University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

—A Bridal Chamber. Astynous and Hylia.
Astynous.
O Hylia, my dark and shapely maid,
New bound to me as wife—a bliss too great
For me to grasp, discovered gold in mass
My eager arms are hopeless to contain—
O Hylia, thy silence slits my heart
With cruel edge. A vague, dark horror rolls
Thine eyes, like hunted doe's, and thy touch leaves
Hot impress on my sense. My Hylia,
Is married love thus fearful, feverous, still?
Then curse I Hymen, and would have my wife
Maiden once more, that I might woo again.

Hylia.
Astynous, dear husband!

Astynous.
Ah, that's well.
Speak thus deliciously again. Thy words,
Though few, are each a red-ripe, perfect fruit
Of speech. A smile! but a mere ghost of such
As live where now I kiss! Is it so strange,
So fearful to be mine forever?

Hylia.
Nay,
Astynous; in sooth I'm very gay
And joyous.

Astynous.
With sad face; an oracle
That hides its import.

Hylia.
O—h! I'm falling!

Astynous.
Nay,
Requesting an embrace! Ye gods! her head
Hangs loose with backward chin! My Hylia,
Speak to Astynous! O my bride, my bride!
I cannot hold her longer, she must drop,
So weighty grows her delicate, slight form.
Mother, O mother! Nay, she cannot hear.
I'll bear my dreadful burden to her room.
O bridal-bed, that will not hold the bride
To-night! I shall go mad! It yet may be
She faints and will revive to fill these arms
Less heavily than now! Ha! I have crushed
The myrtle wreath that's tumbled from her hair!
I dread the omen! Nay, she'll soon be well.

[Exit, carrying her.

Scene II.

—Callirrhoë's Home. Cephalus before the door.
[Enter Callirrhoë.]
Callirrhoë.
What, lonely, my dear father? When I left
Emathion was with you.

Cephalus.
Hastily
He broke from me, my child; that busy youth
Evamon, passing by, took hold of him,
Swearing he must not miss the eloquence
Of Periander, the new sage, who draws,
Machaon says, our city's idle youth.
The beamy breeze hath grown a little chill,
Or loneliness hath something damp'd my heart;
Almost I seem in Hades, from the sun
Cut off as those sore-sighing ones below.
Soothe me, Callirrhoë; thou know'st a strain
Of Eos' love. Sing me that song of light!

Callirrhoë.
(Sings.)

Cephalus.
Dear child, there is a trouble in thy voice.
Say, art thou weary climbing the long hill?

Callirrhoë.
(Sings.)

Cephalus.
Oh, the young light! how goldenly it stole
In May-time 'mid the glade of budding oaks,
When thou did'st gather flowers for Artemis—
Thou mindest?—that spring-day six years ago.

Callirrhoë.
Yes. O my father, let me lead thee back;
I fear some great calamity—a cloud
Hangs over Calydon.

Cephalus.
Then will we in,
I felt the air unwholesome.

Callirrhoë.
Father, stay!
The heavens press on us, and I dare not move.

Cephalus.
These sudden showers make the young vineyards swell.
Kindly it thunders, we shall have soft rain.

Callirrhoë.
Nay, there is deadly hurricane, a stir
After the stillness, like the whirring wings
Of swooping eagle. Let me hide thee! So!
Cling close to me.

[Enter Demophile.]
Demophile.
Haste! Little Nephele
Is struck with sudden sickness. Come to her.

Cephalus.
Quickly, my daughter.

Callirrhoë.
Can I leave him now?
My father, trust me, for I know the sign;
We lie 'neath Heaven's curse.
I have been summoned by the Bacchic priest
To worship and to love; rejecting him,
He burst upon me with strange threats.

Demophile.
More woe.
Callirrhoë, haste! Sweet Hylia is dead.

[Exit.
Callirrhoë.
Father, I
Thy child am wholly subject to thy will.
Our Calydon is smitten for my pride;
This brood of dreadful cloud—this black descent
Of feverous wind. Let me to Bacchus' shrine!
I will deny no more Coresus' love,
I will entreat him supplicate the god
For my dear city, for Emathion, thee,
My father. Oh, command me speedily!

Cephalus.
Nay, child, we suffer for the foolishness
That has bewitched this city; drunken heaps
Of maddened women have infected it.
The babe hath perished, while the mother's breast
Has suckled the young panther on the hills.
Men, of their wives forsaken, have grown wild,
Disordered, hungry, and uncivilized.
Apollo sees his sister's shrine desert,
Her virgin followers flocking to the hills
For all unseemly revel. He descends,
Branding the irreligion with the scathe
Of Heaven. Fear not, my child, for me; I fear
My father's gods, and to their care commend
My daughter. Hark! Another urging foot
Is here!

[Re-enter Demophile.]
Demophile.
Haste, ere the little one be dead.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

—The Market Place. Cleitophon, Megillus Acephalus, Machaon, Emathion, citizens.
Machaon.

Idle i' the market-place! 'Tis no time for
talk. We must all work. Our wealth in dead cannot
be counted, so fast and faster does Plague's impress give
them currency.

1st Cit.

