 | Callirrhoë |  |
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!
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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.
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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
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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;
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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,
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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.
| Callirrhoë | |