University of Virginia Library

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.