Ay, but the elders meet. Peace. Peace!
He continues—

Cleitophon.
For all along the way my course was choked
With issue—thick as concourse, when the crowd
Gathers for some high festal sacrifice—
Of black'ning corpses. Men cried out to me:
“You who have wisdom, dwelling near the gods,
Learn if neglected hecatomb or rite,
In ignorance polluted, is revenged
By this strange glare of sanguine ulcerous death,
That sudden paints our bodies, burns, and spreads,
And, heating as it travels onward, lights
A raging furnace, till the chilly gust
Of death creep after and put out the flame.
Help us, and we—

2nd Cit.

No oration—no periods!

Acephalus.

Already the corpses drop like birds on
the snows of Scythia.

3rd Cit.

And death feeds the flames as an eagle her
eaglets.

Cleitophon.

Woe to us! 'Tis the forsaken shrine of
Artemis, the withered flowers stretched on the dusty
marble, that hath wrought this evil.

Acephalus.

Fire-brands! Flint, wood, flame! To
the temple of the Barbarian! Burn, kill, ravage!

Megillus.

Now it may just be that the fault is not in
the place of your condemnation, that you're beating the
grass while the snake's yonder. I would say that the
new god may be a god; and then where are we,—aye,
and the fruit too! I'm for the Bromian!

4th Cit.

Evœ! I'll straight home, chaplet my brow
and—

Machaon.

Be your own corpse-adorner. He falls.

Can gentle gods thus disfigure their friends? I'll bear
him hence.

4th Cit.

Carrion for the flames!

[Exit Mac. with Cit.
Cleitophon.

My words are the streak of light on the
dial-plate of council; they mark the course of the time
most expressly.

[Re-enter Machaon.]
Machaon.
[to Emath.]
You dog me like an avenger.
How now?

Emathion.
Machaon, I am sick.

Machaon.

As the girl turned pale when Hymen on
his marriage-day fell from his house much hurt. Keep
from the north side the town, where the wind blows,
and you'll live to in-urn us.

Emathion.

Oh, it blows ill all quarters.

Megillus.

I've heard it told, by whom I know not, in
an impersonal whisper as it were, that Cephalus' tall
daughter refused the love of the Bacchic priest, knocked
it flat with the hand of her scorn, and 'twas hinted the
city is plagued for this behaviour.

Acephalus.

Then let us give her to his desire! We'll
not die that she may pick lovers.

Cleitophon.

The maid is of my kin, devout and chaste.
I'll not have her infamously espoused. He's a brown
vine-pole.

[Enter Demophile.]
Demophile
[to Emath.].

Nephele prays you come to her.

She's dying, fluttering in the very breast of death, that
sorely hurt the little thing in catching it. Come!

Machaon.

Dost hear, Megillus?

Megillus.

Business, business!

[Exit.
Emathion.

Don't touch me; go away!

Machaon.

His light orbs are black, eclipsed with
panic, and he's white as ass's milk. Go, forward, nurse.
[exit Demophile]
Emathion must protect the threatened
honour of his sister. Music!

[Enter Astynous and a band of revellers.]
Astynous.

Hail, friends! Death is a glutton we've
sworn to pamper with a honeyed dish. We cram us
with pleasure to sweeten its gullet. Ivy and ribbons!
'Tis a rare garnish! My bride was snatched from the
marriage chamber, a pleasant morsel! I'll not be behind
her in flavour when I'm swallowed up. Give me a
cymbal! Who'll join us—dance—sing—shout! Strike
up, comrades!

Eat and drink and twine your flowers,
Till we make a feast—not ours!

[Exit with revellers.
1st Cit.

Choicest bullocks, wide-streaming wine, let
us kill and pour before heaven, and call on Artemis for
help.

2nd Cit.

Nay, let us confess the Bromian with groans
and orgies.

Machaon.

My good friends, counsel is hydra-headed,
'tis authority alone hath unity of brain-power. Seek ye
the voice of the godhead that fulfils the oaks of Dodona.

1st Cit.
An oracle, an oracle!

2nd Cit.

'Tis wisely spoken; but the way is long.
Pestilence keeps not Time's tardy paces. The city will
be still ere we receive the message.

Cleitophon.

Ye are deaf to my words, so 'twere best
to seek the Holy Oracle.

Emathion
[to Mac.].

Methinks I cannot breathe again
till I get beyond the gate.

Machaon
[pointing to Emath.].

Here is a windy-heeled
messenger—Hermes-shod. Two years ago his
feet swept the way to Dodona; he knows each turn of
the road, each ford, bridge, and bye-path.

Emathion.

I'll go to the very tether of my life to
serve you.

2nd Cit.

Spoken like a patriot.

1st Cit.

'Tis settled, he goes.

Acephalus.

At once. No leave-takings!

Emathion.

Now.

[Re-enter Demophile.]
Demophile
[to Emath.].

You've stayed too long. She's
quite still. But your father lies and asks for you as he
grips at his vitals.

Emathion.

Is it the plague?

Demophile.

I should think it is the plague, if you
were to see his face, hot as the dog-star.

Emathion
[gasping].
No more—go away!
[to Mac.]
Have you anything to smell?

Machaon.

Here's a sweet burnt herb for you.

Emathion.

I can't go to my father. I've promised to

seek the oracle, and I've promised to start now, and my
father taught me to love my country.

Demophile.

Very well. You've a milky look for a
patriot. There will nowhere be a father for you when
you return, you'll be an orphan. I'll get some healthy
woman from a clean house to put a little food in a scrip
for you. An' to think he'll be an oprhan!

