetes—Ulysses—Pyrrhus
ULYSSES
I bid thee hail, great archer, I am come
The unwilling deputy of Greece, with him
Thou seest Pyrrhus, dead Achilles' son;
Because I know thou bearest a bitter brain
Against me chiefly of the host, in that
I counselled they should leave thee; as indeed
Is all fair truth, and I love truth and lay
This deed as bare as sunlight, tho' it mar
My pleading undissembled: truth is best.
And in some sort I own thee injured then,
But only as the variable gods
Have bent the bow of future quite athwart
Our dreams of sequel. Since indeed I said
To all the island rulers ringed and set
Low-browed in counsel by the moan of the sea;
Surely this man is stricken of the gods,
And stricken to his death, for I have seen
Wounds many and wounds grievous, but not one
That bears a clearer signet of the wrath
Of the immortals: for when man wounds man
The man or dies or lives, but never bears
A flesh so utterly tainted. But this strange
Affliction of the serpent, savours more
Of an immortal cause, than real fang
Of some poor worm; unless indeed the god
Sent it and gave it venom to exceed
Its nature; choosing thus as instrument
A worm to ambush power, nor strike him down,
Without an intercepted agency,—
As Phœbus often strikes right into the brain
Of the harvester and kills him like a stone—
But, either way, God dooms him, said I then:
And tho' I love this man and long have used
His friendly converse, who am I to dare
Gainsay the gods and save him? He must go
Lest he infect the army saved, and I
Postpone my friendship to the cause of Greece.
And so spoke out right sternly, wide off heart,
Nor faltered, lest apparent tenderness
Should thwart the emphasis of what I held
The gods would have me speak against my grain
To their high hand obsequious, and the sense
Of duty, higher than the bond of friend.
Tho' I refrain my tears, my voice will fail.
And so we left thee and these many years
Have camped with bitter fortune, tried beyond
The wish of thy revenge, if thou indeed
Art vengeful still. And as the slow years went,
I thought of thee at Lemnos in thy pain
Lonely; and doubted in my soul if well
I had done to leave thee; for I dared no more
Interpret the gods' will, so much, so deeply
They had vexed us many ways with many woes.
And still I thought I have rashly sundered him
From us as deeply guilty: he shall come
And bear his pain among us, one more doomed
Is nothing in a host which all the gods
Afflict continual years. But all the kings
Denied it yet in conclave when I sought
To bring thee. Last in this tenth year I come
With bare permission, having borne my front
Thro' much reproof in craving it. 'Tis done
And there's an end on't. But to thee begins
New life henceforward, and the god hath shed
Thy woes as night behind thee. In our camp
The craft of old Machaon waits to heal
Thine anguish, potent over every beast
That crawls and sheds his venom till the gods
Straighten his coils in death. The winds are fair,
Come, I have done, forgive me, learn again
To breathe full-breasted pleasure into life,
Hero with heroes, whole and sound and brave.

PYRRHUS
Nay, Prince, the arrows?

ULYSSES
Thrust not thou thy foot
Officiously into the careful web
Of woven consolation: one word more
Is yet too much and spoils it.

PHILOCTETES
Excellent liar,
Thou hast not schooled this Pyrrhus to thy mind.
Words has he spoken four and yet the truth;
Why this is simple work, for yonder king
Will deal by the hour his windy rhetoric,
And, if he make cloud, ether, god, and star,
His witnesses, he is lying most be sure.
And he will weep you, truth how rare she is;
And he will weep you, how men see his deeds
Wrongly. Ah, noble spirit and free good man;
Naming him perhaps arch-liar of that pack
Of wild curs on the Hellespont that snarl
And snarl long years, and dare not bite down Troy.
And when a nobler creature falls than they,
They batten on his carrion with one mind,
And growl not on each other while the meal
Fats them—But thee, Ulysses, I behold,
With wonder I behold thee; that a man,
Canst stand in the broad sun, and lie away
Thy very soul with words and words again,
To which there is no answerable thing
Under thy bosom: for thou shouldest be—
Thou art a prince and rulest a fair isle;
Hast meat enough and with a certain sort
A certain honour. Canst not live without
This beggar trick of lying? Some lean knave
Get him a crust so. Is the game so sweet
That thou wouldst rather take the devious lane
Than the straight chariot road with other men?
Why hath God set no brand upon thy face
To teach the simple nations what a knave
Roams over them? His tongue drops honey: his lip
Smiles gently, smoothly, innocently mild:
His heart is as the very lees of hell.
Ay, he will reel you off the name of the gods,
And weep the earth's impiety and sigh
The innocent old days back, searching the while
Ay, when he holds your hand, with his mild eyes
Where he may surest stab and end you out.
This is Ulysses, this the pious king,
The complete warrior, guileless, eloquent,
Who gives the gods such reverence, that he seems
Another god beside them, not their slave
And earthly henchman. So the rumour runs
In simple narrow Hellas about his name.
Now marvel, nations, at his pious deeds,
He turns his sick friend on a rock to die,
The righteous man. He stirs no finger nail
To aid him, careful lest the affliction grow
Of some god's planting: and he chiefly fears
The gods, wise, good, and honourable king.
Nay, but consider this: for other men
Are not enough religious to forget
Their pity quite, mere foolish kindly souls;
Whom Zeus shall never call to the empire seat,
Shall never gird with glory or give leave
After his royal model to vex men.
Ulysses was ambitious? No, not he.
He never cast me out to rid away
A rival from his empire. Nay, he did it
Of pure god-reverence. Who was I to stand
Between him and their worship? Yet he loved
Me much, so much, that his sheer pity chose
Some spot where soonest I should die, and shed
This troublesome anguish from me. Mean was I
To reap such kindness, and an ingrate slave
To claim to go on living after all;
When a most pious king and wise good man,
Who loves me, for he said so, of his grace
Had given me leave to die upon this rock.
And mark this man's forgiveness, spite of all,
Now would he bring me to the host again
And heal old scores. These men are merely kind:
They've selfish reason none to wish me back.
So says this oracle of truth. Forgive?
Why then he has so much too to forgive:
And all the injury is on his side,
And he will overlook it. Nay, this is
Too much, have heed, Ulysses, as thou goest,
Lest the gods snatch thee suddenly to their thrones,
Envying the unrighteous earth so good a man!

