University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—A room in the palace.
Irene; afterwards Gycia.
Ire.
What! am I mad, or does some devilish power
Possess me heart and soul? I once loved Gycia;
I love Asander with o'ermastering love,
And yet these frequent rumours of dissensions
Marring the smooth course of their wedded life
Bring me a swift, fierce joy. If aught befell
To septe those lovers, then might Fate
And Chance open for me the golden doors
That lead to Love's own shrine; and yet I know not
If any power might melt to mutual love
That too-cold heart. But still, no other chance
Is left but this alone: if I should force
Those loving souls apart, then 'twere my turn.
Am I a monster, then, to will this wrong?
Nay, but a lovesick woman only, willing
To dare all for her passion. Though I loathe
Those crooked ways, yet love, despite myself,
Drives me relentless onward.

Enter Gycia.
Gycia.
Nay, Irene,
This is no lovers' quarrel.

Ire.
Tell me, Gycia,
What was the cause?

Gycia.
The King of Bosphorus
Is ailing, and desires to see his son,
Who fain would go to him.

Ire.
And thou refusedst
To let thy lover go?

[Laughs mockingly.
Gycia.
Nay, 'twas not so;
But politic reasons of the State forbad
The Prince's absence.

Ire.
Well, whate'er the cause,
The old man fain would see his son, and thou
Deniedst.

Gycia.
I denied him what the State
Denied him, and no more.

Ire.
The State denied him!
What does it profit thee to be the daughter
Of Lamachus, if thou art fettered thus
In each wish of thy heart? If it were I,
And he my love, I would break all bonds that came
Between me and my love's desire.

Gycia.
Irene,
Thou know'st not what thou say'st.

Ire.
It may be so;
I do not love by halves.

Gycia.
I do not need
That thou shouldst tutor me, who am so blest
In love's requital. I have nought to learn
From thee, who bearest unrequited love
For one thou wilt not name.

Ire.
Wouldst thou that I
Should name him? Nay, it were best not, believe me,
For me and thee.

Gycia.
Why, what were it to me,
Thou luckless woman?

Ire.
What were it to thee?
More than thou knowest, much.

Gycia.
And therefore 'tis
That thou dost dare to tutor me to deal
With the man I love, my husband.

Ire.
Gycia,
Love is a tyrannous power, and brooks no rival
Beside his throne. Dost thou, then, love indeed,
Who art so filled with duty?

Gycia.
Do I love?
Ay, from the depths of my enamoured heart!
I am all his own to make or break at will.
Only my duty to the State my mother
And the thrice-blessèd memory of my sire
Forbids that I should sink my soul in his,
Or, loving, grow unworthy. But, indeed,
Thou pleadest his cause as if thyself did love him.

Ire.
As if I loved !—as if!

Gycia.
Indeed, 'tis well
Thou didst not, were he free, for he, it seems,
Has known of thee, and speaks not kindly words.
I know not wherefore.

Ire.
Did he speak of me?

Gycia.
Ay, that he did.

Ire.
And what said he?

Gycia.
I think
'Twere best thou didst not know.

Ire.
Tell me, I prithee;
I can bear to hear.

Gycia.
'Twas but a hasty word,
And best forgotten.

Ire.
But I prithee tell me,
What said he?

Gycia.
That 'twere best I were alone
Than commercing with thee, since thou wert not
My fit companion.

Ire.
Said he that, the coward?

Gycia.
I am his wife, Irene.

Ire.
What care I?
I have loved this man too well, before he saw thee.
There, thou hast now my secret. I have loved him,
And he loved me, and left me, and betrayed me.
Was it for him to brand me with this stain?
Unfit for thy companion! If I be,
Whose fault is that but his, who found me pure
And left me what I am?

Gycia.
What! dost thou dare
Malign my husband thus? I have known his life
From his own lips, and heard no word of thee.

Ire.
He did confess he knew me.

Gycia.
Ay, indeed,
Not that he did thee wrong.