[Going.
Emathion.

Nurse, say I love him—let him know that
I love him. And say, nurse, that I was bound to my
country. Poor old father, say that his pangs torture me.
Say that you saw me go—now.

[Exit.
All.

Zeus be our helper!

1st Cit.

A noble youth!

2nd Cit.

He slew nature at the foot of his country.
He's the boast of Calydon for beauty.

Machaon.

There's suffusion in the eye of that man's
judgment—though the boy's loveliness captivates. His
golden head is perfect as Cytherea's apple.—What is it,
my good nurse?

Demophile.

Ægle is restless—

Machaon.

What! your dear child that makes such
trim wreaths?

Demophile.

Her lap was full o' white violets that
kept twitching off.

Machaon.

I'll with you.—Disperse, friends. Plague,
like the wolf, loves a flock. Scatter yourselves, and let
confidence rule your pulses.

[Exeunt omnes.

Scene IV.

—Nephele's Home. Callirrhoë with Nephele's body.
Callirrhoë.

[Enter Demophile.
Demophile.
Oh, home, Callirrhoë;
Thy father sickens; he may now be dead.

[Exeunt hurriedly.

Scene V.

—Dodona: the sanctuary on an eminence; at some distance the sacred grove of oaks and beeches. Enter Timarete, Nicandra, and Promeneia, who walks apart.
Timarete.
Observe!
Our sister mumbles; nods, and mumbles on.
As drivers shake the rein when horses lag,
So do we ancient women, with the head
Urge our slow tongues. She mumbles to herself.
Mark that!

Nicandra.
I do.

Timarete.
Observe, her yellow cheek
Is bronzy with the mixture of a blush.

Nicandra.
I've marked it, sister!

Timarete.
Chew'd it over?

Nicandra.
Ay.

Timarete.
Methinks there are unseemly diamond-sparks
A-turning in her eyes.

Nicandra.
I've seen 'em, sister.
Like points of light they twinkle in the rheum.

Timarete.
What is the meaning of 'em?

Nicandra.
Folly.

Timarete.
Ha, ha, hi!

Nicandra.
She never was
As ancient, grave, and inaccesible
In nature as appearance.

Timarete.
Say'st thou so?

Nicandra.
We caught her once in weakness, two years gone.
She stood, her dry, old hands so tight, I wondered
They broke not into powder; her grey locks
Whirled, like the strips of bark when peels the birch,
I' the wind! She watch'd a man who left the shrine.
I laughed.

Timarete.
And I.

Nicandra.
Thou can'st remember it?

Timarete.
Ay! how she made as she did watch a bird
That swept the sky above him. Ha! ha! hi!

Nicandra.
Methinks it was this boy she watch'd!

Timarete.
Hi, sister?

Nicandra.
I say, methinks it was this boy she watch'd.

Timarete.
Ay, an' he was a boy; light, curling hair
Did rib his head all over.

Nicandra.
An' he came
From Calydon to question o' the famine.

Timarete.
It is the same.

Nicandra.
Art sure?

Timarete.
Ay.

Promeneia.
Would to heaven
He'd seen me when my brow was flat and white
As cleanly, folded linen! Now 'tis dirty
And crumpled up;
And there's no washing more for it, no well
To make it white; no press to make it flat.

Nicandra.
'Tis shameful thus to see the girl peep through
The casement of old womanhood. I fain
Would cuff the impudent wench in yon old face.

Timarete.
Ye ancient gods! laugh not, nor jig my sides!

Promeneia.
This mouth of mine,—its edges now turn back
Like those o' withered leaves! He'd kiss my lips?
He could not find 'em, they are down my throat.

Nicandra.
Her dotage doth wax passionate.

Timarete.
Hi, sister?

Nicandra.
I say, her dotage doth wax passionate.

Timarete.
E'en so.

Promeneia.
Last night he shuddered when Nicandra's
Brown immense bosom pushed through its white wraps;
Timarete with blue-nailed finger-tip
Pointed. He hath not shuddered to my face!
Not yet!

Nicandra.
'Tis certain we must seek the shrine,
Get the response, and thus despatch her boy!

Timarete.
She puts it off from day to day.

Nicandra.
Poor crone!
So old and light; we'll do't!

Timarete.
Well said; we'll do't.

Promeneia.
Youth is the prodigal of golden wealth;
The middle term of life becomes a miser,
And clutches at the coins which still remain.
But old age is a lack-all and a beggar
Too foul for pity. Oh, he comes! I blush
For my peaked, leathery visage as for sin!
He's looking at my straggling chin,—O god!
And his so beautiful!

[Enter Emathion.]
Emathion.
My reverend dames,
Whose holy mouths make verbal Heaven's will,
Again I do entreat that with high Zeus,
Th'omniscient Father, ye will hold converse;
And learn the cause of the dread pestilence
Engulfing human life; what angry god
Must be appeased; what hostile altars smoke;
What lamentations weary heaven's vault.
Ten days I wait; no oracle is given.
I shall be cursed, be followed like a child,
And found here playing truant, my good name
Dishonoured and my faith discredited.
I shall be ruined if the god is dumb.
Upon my knees I supplicate for grace.

Promeneia.
What doth he say?

Timarete.
Turn round thine other ear.

Emathion.
O venerable sisters, grant my prayer!

Promeneia.
The day is not auspicious.

