 | Scaramouch in Naxos |  |
SCENE III.
—The same.Silenus, Scaramouch, and Glaucus sitting round a rock. Bacchantes set bottles of wine and go out.
Silenus.
Taste this, good Scarab. My little godling,
drink.
[All drink.
Scaramouch.
Body and bouquet! what is this?
Silenus.
Wine, sir, crushed from grapes the sun never
ripened.
Glaucus.
Is this to be bought?
Silenus.
What! are you still buying and selling here?
Come, drink again.
[All drink.]
Does it not search into
the dark corners and irrigate the waste places of the brain?
This will make you gods, truly. And you still buy and sell
below the moon?
Scaramouch.
The old story, sir—
Under the crescent, or under the cross,
One song you hear in every mouth,
“Profit and loss, profit and loss.”
Silenus.
Is it so? I should have expected some change.
Glaucus.
Where have you been not to know that the
divine institution of buying and selling is as vigorous as
ever?
I did not know it was divine, and I have been
with Bacchus among the stars.
Scaramouch.
Roads and railways! what does he mean?
Silenus.
And is money still the cure for all the ills of life?
Is it still the talisman, eh!—my brand-new demigod? And
the great and glorious institution of rich and poor, good
spick-and-span divinity—is the world not tired of that gift
of the gods yet?
Glaucus.
This is empty railing: there must always be
rich and poor.
Silenus.
Let the rich hope so. But drink: these thoughts
unnerve me.
[All drink.
Scaramouch.
Good Bacchus, great Bacchus, you must be
careful. Such a slip in public as you made just now would
ruin us.
Silenus.
What slip did I make?
Scaramouch.
You talked of being with Bacchus; now, you
are Bacchus.
Silenus.
So I am. Well, it was a slip.
Scaramouch.
Tell us about the stars.
Silenus.
Aha! good Scarab, we travelled about from
planet to planet, from orb to orb, and each fresh sphere
grew an original wine. As pebbles to grapes, are grapes to
the fruits they crush there. Damsels, Hebes all, gather and
tread them, and their ankles are stained with purple all the
year round: the wine-presses and the vats are made of
scented wood: the season never changes: there is no night,
no death, no rich and poor.
Glaucus.
Glorious, Bacchus, glorious! But it seems to
me that we three may now fitly discuss my mythological rank.
Silenus.
We may, good codling. Let us see. There was
no, it is longer; because during the last score centuries we
Bacchanalians have been out of hearing of the faintest
mundane murmur, beyond cry of Olympus, conquering the
realms of space, and now visit the earth solely for Ariadne's
pleasure: she had a desire to see once more her bower in
Naxos.
Glaucus.
To whom might I appeal, then? Is there no
register of gods?
Scaramouch.
None but Lemprière.
Silenus.
It matters not: if you feel confident that you are
a god you must be one.
Glaucus.
But any one might be a god at that rate.
Silenus.
Surely, surely; confidence makes gods and
goddesses of the merest mortality.
Scaramouch.
Mars and martyrdom! I shall be a god too.
Silenus.
Do, good Scrub, do: be a god: be the god of
gulls.—I have it! Drink again.
[All drink.]
By-the-bye,
what has your name been hitherto?
Glaucus.
Glaucus.
Silenus.
Then, Glaucus, know that thou art not Glaucus,
but my squire, Silenus. I am right glad to see thee, old one.
Thou hast been a wanderer long.
Glaucus.
I thank thee, Bacchus. But I have no memory
of my name or character. If thou—
Silenus.
Nay, thou must not ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ me. I am
thy superior, and in my familiarity and my cups so address
thee, showing my pleasure in thy return. Use respectable
pronouns, Silenus. I am not angry with thee: in coming to
thyself thou wilt doubtless make many mistakes, which I
without resentment shall promptly correct.
Ah! great Bacchus, I seem, now, to remember
with what reverence I regarded your godliness: it is the
first hint my consciousness supplies of my identity. Will
your great highness tell me more of myself?
Silenus.
I will, Silenus. Thou art one of those whom
the bulk of gods and men pity: but thou art not truly
pitiable. It is certain that thou art not a respectable
immortal, for thou keepest late hours, and dost allow thy
company to choose itself. I hear that thou art, or would'st
be, perennially drunk: thou seemest to have as many
stomachs as a cow, and art as bald as a vulture; and after
thy godliness thy most indubitable attribute is certainly not
thy cleanliness. No; thou art not respectable, therefore
art thou pitied; but thou dost not pity thyself, wherefore I
love thee. I respect the unsubduable temper of thy soul,
which, in the perdition of all that mortality and immortality
consider barely necessary for the mere toleration of
existence, still retains its diamond edge, flashing from the
worn-out scabbard, keen and serviceable for offence or
defence.
Glaucus.
But, my lord Bacchus, I shall reform.
Silenus.
Never, by Styx, thou fool! I tell thee, wert thou
to change one thought of thy brain, or could'st thou obliterate
one dream of thy youth, or cancel an action of thy prime,
thou would'st endanger the stability of the universe. Go to:
if thou reformest thou losest immortality and mortality, and
shalt cease to be.
