University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

—A room in the house of Charon.
(Enter Charon, with a Servant.)
Charon.
Where is your lady?

Servant.
In the dining hall.

Charon.
Go, let her know I'm here.
[Exit Servant.
(Enter Clymene.)
Ha! here she comes.

Clymene.
Oh! my dear Charon,—what a long two hours!
My heart has been, as in a battle-field,
Where fear and hope were killing one the other;
And rising still to fight, and kill again.

Charon.
And no blood shed at last. I wish our Greeks,—
Since they must squabble—would invent some way
To shew their valour,—and yet keep their limbs
As safe as your two champions.

Clymene.
But, dear Charon,
Hath aught untoward chanc'd?

Charon.
No, dearest wife,
Our chariot glides, as on a crystal road.—
Think not of harm. Hath Philidas been here?

Clymene.
No, Charon. (A knocking at the gate.)


Charon.
Hark!—There's someone at the gate.

Clymene.
'Tis he, perchance.

Charon.
His is a quicker rap,
Like one in haste.—'Tis our conspirators—
But no—'tis still broad daylight. Yet this storm
Might serve as well as darkness for their screen.
The earth is thick with snow,—and not a man
Walks through the streets.
(Enter Epaminondas.)
Ha! my dear friend. I did not think this storm
Would let our sun come out.

Epam.
But—being forth—
You'd wrap him in your clouds.—No—I'm no sun,
For I cannot suck up your flattering mists.

Charon.
I would you were,—that you might then condense
Your burning rays into one point,—and scorch
Our tyrants on their thrones.

Epam.
Their guilt deserves
Scarce less a stroke.—Fair lady—a good-morrow—
I saw you not through your good Charon's fogs.
Give me your pardon.

Clymene.
Sir, I've none to spare:
I am a daily beggar for't myself.
But I'll give ‘good welcome’ for ‘good-morrow.’
Yet why good-morrow, when 'tis almost night?
For that give reason,—then I'll pardon give.

Epam.
And in these times 'tis no unwonted thing
For reason to need pardon.—Folly, king—
Reason's a rebel, whom each loyal fool
Thinks glory to hunt down.—For your good-morrow
'Twere no hard task, methinks, to carve quaint reasons
Through an Olympiad.

Clymene.
Cut us but one,
And let it be fantastical.

Epam.
As thus,
Is't not that we would lengthen the day's youth,
Even as our own? We like not that age steal
Upon our brows, to draw his ugly curves
O'er the smooth, shining forehead;—and the hair,
Glossy, and curling, and luxuriant, change
To thin—straight—dull, and grizzled—or vile grey:—
So still we put off, year by year, the curse:—
At twenty, but mere boys;—at thirty, men,—
But young men still;—at forty, nothing more:—
For what is the stiff beard,—the wiry hair—
The hard, firm muscle,—the full-rounded form—
The stern eye,—the strong feature?—merely youth,
Just where the blossom hardens into fruit.

Clymene.
But fifty comes.

Epam.
Oh! then 'tis just man's prime
Till now, the nerves were slack,—the reason crude—
The passions merely mad,—wild colts, unbroke:—
Life, till this moment, was scarce worth the gift!
A turbulent dream, from indigestion bred:—
Just now he is awak'd—and feels his strength—
And looks on real things,—not hollow shapes,—
As through his life before;—and thinks 'tis pity
But man were born just on his fiftieth year.
Oh! what a world 'twere then to revel in!

Clymene.
Suppose him sixty.

Epam.
Well,—and what is that?
If not so swift his foot, 'tis yet more sure;—
His voice is strong,—his appetite as keen
As shallow-headed thirty.—For white hairs,
Who, but a fool, would care if white, or black?
Or—caring—not prefer the virgin snow
To the red clay, or brown, or sooty earth?
Why, Jove himself is painted hoary-lock'd!
And 'tis the mind that makes the man:—all else
Is but the cavern where the diamond lies.
Sixty is merely fifty at its best!
Happy who lengthens out a long three-score!

Clymene.
But he is seventy now;—or good four-score.