Nicandra.
False you speak.

Timarete.
'Twas yesterday.

Promeneia.
Wrongly you calculate.

Timarete.
Why, yesterday you said was not auspicious!

Promeneia.
I did mistake, it was to-day.

Timarete.
She dates
According to her wish. Within an hour
We will declare the oracles of Zeus.

Promeneia.
Oh, not to-day! Oh, not to-day! Good youth
Be ruled, and force not heaven! Dreadful things
Will be declared; no comfortable word
Will issue from the beeches, they will groan
Hair-raising horrors, grisly messages.

Timarete.
Give her no heed, or thou wilt be undone!

Nicandra.
Be obdurate!

Promeneia.
He wavers! [clutching him]
Dearest youth,
I love you, and they hate!—Now he hath shuddered!

Emathion.
O—h! loose me, hag! Nay, venerable maid,
Thy sacred grasp appalled me. I am honoured.

Promeneia
[aside].
Contemptible old woman! never mutter
Love with thy hollow gums and ragged mouth;
For love must pass through gates of marbly teeth,
And open the red curtains o' young lips!

Timarete.
A tear is hanging from her peaky nose.

Nicandra.
I see, I see!

Promeneia.
I'm jealous of my sisters.
At them he shuddered; but he shrieked at me.

[She paces apart.
Timarete.
Young man,
Thou did'st not like her skinny fingering?
Then seek the oracle!

Nicandra.
Thou did'st not like her mumble in thine ear?
Then seek the oracle!

Promeneia
What will he say?

Emathion.
I'll gladly seek it.

Timarete.
Bring your woolly bough
This time an hour.

Nicandra.
Tremble, and kneel, and pray.

Timarete.
Come, Promeneia, since your leg is stiff,
Here is my hand to help.

Promeneia.
Malignity.
I walk as well as you.

[They descend the steps; Prom. falls.
Timarete.
She's on her shins!
Ha! ha! hi! I knew her leg was stiff!

Nicandra.
Why, any one could see it! Let me rub 'em!

Timarete.
She wants to rise. [To Emath.]
I pray you pick her up.

Emathion.
Is she hurt?

Nicandra.
She's crying. Are you hurt, good sister?

Promeneia.
Hurt, hurt. And yet he cares! Laughable age!
Your arm, and let me go!

Nicandra.
You're humbler, sister!

[Exeunt.
Emathion.
I laugh and curse. Faugh! they are filthy hags!
I'm sick at their great feet stuck round with corns,
And livid chins which seem to chew their breath.
They make me cold; I never was so cold.
Good heavens blast me
Before I grow like them! One says she loves me!
Keep down, disgust! O execrable hag!
I shall be ill with thought of her; and then
Her filmy eyes will mind me of my father's.
I promised once to close them, but 'tis certain
Our private promises must snap in twain
For country; and my sister
Would close them, ('twould have been most horrible
To drape the lid over the muddled orb!)
He always loved her best.
That execrable beldam! If she works
Upon me thus, I'm sure to have the plague.
I'll think not on her; yet, within an hour
I meet her! I'll be firm, get the response
And never seek an oracle again!

[Exit.

Scene VI.

Callirrhoë's Home.
Callirrhoë.
There are who think that ignorance is sin
Past pardon, since it is incurable
As blindness, when no faculty of sight
Is native to the eyes. I thus have err'd
Unconsciously, or wherefore could he die,
My father? They are mine, these dead.

[Enter Machaon.]
Machaon.
I come
With tidings of Emathion.

Callirrhoë.
He was missed,
And missing, at two death-beds.

Machaon.
I was near
Your brother when the word from Nephele
Was brought; he shrivelled and turned white, so white
I put my arm in his and drew him off.

Callirrhoë.
And little Nephele, you let her die
Without her lover.

Machaon.
That is aptly said.
One coin less to old Chiron.

Callirrhoë.
Afterwards
Did not Emathion hear that suddenly.
My father had been stricken?

Machaon.
Ay, he heard.
But there was that about him made me know
That if I let him look much on the sick
You would be brotherless.

Callirrhoë.
Why, so I am,
Since my dear father on his death-bed found
That he was sonless. Silently he lay;
But after any stirring at the door,—
The neighbours coming in with anxious step,—
He felt about among the fleecy wraps
For his boy's hand, and being baffled, died.

Machaon.
Be not too harsh; it is no cowardice,
Save on the battle-field, to shrink from death.
Fleet-limb'd Emathion from Dodona soon
Will fetch the remedy Æsclepiads
Are fools at mixing. Had I not prevailed
In urging the bewildered silly folk
To seek the oracle, you had been led
Ere now to Bacchus' altar, to allay
The jealous anger of the genial god
For scorn of young Coresus. You divine?

Callirrhoë.
Would they had come and carried me away
To be their victim!

Machaon.
Oh, leave me to choose
If there be sacrifice. There's Agatha,—
I pass her where she piles her pomegranates
Each day, and daily as I pass repent
I deal not, save for health, with poison-herbs.
Her crooked shadow is detestable;
A thing the sun must draw reluctantly.
Now, she would make
A pretty offering for the amorous god,
And the fair marble wall
She sets her fruit by be no more deformed
By the uncomely darkness of her shape.

Callirrhoë.
Speak not profanely; they are mine, these dead.