Glaucus.
With all due respect for your godship, I do not
like my character.
Silenus.
Dost thou think I like mine?
Glaucus.
But when I was Glaucus—
Thou wert a fool and respectable, and did'st
admire thyself. Go to.
Scaramouch.
Gall and wormwood! what sound is that?
Silenus.
I hear no sound.
Scaramouch.
A sort of tinkling.
Silenus.
O Hecate! it is the silver cymbals.
Scaramouch.
Whay cymbals?
Silenus.
Listen.
Glaucus.
[aside].
The old wine-skin's going to faint.
Silenus.
He comes! he comes! great Bacchus comes! My heart!
Now, foolish creatures, will you see a god.
But me, alas! what punishment for me?
Some wine! [Drinks.]
I'll dull my sense and show no shame.
[Empties his bottle.
This wine has lost its virtue.—Do you hear?
These cymbal-players all were ladies once,
Matrons and maids, close-robed from head to heel:
Wild panthers' skins, zoned slackly, vest them now;
Their milk-white limbs like moonbeams softly glance
From tree to tree: and through the night they come.
Scaramouch.
Would I could hear them! But I tremble.
Glaucus.
What does all this mean?
[Rises, drunk.]
Bacchus is here, and Bacchus is there, and I'm a god, and
can't understand it. I have a crude suspicion that I have
taken too much wine, which a man may do once or twice in
his life. My opinions about drunkenness are strong, but I
will keep them to myself. Suffice it to say that I have never
been drunk without good reason, and I'm not drunk now. I
know the difference—any man knows the difference between
exhilaration and drunkenness. I'm exhilarated now; I'm
other—several men, in fact, at various times—saying that
they were only exhilarated. It's a common thing to say in
certain circumstances: it's a platitude. I'm not drunk. Do
you think I'm drunk?
Scaramouch.
Drams and drachmas! as drunk's a fiddler!
Glaucus.
Liar! liar, definitely! Put me to the test.
Bacchus—give me a back!
[Runs at Silenus, and falls.
Silenus.
These are the satyrs playing pandean pipes,
These rippling flames of sound: the muffled notes
Are tabors. How the music dwindles! Hark!
From some far isle it seems to reach our ears,
To reach our ears and faint: the tide-mark there
Is out of hearing. I should say they pass
A knoll that lies between us, or the road
Winds backward, and the forest is more dense.
Scaramouch.
They may be going back.
Silenus.
No, Bacchus comes for me.
Scaramouch.
Perhaps they've lost the way.
Silenus.
Ha! ha! when Bacchus loses himself in a wood
Silenus will drink the sea.
Scaramouch.
The sound again! It is as you say: one
would think it journeyed over sea. It grows and gathers,
and now it travels from its own quarter: it is very near.
Silenus.
He comes in all his state: the chariot-wheels
Like silent billows roll; from side to side
The tigers' heads between their velvet paws,
Like lilies eyed with flame, sway noiselessly,
Or, poised on high, breathe odours to the moon.
Taller than Ariadne by a head
He stands with her upon the chariot-floor:
His arm is round her neck; one loyal hand
Droops on her shoulder, and the other holds
A careless rein: her face lifts up to his
The deep, sweet melancholy of desire;
And he looks down, high mystery in his eyes—
The passionate love of these sweet centuries;
Unstaunched, uncloyed.
Scaramouch.
But, where?—where?
Silenus.
In the wood.
I know how Bacchus travels. Here they come.
Scaramouch.
But the tigers: we shall be eaten alive.
Silenus.
My good Scrub, the tigers of Bacchus know of
daintier food than such marrowless bones and savourless
flesh as you and I. The best thing you can do is to stretch
yourself there beside Glaucus, and pretend that you are
drunk. Bacchus may be angry at those who have carried
me off, and his immediate punishment might be severe: he
will do nothing to one who is in the power of wine, and by
the time you can be reasonably sober his ire will have gone
like the beads from a goblet.
Scaramouch.
I would not do so for a man, but gods may
be encountered by such sleights. Honestly, I have soused
my brains a little. You do not lie comfortably, Glaucus.
Come—why, he is sound asleep! I'll make a pillow
of him.
[Lies down with his head on Glaucus.
Enter Satyrs and Bacchantes, followed by Bacchus and Ariadne in a chariot drawn by tigers. They descend.
Bacchus.
Well, runagate, who are your friends?
My foes:
They fell at the first bottle: I have won.
Scaramouch
[aside].
I could drink him out in brandy;
but these planetary wines are not for this world.
Bacchus.
How often have you run away?
Silenus.
Seven times.
Bacchus.
Seven times you've risked disaster. You are old,
Feeble and foolish—
Silenus.
Oh! not foolish, Bacchus!
Bacchus.
Hare-brained at least—
Ariadne.
But chide him not, dear lord.
Bacchus.
Well, then, I will not: he is found. Be wise,
My ancient friend, and know your happiness.