Epam.
Blest time! Oh! what soft calm is all about!
Life's fever is burnt down:—and the mild pulse
Vibrates so quietly!—'Tis wisdom's hour!
And wisdom is true strength:—not that brute force
That lies in the full arm, or nervous thigh:—
The ox, in that, is greater than the man.
Oh! this, at last, is the true wine of life!
All, past before, was merely pulp, and rind,
In a long fermentation. The shrunk limbs—
The palsied hand—the hairless crown—the voice—
Thin, and as frequent as the grasshopper's—
Why—what are these?—Merely the lengthening shades
That mark the evening coming that must come;—
And comes more oft to fifteen, than four-score!—
Be happy then!—The sun is just as bright,
About to set, as when 'twas newly risen:—
Nay, brighter,—for the morning's fogs are gone.
So talks th' old man:—old to the world alone;
But, to himself, an everlasting youth;—
Less beauteous perhaps,—but better, and more wise.
I have known many such.—And so't may be
We like to lengthen out the youth o'th' day,
And bid—‘good-morrow’—till the sun hath set.
At least, fair lady—that's my first quaint guess.

(A knocking at the gate.)
Clymene.
I'll tax you for a better at fit hour.
I could make such myself, to my wheel's hum.

Epam.
If 'twere not to waste time, that house-affairs
Might better use.—But now, my noble friend,—
What news from Athens?

Charon.
You shall hear, anon.
(A Servant enters, ushering in Pelopidas and Melon, dressed like hunters.)
Right welcome, gentlemen,—I fear your sport
Hath little prosper'd in so rough a day.
Where have you left your friends?

Pelop.
They are below,
Shaking their garments. 'Tis a pelting snow:
But we're not empty quite:—we've left without
A three days' feast for half a score sharp stomachs;
Our own as sharp as any.

Charon.
(to the Servant).
Let the meal
Be placed with all good speed:—and see the fire
Roar up with plenteous logs.

Servant.
I will, my lord.

[Exit.
Charon.
Now, my dear friends,—again,—right welcome home! (Looking at Epaminondas)

He knows you not, Pelopidas;—nor yet
Partakes our plot. Shall we withhold it still?

(They whisper.)
Epam.
I take my leave, dear lady. These are birds
With whom I would not wish to share the nest.
Commend me to your lord.

Clymene.
You shall not go:—
They're not all vultures. They're from Athens, too;
Will tell you of your friends.

Epam.
For that I'll wait.

Pelop.
No, Charon;—he must join us. His sole voice
Will call a thousand young and ardent spirits,
Proud to encounter death for any straw
He flings in honour's stream.—His word shall give
A stamp on that we do, shall prove it gold,—
Which else might seem but brass.—I'll find a time
To urge him to it.—Lady, my ill manners,
More than my garb, I fear, betray the rustic.
Your pardon, pray. This is my trusty friend,
And fellow-sportsman, Melon.

Melon.
Proud to hunt
Such game with such a huntsman.

Clymene.
Gentlemen—
You are most welcome.—Be your horses swift,—
Your boar-spears sharp and strong!—

[Exit.
Pelop.
(to Epam.)
Sir, you have friends
In Athens, as I hear. We now come thence,
And may have tidings, did we know their names.

Epam.
I thank you, sir. I've many dear friends there,
'Twould glad me much to hear of. Know you aught
Of young Pelopidas?

Pelop.
He's lately dead.

Epam.
Dead?—dead?— (a pause.)

Why, thou tormenting wag!—what madness now?

Pelop.
(embracing him).
Madness of joy, to clasp thee once again,
Dear—dear Epaminondas!

Epam.
Dear Pelopidas!
I wish thee here,—yet hence.—What! some new wrestler
To be tripp'd up at venture of thy head?
Or what strange folly else?—

Pelop.
Oh no! The game
Is for a higher stake:—with greater players.
Come this way.—I must have thine ear awhile.

(They go to the back of the stage.)
(Enter Gorgidas—Pherenicus—Theopompus—Democlides —and Cephisidorus, in the garb of hunters.)
Charon.
Welcome, my friends!—right welcome, every one!

(They embrace.)
All.
We thank you, noble Charon.

Gorgidas.
Oh, this Thebes!
How changëd is her aspect!—She seems dull
And lonely, and grief-worn,—like some poor widow
Above her husband's grave.

Charon.
We have a cordial
Shall make her laugh anon.—Oh!—from the dead
(Enter Androclides)
Given back,—dear Androclides,—welcome,—welcome!