Machaon.
The air hath been unwholesome many weeks.
Women, disordered and intoxicate
Returning from their revel on the hills,
Have filled their homes with fever, and increased
A sickness that, without this irritant,
Had not exceeded in fatality
The plague of the great feast ten years ago.
Men were not then half frenzied, and a few,
Yielding to counsel, were restored to health.
Now all essay to heal is idleness,
Though one persuade and argue till one's hoarse,
So resolutely they refuse to touch
What has not magic in it. I deceive
No man, and so they die.

Callirrhoë.
Oh, surely those
Whom the gods love live prosperous and blest.

Machaon.

Love! The cow, with a pleasant consciousness
of offspring, may feed the better her calf by
her side. Such complacency my mother feels in my
presence. 'Tis the sole definition of love my experience
warrants. For my part, I've noted Heaven's
best lovers are fortune's most cruel sport. Truly the
enigma crumples one's eyebrows. Nay, crease not yours.
They're not bristly enough to wrestle with the brain's
pugnacious problems. Keep smooth-browed.

[Enter Demophile.]
Demophile.
Oh, my child,
A fury rises 'gainst the Mænads. Some
By their dishevelled hair are haled about,
Trampled and wounded.

Machaon
[restraining Callirhoë].
Mine shall be the task.
I hate these Mænads, and can therefore keep
The crowd in check.
[To Demophile.]
Ægle, the saffron-haired,
With my own hands I carried to the pyre.
So rest her ghost. Now for the angry crowd.

[Exit.
Callirrhoë.
And is your Ægle dead?

Demophile.
Nay, never mind.
You must not tilt my tears over like this.
I carried my grief straight until you spoke.
An' do not look such struggles—let the eyes
Throw down their silver shields and go to sleep.
Under the sycamore I'll settle you,
Where none have died, and there are many bees.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.

The City, Anaitis, Dione, Mænads, Citizens.
Anaitis
[dancing on a heap of cinders].
Behold the remnants of the feast of death!
These little heaps, flame-bitten, in my hand,
Once comprehended tall and mighty men
Who scorned our god. The heavens make no sound,
Their laughter's in events. Thy raillery,
My god, these light feet shall commemorate,
Shall dance before thy presence in this town
Upon this carpet of transformèd men
Grey as a wolf-skin.

[Shouts.
Woman
[rushing from the crowd].
She is trampling down
My little girl!

1st Cit.
Why, then we'll dance on her!
Ye gods!—the cinders of a smiling child
She tosses up like Ætna! Hark ye, fathers,
An' will ye bear the sight?

2nd Cit.
We'll act our answer.
Down with the jackal laughing on our dead!

Anaitis.
Evœ! Evœ!

3rd Cit.
We'll trample her to death.

1st Cit.
Ay, an' we'll force the lock of every joint
And strain the hinge of every sinew in
This hateful, impious body! Drag her on!
To the temple! Here's another. Break her up!

[They seize Dione. Enter Machaon.
Machaon.
They'll kill her! Truly, as you love your lives,
I counsel you, good citizens, refrain
From this mad conduct. Look to it, my friends.
Just leave these crazy Mænads to their cubs;
Or if you will, drive them without the town;
Let them grow hungry on the hills, and feed
On quivering goat's flesh, but don't massacre,
Lest each slain Mænad cost a hecatomb
Of your best oxen, when Zeus' will is known.

1st Cit.
The choice white breed! Methinks it were not ill
To wait the oracle. If we should err—

Machaon.
A little injury done to the gods,
If measured by the expiatory vow,
Is worth avoiding.
[Aside.]
See, Dione, through
That alley there is safety.
[Dione escapes.
[To Citizens.]
Hence with you.
To work; unceasing toil alone can dam
This pestilence from pouring on your air
Till but to breathe is death. Bestir yourselves.
[Exeunt Citizens.
[Enter Coresus at a distance.]
Ah! the mad priest! A most unsteady gait,
The face so lean you'd think those rolling eyes
Fed on't, as thriving twins
Suck thin the mother; cast of countenance
Livid, with sudden flare that purples it!
Poor fool!

Coresus.
Self-pity, prudent accusation!

Machaon.
I spoke in comment, though soliloquy.

Coresus.
I care not for your sneer, let it be tossed,
A petty fire-brand, to the heap of wrongs
On which this plague is fed. Insult again.

Machaon.
His face is flaming! How combustible
Some faces are!—You've wrought a noble work,
If it be yours—this art of dyeing skins
And giving flesh the odour of stale fish.

Coresus.
I hate the plague,
And you.

Machon.
More rational, I merely hate
The sickness; you my science deprecates
A madman, dreaming that the heavens note
His anger of chafed passion, when a girl
Looks coldly on him.

Coresus.
'Tis insuff'rable,
The taunt! Speech weeps its impotence to quell
Such insult, as a stripling sees his sire
Murdered, and simply sobs upon his sword.
You dream I drew great Bacchus to suffuse
This many-peopled town in agony
At baulk'd desire? [Mach. nods.]
No; for the thanklessness,
The triple-hided hebitude that pain
Alone can penetrate. A dog will take
The bone you throw to him; a mortal stares
In obstinate hostility if one,
Longing to swell the number of his joys,
From laden hand beseech him to be blest.
Teach men to suffer, and the slaves are apt;
Give them fresh hope, entreat them to delight
They grow as stubbornly insensible,
As miser to a beggar's eloquence,
Clutching their clownish imbecility
As the gods grudged them that.

