Philip A Tragedy. In Five Acts |
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Scene III.
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Scene III.
—Another room in the Palace.(Enter Philip and Dymas.)
Philip.
I blame thee not. It was the task I set thee;
An arduous one; and faithfully hast thou
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I'll see him ere I sentence.
Dymas.
My dread liege!
Have pity on him:—think it more his fears,
Than treasonous intents that moved him on;
For truly he had wondrous fantasies,
That haunted him, of snares about him laid,—
False whisperings 'gainst him in your royal ear,—
Foul accusations,—and, I know not what;—
Things to perplex an older brain than his,—
And drive it on to madness. . . .
Philip.
Or to treason!
Talk on't no more. Thou art too milky blooded,—
Who deals with rebels should have nerves of steel,
And liquid fire within his veins,—and heart
Unthawing as the snows of Caucasus.—
Dymas.
For Theoxana, and her traitor brood,—
Vex not in vain, my royal liege, your soul.
Eight days the eastern wind right in the bay
Drove furiously, defying all escape.
Our vessels in pursuit were seen from shore,
Visibly gaining on her. (She heard.)
Philip.
Why that noise?
The matter of those outcries?
(Enter Perseus and Lords.)
Perseus.
Good, my liege,
That which shall glad you. Theoxana's taken,
With her two children. Passing on to prison,—
I stayed the officers to hear your pleasure.
Philip.
Bring them before me. This is news indeed!
[Exeunt Perseus and Lords.
I'll hear the furious lioness roar out,
To see her Roman cubs snatched from her sight.
Go call Demetrius too:—I'll have them brought,
The traitor and the traitress, face to face,—
And then to prison both.
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My royal liege
The prince, two hours ere daybreak, was away
Among the mountains.
Philip.
How?—
Dymas.
Intending flight,
He had desire to pass one parting day
In scenes that from his boyhood he had loved.
With evening he'll return to sup with me.
Such his intent, and so I did report it
Unto your royal ear.
Philip.
His purposed flight
You told of,—not his absence. But, good Dymas,
He must not hear of this. Ride forth at eve
To meet him;—put what colour on't you will,—
And let no busy tongue inform his ear
Of what hath chanced.—He hath hot friends among us
May make his capture dangerous. More anon—
(Enter Theoxana and her two Children, conducted by Perseus, Lords, and two Officers.)
Ha! traitress! art thou caught?
Dymas
(aside).
Traitress! By heaven!
Imperial Juno rather!
Theox.
Art thou Philip?
Philip.
Look round thee, woman,—and, if thou see'st here
A head more kinglike, then am I not Philip.
Theox.
I see none here that might not wear as well
That bauble on thy brow;—but there's no face
On which so legibly is written tyrant.
Thou, then, art he.
Perseus.
Bold, shameless woman, peace!
Or I will tear thy insolent tongue away.
Theox.
Ha! let me look upon thee.—Thou'rt his son;
The very copy of the foulest picture
That ever libell'd man.—Nay—draw thy sword—
Upon a woman!—captive!
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Answer me,
And leave thy railing. What dost thou deserve,
The wife of a black traitor, and the . . .
Theox.
False!
He was no traitor. Thou'rt the traitor, tyrant!
Traitor to heaven, and rebel 'gainst mankind.
Ay! stamp thy foot, and rage, I fear thee not.
Philip.
But thou shalt fear me. By the throne of Jove!
I'll make thee crouch and whine like a whipp'd cur.
Away with them to prison.
Children.
Mercy! mercy!
Theox.
Nay, ask it not, my children.—We must die,—
Let us die nobly, and not cowardly.
Philip.
Be not too sure thou shalt have leave to die.
Theox.
Then shall I live to curse thee, and bring down
Heaven's wrath the fiercer on thee.
Philip.
Thou art bold;—
But I have means to tame thee.
Theox.
Thou art bold;—
For thou hast lived defying earth and heaven:—
But there are racks more terrible than thine
Awaiting thee in hell to make thee tame,
Thou hoary murderer! Ay! murderer!
Perseus.
My gracious father,—must I hold my hand
From punishing this insolent?
Philip.
Keep peace.
The higher she goes up,—the worse her fall.
Let her have room. 'Twill be rare sport anon
To hear these big tones changed to puling cries
For mercy!—mercy!
Theox.
For thyself beg that
Of the incensëd heavens. Of thee, be sure,—
I will not ask it, tho' thy art strain out
The torture to eternity. But, tyrant—
I do defy thee. O'er thy hoary head
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And points in mockery at thee:—but on me
He smiles, and lifts his hand to heaven.