PYRRHUS
By heaven, this man is wronged, and bitterly wronged,
I cannot phrase it wherein he is wronged;
But I have sense enough of right, as I
Know where to strike at vantage the bayed beast,
But cannot give the rule of where and when.

ULYSSES
I have no answer in these ironies,
Which, as the offspring of thy wound and pain,
I pass unnoticed. Nay, as the mouth of Greece,
And now her legate, I may have no ears
For private insult. Nor indeed shall word
Of one so maimed provoke me. I have striven
These many years with slander in the cause
Of Hellas.

PHILOCTETES
Therefore hail and prosper long,
But take thy windy speeches otherwhere,
Babies there are and fools enough to gape
When thou dost deal thy slippery periods.
I care not to see lies tost up and down,
Over and under, as the jugglers use
Their snakes. 'Tis pretty play enough, but I
Have suffered somewhat in the game and bring
Small liking to the pastime. Therefore cease.
There is small audience on the shingles here.
Pack up thy wordy wares, man, and begone:
The yawning crowd disperse: the show is done—
But thou, O Pyrrhus, art of better stuff
Than to be herded up with this bald fox,
Whose few old tricks are stale and threadbare jest
Thro' either army, and a laughter grown
Most weary, since so often laughed that men
Look almost sad upon the jest outworn,
And say, “Doth this thing lead us to our wars?
But now I go to this Thessalian land
And Melibœa where my father reigns,
If, for I see the pity in thy face,
I shall find convoy, Pyrrhus, in thy ship,
To mine own land. Regard not thou the wrath
Or bluster of this disconcerted thing
That struts and calls himself a king of men.
After thou hast discharged this piety
To my great need, and set the sick man home,
Among the kindly faces and the ways
Of childhood and the hands of kin, to die—
Resume, if so thou wilt, the jar of spears
And tug another year at Ilion's wall.
And spill thy large heroic heart away
In aiding these unworthy; knowing not
Them worthless in thy grand simplicity.
But spare—I know thou wilt—a little rest
Of warring home to row me, and dispatch
This fox without his errand to the host;
That the broad heroes at their tent doors laid
May jeer him as he slinks along with eyes
Grounded, a tongueless cur in a lion's hide,
Armed as a hero, with his liar's face.
And thou the while in safety pilot me
Till thou lift out and lay my ruin'd limbs
Upon the beach Thessalian underneath
The sea-built halls of Pœan, eminent
To watch the floor of waters, and give heed
To pirate or the stranger sail, and drive
The slaves and cattle in before he strand
His keels, and pelt him from the rocks again
To sea with loss of heroes and light spoil.
So shall my father love thee and reward.
So shalt thou go again with many stores
Of wool and garments, weaving-maids, and much
Slaughter of beeves, old banquet cups, and all
The garniture of heroes. So thy soul
Shall greatly triumph in these gifts, and hold
Delighted way toward Ilium.

PYRRHUS

ULYSSES
This hound is gone trailing his weak huge limbs
Under the deepened ledges of his cave,
And Pyrrhus props his lean side like a son.
So I am baffled by a fool and boy.
They seek, brave pair, the arrows, ere he goes,
Craftily hidden away to baulk our need.
And had I other here save this soft boy,
This weak soft youngling with his mother's milk
Scarce dry upon his lips, who thrusts himself
So easily to thwart me—Had I one
As Diomede, or even a lesser man
Who'd hold his arm and lips, and let me fend,—
I'd strangle Philoctetes as he crawls
Out from his cave emerging, clutch the darts
And rid the isle of carrion. A shrewd stroke
Of policy. Consider, at one blow
This mulish knave dead as the earth he has long
Polluted, and no less the very keys
Of Ilium's capture mine—mine. How I'd grind
The kings into my very chariot-knaves,
And spin the war out to my soul's desire;
And fan them into fevers, down and up,
With hope one day and scorning next; and live
Exceeding sweetly.—And yet the risk of it;
For this same milky Pyrrhus, his word given,
Will keep to't, as some stupid wether keeps
A sheep-track leading nowhere. He will fight:
Fight? Ay, would Pyrrhus fight. And I should quench
My light for Hellas, which may not be done.
I will go pace this beach a little while,
And with my breast take counsel; for weak fate
Hath made an idiot lord of wisest men.

CHORUS