Machaon.
Men's hopes, desires
Are difficult of transport; you must take
The mule's path up the customary pass.

Coresus.
Cursed be the brain that sees the waking light
And keeps by Hecate's besmearèd tombs;
Accursed the heart that at dithyrambic rush
Of chorus keeps its measured Doric beat;
And cursed the palsied who, at cymbal's clash,
Forget not age.

Machaon.
Nay, modesty avers
It is not decent for old men to dance.

Coresus.
Cursed the lame creature, custom, that should go
'Mong men a laughter for its hobbling gait,
And sets them all a-hobbling, emulous.
Cursed be the piety—

Machaon.
I counsel you
Restrain your votaries, their irony
Of mirth is hateful in the midst of woe
Such as our Calydon bemoans. I fear
You'll find a broken form, the life blood spilt,
Against your shrine.

Coresus.
He will put all to rights.

[Callirrhoë passes with a band of mourners.
[Exit Coresus suddenly.
Machaon.

I'm fain to envy these god-beset mortals.
Those above may be but indifferent judges of our
actions; yet the immense stimulus of spectators! One
cannot always pluck a man by the gown to force him
listen, and thinking's such a rare gymnastic o' the brain,
'tis pity none note it. What a public we have if our
pates are verily unroofed to divinity! And yet mortals
take it, the gods know no more than what they tell
'em in their prayers. This praying, how shall we define
it, if it be not to take a god by the chin tenderly and
detain him with the small gossip of one's wishes, fears,

and expectations? There's my mother! Her whole
religion is an anthology of Olympic scandal. My contempt
of her hath brought me to this cynicism. Pah! I
was surely wrapt in the cradle-flame of immortality; then
pried my maternal parent, and spoilt all.

[Exit.

Scene VIII.

—Dodona: the sacred grove. Timarete, Nicandra, and Promeneia under three oaks, with their arms lifted. A smoking altar at some distance. Emathion advances to the confines of the grove and kneels.
Emathion.
I hear a sound as if the branches snored,
Hollow and peaceful! What if I should die,
Die suddenly? 'Tis possible, for terror
Oft kills at once. My heart's a stone
That doth depress my side most grievously.
[The wind keeps rising.
The trees wake up. The air is full of noise.
Those ancient women have their hour of grandeur;
Their wrinkles now become them. I shall die!
This shrieking wind will kill me! All the leaves
Stretch out their tongues at me! Why don't they speak?
They move them up and down, and make a noise
As dumb men do, and struggle hideously.
I listen, but there's nothing, nothing, nothing!
[A whirlwind.
Oh, see!
The wind is flaring round the dreadful sisters;
They're twisting spirally! Their hair, their hair!
The wind is carrying it all away
Like whisps of straw!
I think their scarfs will strike against my head,
They seem to grow so long and come so near;
And that I feel would kill me. Heaven help!
What myriad tongues wag at me from the trees!
Would I could hold them still, or tear them out;
But that would want a million hands! O gods!
There's something in the wind which is not noise.
A voice, a voice!

Timarete.
Yes!

Promeneia.
Yes!

Nicandra.
Yes!

Timarete.
Vainly the tomb-fires flashed where the lightning-flame was the midwife
Rending from Semele's womb the boy Zeus had gotten in godhead:
Cephalus' daughter hath scorned the Mænad-cares and Coresus.

Promeneia.
Therefore Zeus will grant no pause from plague ere the maiden
Haughty to Evius' priest shall try the feel of his altars,—
Knife through the milkless breast or riving the throat's spouting vessel.

[Emathion shrieks and falls senseless.
Nicandra.
Keen as the famished for bread, a god in his vengeance claims victims.
Yet will heaven receive the life laid down for another:
Who for Callirrhoë dies, atones her sin of rejection.

Timarete.
Hear!

Promeneia.
Hear!

Nicandra.
Hear!

[The wind slowly goes down and they come out of the grove.
Promeneia.
Where is he? Gone so soon!

Timarete.
What doth she say?

Nicandra.
Hi, sister?

Timarete.
What doth she say?

Nicandra.
Asks where he is.

Timarete.
Along the road—good boy!

Promeneia.
Emathion, Emathion, Emathion!

Timarete.
Her voice—the very squeaking of a mouse!

Nicandra.
Could not be heard the other side o' the bush.

Promeneia.
Emathion, Emathion, Emathion!

Timarete.
She's got it up now to the shriek of an owl.

Nicandra.
Give her an echo; he'll not answer her. “Emathion.”

Promeneia.
He must be far away! I shout so loud.

Nicandra
[stumbling against Emathion].
Why what is this? The stripling; and stone dead!

Timarete.
Nicandra, help me down upon my knee.
He hath but fainted. I can feel his heart.
He'll soon come round, and here's a nurse for him.
[Showing Promeneia.
My back! Nicandra, help me up! My back!
Oh, oh! my back! There—gently, sister!—ho!
Come, Promeneia, squat beside your boy,
Crook up your squeaking knee-joints till he wake.
[To Nicandra.]
That lunge you gave me, sister, might a' loosen'd
The roots o' my back; it almost feels torn up.
I'll thank thee for my stick; it's by the altar.

Nicandra.
I'll fetch it, stay!