(They embrace.)
Andro.
Dear Charon, thank you. Know'st thou of my wife?

Charon.
She lives—she lives;—and lives in hope again,
For she has heard thou livest. Philidas
This morning saw her. Till to-morrow night,
Dear friend, forget her;—or but think of her
To make thy sword the keener.

Andro.
Speed thee, sun!
Leap over this long night to the new day:—
Then flog thy fiery horses through the sky—
And leave glad night again!—I pass'd his house;
The monster's house!—Oh! Charon—had I met
That hated form—thy namesake at the Styx
Had greeted him erenow. Foul, bloody villain!

(Enter Philidas.)
Philidas.
Friends,—all of you well met.—Welcome to Thebes!

(They embrace.)
Several together.
Thanks, Philidas.

Philidas.
Ha! dear Androclides—
Think of to-morrow night—

Andro.
Nay, Philidas,—
Tell me not so: I think of nothing else.

Philidas.
Charon, a word with you. (They retire.)


Epam.
(coming forward with Pelop.)
Then be it so!
With hand and heart I join in your emprise:
Freely,—though much unwilling: hating war,—
Yet, for the smaller evil, choosing it;—
To choose compell'd:—as, of two horrid deaths,
I'd take the quicker and less terrible,—
Approving neither.—Yet, forget not this;—
I join no faction 'gainst its opposite:—
I make no private feud of man 'gainst man:—
'Tis 'gainst th' oppressor, and the murderer,
I league with the oppressëd.—Beyond this
I go not with you.

Pelop.
Nor shall we go first.
The three must die; and there the sword shall stop—

Epam.
If you can stop it.—'Tis a furious hound
That, once broke loose, is hardly whistled back
'Till he have fill'd his maw.—If they must die,—
Why, be it so! I cannot give my hand
To any private slaughter;—but my voice
Shall not be raised too harshly to denounce
A crime forced on by fate.

Pelop.
We ask no more.
Give us your voice—and we've a thousand arms
Ready for any danger.—For your sword,
Why—spare it if you will:—but time hath been
That, sparing it, you had not spared your friend.

Epam.
Spare your friend now. But we've no time for words.
What is to do,—must speedily be done.
Against the hour I'll bring what aid I can,
And may the good Gods guide us!

Pelop.
Here are some
You have not seen.

Epam.
Ha! my belovëd friends!
Give me your hands: our hearts are join'd already.
(They embrace.)
Dear Androclides!—coming from the grave,
Thou'rt so most welcome,—'twere almost a sin
Not to have sent thee there!

Andro.
I think so too.
And do intend my thanks to the kind sender.

Epam.
Well, gentlemen;—I pray Heaven prosper you,
As you deserve to prosper; but not more.
With a pure heart, unto this enterprise
I bring my aid;—and so I hope do all.

Several.
All—all!

Epam.
If, for revenge, or wantonness,
One drop of blood be shed,—your cause is foul'd,—
And freedom's champions will be faction's slaves!
With this I leave you. So farewell to all.

[Exit.
All.
Farewell, Epaminondas.

Charon.
Come, gentlemen: the board is spread: the meats
Send up rich incense: let's away—

Pelop.
Stay, Charon!
A dinner waiting is a serious thing—
So is our plot. Briefly, before we go,
Let's hear once more the order of the act,
That all may understand.—Speak, Philidas.

Charon.
But who will listen?—When a dinner beckons,
Who stops to hug a speech?

Philidas.
'Tis even so:—
The brain's small whisper is but little heard,
When empty stomachs shout. Go in, go in.
I'll see you on the morrow.

Pelop.
As you please.
Give me one word before you go. (They whisper.)


Charon.
Come, sirs,
No ceremony:—your hot compliments
Will make your dinner cold.

[Exeunt all but Pelop. and Philidas.
Philidas.
You need not fear.
Charon knows every signal.—When they come,
I shall withdraw—throw wide the prison gates—
For there's no key but turns at my command—
Arm our good friends,—and to the market-place
Bring them to wait your bidding. If your dragon
Escape you not,—fear nothing for our wolves.
He goes to rest betimes,—and will not stir
When he is in his den.

Pelop.
And shall not stir,
When I have found him there; fear not for him.
Good-night.

Philidas.
Good-night, Pelopidas.

[Exeunt at opposite doors.