Philip.
No more.
Away with them to prison:—and such freedom
As with a strict security may live,
That let them have, no more. Upon the morrow
Bring them again before me.
Theox.
Come, my lambs;
For one day longer will the butcher spare us.
Let us to prison.
Children.
Mercy for our mother!
Oh king, have mercy!
Theox.
Peace! I charge you—peace!
[Exeunt Theoxana and her Children with the Officers.
Philip.
She hath a noble heart. I pity her.
Dymas
(aside).
She hath a form divine, and I will woo her.
(Aloud)
Apelles and Philocles, my dread liege,
Last night returned from Rome,—were it not well
To hear what they may witness of the prince;
Which, either shall confirm his guiltiness,
Approving so your wrath,—or,—which heaven grant!—
Shall from him wash away those foulest stains
That now disfigure him.
Philip.
Go—call them quick.
Dymas.
They wait without, my liege. I'll lead them here.
[Exit.
Philip.
That fellow's honest:—loyal to his king,—
Yet loving to his son, that is disloyal;—
Painting his foul deeds o'er with colors fair,
That yet conceal not all their filthiness,
But show them, like a harlot's rotten cheek,
More ugly for their fineness.—Must he die?
My son—my youngest—once my best beloved?
Oh hard decree!—But he is false—disloyal—
Friended with Rome—accursëd—damnëd Rome!
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Tho' it were chain of strength enough to hold
All earth suspended in heaven's glittering hall,
Must crack—and let him sink. Oh ye good Gods!
Give not to beds of kings fertility,
For they but gender serpents: let the peasant
Increase, and multiply,—and, for old age,
Secure the love of children, and their children,—
But make the loins of kings like barren rocks;
Their issue is a plague.—Ha! then I see it
Writ on your faces.
(Enter Dymas, and other Lords, with Apelles and Philocles, the Ambassadors.)
You need use no words
To tell me he's a traitor.—For yourselves,
I give you welcome, my good lords. The thing
You have to say,—say freely, and fear not.
Philocles.
Bad tidings do make hateful those who bring them.
Philip.
In eyes of fools alone. I am not one
To fling away in rage the golden cup,
For that the draught it brought was bitterness.—
Without more prelude, to the matter, sirs.
How stands Demetrius with our mortal foe?
How with the Senators and Consuls, first?
The army, and the worshipp'd mob of Rome,
That all are kings?
Philocles.
Pardon, my gracious liege,—
Hear, and believe me. Of all ages, ranks,
Conditions, and opinions, is your son
The theme for Roman praises.
Apelles.
'Tis most true!
Philocles.
Go to the Senate—and you'll hear his name;
Walk thro' the camp—'tis still ‘Demetrius’;—
Stand in the market-place,—men talk of him;
Glide thro' the fields, or by old Tiber's banks,—
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Small harm in this, were nothing worse to come:
But I must utter what to speak I dread,
Did not the greater dread lest . . .
Philip.
Falter not!
Out with it!—By the omnipotence of Jove!
If thou dost keep one syllable from my ear,
Thy life shall rue it. Let it have full vent;
They'd have him on my throne—I know they would—
Look not aghast—but say ‘this is not so’—
Or say—‘this is so’— (a pause).
Staring idiot! speak—
Or with this hand I'll strike thee to the earth.
Philocles
(kneeling).
Dread majesty! forgive me that I say—
This is even so (a pause)
.
Philip.
Go on. You hear him, lords.
Lords.
With sorrow, most dread liege.
Philip.
On sir—speak out.
How say the Roman gods our fate shall be?
Let Philip hear, that he betimes may learn
To tremble and obey.—Nay, my good lord—
Stand not on foolish ceremony: speak
Rude matter in plain words. The weakest eye
May boldly look the sinking sun i' th' face;
Take measure of his bulk,—and count the spots
Upon his clouded disc;—tho' at his height,
The strongest shrank to gaze upon his pomp—
So kings, before whose state all eyes were dimm'd,
All tongues were mute; or only heard in praise
Such as men give the Gods,—shall, at their fall,
Become the unfear'd gaze of basest eyes;
The theme of rudest tongues.—Speak, therefore, out,
And tell the manner of our swift deposal,—
As 'tis at Rome decreed;—and, with what state,
And what permitted power, our loyal son
Shall fill our forfeit throne.
Philocles.
My gracious liege!
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The vain designs of your proud enemy;
Which more as matter for your laughter hear,
Than for your wrath.