[Exit.
Timarete.
And, Promeneia, hold me up a bit.

Promeneia.
I will not. I must light the lamp o' this face.
Gone out completely.

Timarete.
Do, and let me fall.
[Re-enter Nicandra.
Here's my Nicandra, with her harder heart,
Hath brought my stick. We'll shake along together
Who know that we are old and relative.
[To Promeneia.]
Paint, dress in wanton robes!
The interim of this swoon cries out for use;
He'll wake and worship. Thank me, and we'll go.

[Exeunt.
Promeneia.
There's something in it.
I have a pot whose red conserve would dye
The very tint of nature, and a robe
Of richest grain—my mother's—with a hem
That shines as if the sun was underneath
And edged it, as I've often seen a cloud,
And . . . I will do 't! . . . No, no! I will not do it.
If he can love, he loves me as I am,
A brown old woman, shrivelled till her veins
Stand out like those in a mare's side. He's long
In coming to himself. I am a fool!
[She sits by his head, her arms round her knees and her chin on them.
Now I can use him as I will; can gloat
Upon him till my eyes are gorged; can take
His hair up in my hand, thus, thus! A curl
Has caught my finger. He would give to me
A golden ring, a ring; and I will have it
If my one tooth must go. Nay, I have scissors
To cut away this precious bit of him
Which loves me. There! And I can kiss him too.
Can pluck the kisses from his lips as feathers
From strangled birds: and so I will, I will.
I'll pull them from his lips, thus—thus, and thus!
[Kisses him.
He stirs!—Emathion!—and he looks at me!

Emathion.
Are you my grandmother!

Promeneia.
Even so.
Now he will love me.

Emathion.
Yet she died, I know.
How old am I? She watched me when a child.
'Tis very strange! Where am I? Who are you?

Promeneia.
Your grandmother, who never really died,
But went to keep the oracle of Zeus.
Emathion, you are very like your mother;
I watch'd you as you slept, and that revealed it!
Kiss me! I hope you'll love me.

Emathion.
I am not like my mother. I am told
No son was so unlike! Callirrhoë
Is like her! Oh! Callirrhoë—the oracle!
There's something weighs upon me—just as if
A foot was on my heart. Oh, I remember!
You are that damned old woman, and you lie
To call yourself my grandmother! I live
To bear the anguish of my sister's death.
'Twas you said she must die.

Promeneia.
'Twas I that warned you from the oracle;
I, even I. You would not listen then,
Deaf as an adder. Ah! I see, you think
That I'm too old a purse to have within
The golden coins o' kindness.

Emathion.

No help, no help! She'll make a beautiful
corpse. But she must die first, and all the pain of it,
the bleeding, the struggles; there's what makes me
shudder, and I must tell them to do it; and there's no
hope, no help!

Promeneia.
But there is.

Emathion.
What! Help?

Promeneia.
Will you kiss me to tell you?

Emathion.
Kiss you! No!—Yes.

Promeneia.
Thus further spake the oracle:
Yet will heaven receive the life laid down for another;
Who for Callirrhoë dies atones her sin of rejection.

Emathion.

Some one may die for her, die instead of
my sister. She has many lovers—and old Cleitophon—
and—

Promeneia.

You—

Emathion.

Promised . . . I must give it, although
I heave. I can't descend her mouth; it's a valley.
There! [kisses her]
A—ho!

Promeneia.

He's erased it from his lips like a blot!
He's rubbing it off still. Oh, the full, fleshy mouth, it
was like a bee coming down a dried-up flower,—the
roundness, the softness, the warmth came down my hard
crevice, and there was no honey for 't.

Emathion.

This place hath given me a sickness for
life. I'll away. I'm going with my horrible news to
catch the plague and die. Oh, I can't go home!

Promeneia.

Then stay, stay, oh, stay with me! I'll
ask for no more kisses again,—never again, I swear.

Emathion.

Better the plague, for 'tis a short sickness.
I must go home, for I should be tracked if I
went elsewhere; I should be killed if I stayed here,—
and some one will die for her! I'm going.

Promeneia.

Never! I'll have you seized; you must
return.

Emathion.

I'll return if I die not; on my faith, I'll
return, for I mislike you not so much now I discover
your great love, which makes the scale of my favour
heavy. [Aside.]
I'll lie my breath away to escape, for
I'll never, never, never return; and I loathe her as the
smell of a goat. [Aloud.]
I'll but take the oracle to my
city, and then return, so the plague pleases.

Promeneia.
You will?

Emathion.
I will.

Promeneia.
I hope
You are as true as you are beautiful!

Emathion.
Trust me! Farewell.

Promeneia.
Do you affect me enough to—

Emathion.
Shake your kind and honest hand.

Promeneia.
To—

Emathion.

You swore. There's my hand. I'll return.
There's flutter in the beeches! And they'll speak.
There's a wind rising, and they'll speak, and I could not
bear it. They'll say I must die! They're beginning!

But I'll not hear!
[Rushes off.]
Oh, I am leaving hell!