[Bacchantes surround Silenus and bind him with ivy.
Scaramouch
[aside].
These are gentle divinities.
Ariadne.
Here, by this sea, I waked, how long ago!
Here, by this sea, you found me.
Bacchus.
Would you be
My bride again?
Ariadne.
O no! each day, each hour
I am your bride; and as the days and years
Gather behind us, every happiness—
And that is every minute of my life—
Doubles the joy of that which went before:
And yet the past is as a galaxy
Wherein no star excels the radiant throng.
Bacchus.
Not that fair hour when first you loved me?
Ariadne.
No:
I have no memory. I am striving now
To summon up the time when here you came,
And made me an immortal and your bride.
For some unnoted dream that I forgot
The moment after I had told you, love,
New wakened from the sleep I dreamed it in.
Bacchus.
But memory goes afoot—invalid here:
Love has a high-commanding minister,
Imagination; and it serves alone
Beings who yield their moods and bow their minds
To its obedient masterdom: stout thought,
That trudges, blind and lame, the dusty way,
And memory, that casts its broken net
In Lethe's waves, keep not among your train—
Fit servants these for mortals.
Ariadne.
So I do—
I banish them: but still there clings to me
Something of earth.
Bacchus.
I love you best for that.
A goddess born is tame, secure of heaven,
And there is nothing to endow her with;
But you derive divinity from me,
Yet keep the passionate heart that mortals have.—
Now, I am at the morn I found you here:
Come, Ariadne, leap into the past.
Ariadne.
I cannot.
Bacchus.
See, the flying traitor's sail!
Ariadne.
No, no! This night—this hour is in my blood.
The brine, the sea-pinks, and the soaring moon
Seem thoughts of mine which now I body forth;
And these, and all the beauties of the world
Breathe of my love for you.
I found you here
With crimson cheeks and nostrils wide, asleep;
Your hair dishevelled, and your mantle torn.
Ariadne.
No, no!
You cannot drive me back. I see, indeed,
A picture of our meeting; but not mine.
My fancy like a wayward messenger
Despatched to gather roses, on its wings
Bearing their scent, flies empty-handed home.
Bacchus.
What picture, Ariadne?
Ariadne.
That we saw
In Athens, when we last alighted there.
Do you remember how it made us smile
Until we felt that love had painted it;
And then we found it true and beautiful?
Bacchus.
Yes: and the poet.
Ariadne.
Oh! some mortals still
Love us, and deem us worthy of a song.
But for the subject of their art, I vow
They needs must know it better than myself
Who am the heroine: their feigning hangs
A veil before my fancy.—Come away:
Back where the water gurgles through the fern,
Dewing the feathery fronds, and hyacinths
Spread like a purple smoke far up the bank.
[Steps into the chariot.
Enter Harlequin and Columbine. Scaramouch rises
Harlequin.
Bacchus!
[Is running out.
Bacchus.
Stay.
Harlequin.
Pardon, great Bacchus!
Pardon!
Bacchus.
What men are you, infesters of this isle?
Scaramouch.
From England come we, Bacchus—England. Ha!
Know you not England, land of shams and shows?
Bacchus.
Is patriotism dead in England, then,
That travellers thus traduce their native land?
What make you here?
Scaramouch.
We came to hire you, sir:
I am a showman: but we took instead
Silenus here, who, pardon me, agrees
More closely with the popular idea
Of what you're like than you yourself do. Now,
What must I do? I most distinctly see
That you would be a more attractive show;
But I have made a contract with Silenus.
Then, here's the Ariadne I suppose,
And I have just returned from shipping one!
What's to be done? Stalactites, storms, and strums
Will you come, too? Name your own price: look here:
You'll be yourself; Silenus himself, too;
And Ariadne will be Ariadne.
For her I've shipped—why, ladies have their starts,
Their turns, their maggots, and their fantasies,
Their hypochondrias, their aches, their pains,
Their dreams by day and night, their whims, their nothings;
And should her ladyship lie in the clutch,
The grip, the throes, or, to be more precise,
The mood, or mode, or manner of a qualm,
The madam I have shipped could take her place,
Yea, by the very doom of destiny,
I have a substitute for you, my lord—
Endymion, they call him—in the ship!
So, Bacchus, if it happened, as it might—
And who has better reason?—that you sipped,
Or tippled, or indulged, or—Heaven forgive me!
[Falls on his knees.
Take off your eyes: they scorch me through and through!
Bacchus
[to Harlequin].
You, with the wooden sword, I know your trade:
You shall do feats with that untempered blade.
[To Ariadne.]
Should you not like to see these substitutes?
Ariadne.
Rarely.
Bacchus
[to Harlequin].
Strike, knave; and deeper than the roots
Of aged oaks, as deep as is the sea,
Wide as the Ægean, and as Olympus high,
Your striking shall be felt. Come nearer me;
Now strike, until your sword in splinters fly.
[Harlequin strikes the earth with his sword.
| Scaramouch in Naxos | |