Philip.
Proceed.
Philocles.
The common talk
At Rome is of new warlike preparation
You have in hand, to subjugate the states,
Late in rebellion 'gainst your royal right!
And which, by treaties ratified at Rome,
You had acknowledged free.
Philip.
What follows then?
Philocles.
Forgive me that their insolent boasts I speak.
A force already have they set on foot;—
The field already, in their thoughts, is won;—
Then, to their victory to put the seal,
And surety for the future. . . .
Philip.
Ha! so prompt?
Philocles.
Yourself, my gracious liege,—
Philip.
Proceed, proceed—
Philocles.
Shall be deposed . . .
Philip.
As modest as 'tis sure.
Philocles.
Prince Perseus,—hated as his brother's loved,—
To exile doomed, or safe imprisonment;
So may Demetrius, on his quiet throne,
Assure to Rome a vassal and a friend,
Where now they see their most fell enemy.
Philip.
In sooth, right well devised!—a marvellous plan!
Simple, and easy, and straight on to the end!
Thus talk the people,—say you: but the Senate,—
What say they of us?
Philocles.
With more cautious voice
They laud your son;—but for yourself, my liege,—
Forgive my speech,—with vilest epithets . . .
Perseus.
Oh my dear father! hear no more of this:
Or let such blasphemy to your private ear
Be whispered,—not i' th' face of men spoke out.
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This letter, gracious king, from Titus Quintius.
Philip.
Ha! 'tis his hand. What matter have we now?
(He reads in silence.)
1st Lord
(to Dymas).
His majesty looks not in wonted health.
Dymas.
This journey hath much dashed him.
1st Lord.
He's more pale,
And careworn.
Dymas.
Something's there that likes him not.
See how he grinds his teeth.
Philip
(folding the letter hastily).
Enough! enough!
I ask no more than this. The parricide!
Give me thy hand, my son. I doubted thee;
And fear'd 'twas malice, or intriguing strife
That moved thee 'gainst thy brother;—now I see
Thou hadst the sharper wisdom. But, fear not;
On every step that leads up to a throne,
There stand a myriad sharp, invisible swords,
To hew down lawless climbers.—For this traitor,
He shall not put one foot upon the stair;
Far less reach up to th' diadem. Thee, Perseus,
In the eye of all men do I now proclaim
My son, and sole successor. For Demetrius
I here abjure him,—cast him utterly off;—
And, as a cankered branch is hewn away,
And thrown into the flames,—so from my heart
Is he cut off,—and to such vengeance given
As the just Gods to crimes like his decree! (A pause.)
What say you, lords—am I o'erharsh in this?
Several Lords.
Your majesty is ever merciful.
Philip.
Why—madman! did I send this egg to Rome
To have it hatched a crocodile?—Oh fathers!
If in your sons you would affection hold,
Still keep them in your eye;—for filial love,
Even like a fire untended, quickly dies
If love paternal feed it not. He's lost!
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The bosom friend of Rome!—Must Philip die—
Or see upon his throne a rebel son,—
Himself deposed,—imprison'd—and his kingdom,
That was erewhile earth's brightest, bowed to wear
The manacles of Rome?—Or must he die? (A pause.)
Had Saturn crushed the Thunderer at his birth,
He had not lost his heaven!—
Dymas
(aside to the Ambassadors).
How sorrow works
Upon his royal mind!
Apelles.
He sees us not.
Philocles.
Yet he looks on us.
Dymas.
With the balls of sight,
But not with that which should inform their sense.
Most royal Philip—vex not thus your soul
For one unduteous son, when still there lives
Another, to whose heart you are more dear
Than sunshine to the eye, or breath to life,
Or food to him who famishes. Noble prince,
Go to thy father, and assure his soul
How thou dost love him.
Perseus
(kneeling).
Father, on my knee
I swear to thee—and may th' all-ruling Gods
So help me as in simple truth I swear!—
I have no wish but what to thee is true;—
To thee who art my father, and my king:
I seek no power or honour but from thee:
From thee I had my life,—from thee must have
All that can make life glorious. When to thee
I prove disloyal,—let th' omnipotent Gods
Withdraw from me their favouring countenance!
And give me o'er to fate!
Philip.
Rise—rise—enough!
As thou to me—thy children unto thee!—
Lords, for awhile farewell. We will retire,
To drink in solitude the bitter draught
Of filial ingratitude. Just heaven!
[Exit.
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Our duties to your majesty.
Perseus
(aside to Dymas).
He has it!
[Exeunt.
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