[Exit.
Promeneia.
He's torn my vital parts from out o' me
And carried them away. Yet he'll give back
My life to me. He said he would return:
He said it twice. He also said he liked me—
The dun old woman, with my bits o' hair
That hang like sheep's wool on a wither'd thorn.
He said it! Look, he's on the distant road,
A precious bead that rolls down a white thread.
He drops, and there's the thread without the jewel!
Yet he'll return.
He said so! I am mad to think he will.
He would not kiss me, would not look at me.
He never will return.
Then will I go to him, though bowed with age,
Bowed almost double as a sail with wind.
I'll go to-morrow; nay, to-night; nay, now.
My stick, and kindly lifts in car and waggon
Will help me on. And here I cannot stay.
I'm not an owl or bat that hates the light;
I love it, and the light is in his face.

[Exit: on the other side re-enter Timarete and Nicandra pointing after her.
Timarete.
Ha! ha!

Nicandra.
Hi, hi!

Timarete.
Ha, ha!

Nicandra.
Hi, hi! Light crone!

Timarete.
Sister, she's good to make me cry a bit.
There's nothing touches me, and I must laugh
To find a use for tears. Upon my jowl
There's one that tickles me.

Nicandra.
It is a flea.
I've got it! Ay, for laughter I could sob.

Timarete.
It's comforting, the moisture, when your eyes
Are dry as beetle-cases. Her's are damp,
So damp I wonder that there are no frogs
Within 'em; yet she thinks that men can love
Peer in their dank enclosures.

Nicandra.
Naughty sister!
You'll force me to a crying bout o' mirth.
Hi! hi!

Timarete.
Ha! ha!

[Exeunt.

Scene IX.

—A room in Aglauria's house. Machaon is discovered sitting meditatively with some manuscripts before him.
Machaon.

'Tis strange what it costs to make people
attend. Now, I can consider this disease with as great

intensity as Tantalus his o'er-hanging fruit. To ensure
eager scrutiny, you must put an object out o' reach.
That's why men are so fond of religion. It ever eludes
them, and yet looks graspable. Ay, and there's some
natural hunger in the heart too. Thin-stomach'd
Tantalus and the bonnie golden gourd splitting open!
'Tis a pathetic sight! But here's the Augean stable
to cleanse, and the dung must be carried shoulder-wise.
My friends join the exploring party in search of the
river Alpheus, to turn into it. I am left to toil by
shovelfuls. If men had patience, and would not look
away from life, I could make their existence tolerable.

[Goes to a cupboard and looks for something, singing.]
[Draws out a child's hand for dissection.

Oh, I turn to my scalpel as a girl to her spindle! Here's
a bit of dissecting to help me recover my temper.
What delicate work is this! What fineness of texture.
I will keep the secret of it, though. The arts of introspection
are not for the crowd, nor the tunesome comment
of my throat on its follies.

[Sings.]
[Begins dissecting.
A pretty hand! The little Ægle's dead—
Hers was more dimpled. How she loved to pat
My cheeks! Of late she grew a little shy—
For childhood's calyx shrivels when 'tis time
For bright-leaved girlhood. Little Ægle's dead!
[Knocking.
Away my hand and scalpel!
[Puts them carefully away; enter Aglauria.

Ah, the briony! But you look, for all the world, like a
Mænad, mother, with those dangling trails about you.
These berries will be serviceable; yet I would not have
my gentle mother put in peril of her life when I covet
an extract. Since the rage has set in against these
flower-filleted lassies, one can scarce crown one's wine-
cup unsuspected.

Aglauria
[laying down the briony].

There, child, for
thy fancy! And I know not the peril I would shrink
from to please thee; so only thou wilt be wary thyself,
and not scuffle in the street for the rescue of these vile

foreign women. Does report say true, thou did'st stand
by some Mænad, whose flesh the crowd was about to
strip off with her ivy?

Machaon.
Ay. For the case grew semi-surgical.

Aglauria.
Well, if you're chief physician to that band,
Old Cleitophon will trouble you no more
With stories of his ague.

Machaon.
Then he'll die.

Aglauria.
Thine is unruly babble. Cephalus,
If thou had'st talked more softly of the gods,
Had doubtless chosen thee his son-in-law.
And the girl's dowry—

Machaon.
Had been recompense
More than a hundred Cleitophons for cure
Of their particular infirmities
Could e'er enrich me with. Oh, I will sigh,
“Doubtless we have offended heaven,” when next
Blight falls upon the land. There is no trick
Like sighing. Mother, in the mimicry
I will be perfect.

Aglauria.
Fie, you cunning boy;
'Twill be Callirrhoë you're sighing for;
But if you'd win her, never more be seen
Saving of Mænads.

Machaon.
Mother, do you know
It was Dione that I saved from death?

Aglauria.
You speak as she were mine—a wayward girl
Her father could not curb—a restless sprig.
And not thy sister. Mark, Machaon, this—
If thou befriend the witless thing, the crowd
Will turn on thee. Just let them have their way.
But do thou keep to the old gods, and soon
I'll deck thee a fair bride-bed.

Machaon.
So—so-ho!

Aglauria.
I'll get thy supper.

Machaon.
Let it be a quail;
And melons, mother, melons!
[Exit Aglauria.

Ay, she's fair, the strong, lithe, shapely girl, yet not for
me. And I marvel not the women of Lemnos slew
fathers, husbands, brothers, and put an end to population
till they could furnish their brats with heroic fatherhood.
Oh, we fail not in the stuff of motherhood; but the
heroes—the heroes! There's Emathion, a beautiful
greyhound at the heels of Circumstance. Yet his
sister dotes on him. It enrages me. I'll back to my
work.