Ire.
My Lady Gycia,
Did ever man confess he wronged a woman?
If thou believe not me, who am indeed
Disgraced, and by his fault, thou once didst love
My brother Theodorus—send for him.
He is without, and waits me. Ask of him,
Who has long known my secret.

Gycia.
I will ask him.
Thou wretched woman, since thou art polluted,
Whate'er my love may be, go from my sight,
And send thy brother. Then betake thyself
To a close prison in the haunted Tower,
Till I shall free thee. Out of my sight, I say,
Thou wanton!
[Exit Irene.
What have I done, how have I sinned, that Heaven
Tortures me thus? How can I doubt this creature
Speaks something of the truth? Did he not say
At first he never knew that wanton's name?
Did he not afterwards betray such knowledge
Of her and of her life as showed the lie
His former words concealed? And yet how doubt
My dear, who by two years of wedded love
Has knit my soul to his? I know how lightly
The world holds manly virtue, but I hold
The laws of honour are not made to bind
Half of the race alone, leaving men licensed
To break them when they will; but dread decrees
Binding on all our kind. But oh, my love,
I will not doubt thee, till conviction bring
Proofs that I dare not doubt!

Enter Theodorus.
Theo.
My Lady Gycia,
I come at thy command.

Gycia.
Good Theodorus,
Thou lovedst me once, I think?

Theo.
I loved thee once!
Oh, heaven!

Gycia.
I am in great perplexity
And sorrow, and I call upon thy friendship
To succour me, by frank and free confession
Of all thou knowest.

Theo.
I can refuse thee nothing,
Only I beg that thou wilt ask me nought
That answered may give pain.

Gycia.
Nay, it is best
That I know all. I could not bear to live
In ignorance, and yet I fear to grieve thee
By what I ask. Thy sister late has left me—

Theo.
Ask not of her, I pray; I cannot answer.

Gycia.
Nay, by thy love I ask it. Answer me.

Theo.
Have me excused, I pray.

Gycia.
Then, I am answered.
My husband, she affirms, betrayed her honour
In Bosphorus, and now denies the crime.
Thou knowest it true.

Theo.
Alas! I cannot doubt it.
I have known all for years.

Gycia.
Ye saints of heaven!
Is there no shame or purity in men,
Nor room for trust in them? I am a wife
Who thought she did possess her husband wholly,
Virgin with virgin. I have thought I knew
His inmost heart, and found it innocent;
And yet while thus I held him, while I lay
Upon his bosom, all these happy hours
The venom of a shameful secret lurked
Within his breast. Oh, monster of deceit,
Thou never lovedst as I! That I should give
The untouched treasure of my virgin heart
For some foul embers of a burnt-out love,
And lavish on the waste a wanton left
My heart, my soul, my life! Oh, it is cruel!
I will never see him more, nor hear his voice,
But die unloved and friendless.

[Weeps.
Theo.
(kneeling at her feet).
Dearest Gycia,
Thou canst not want a brother, friend, and lover
While I am living. Oh, my love, my dear,
Whom I have loved from childhood, put away
This hateful marriage, free thee from the bonds
Of this polluted wedlock, and make happy
One who will love thee always!

Enter Lysimachus unperceived.
Gycia.
Rise, Theodorus.
I have no love to give. I am a wife.
Such words dishonour me.

Theo.
Forgive me, Gycia.
I know how pure thy soul, and would not have thee
Aught other than thou art.

Gycia.
I do forgive thee.
'Twas love confused thy reason; but be brave.
Set a guard on thy acts, thy words, thy thoughts.
'Tis an unhappy world!

[Theodorus kisses her hand and exit.
Lys.
Most noble lady.
Forgive me if at an unfitting time,
Amid the soft devoirs of gallantry,
I thus intrude unwilling; but I seek
The Prince Asander.

Gycia.
I have nought to hide
My husband might not know.

Lys.
Then, thou art, doubtless,
His wife, the Lady Gycia. Good my lady,
With such a presence to become a crown,
We would you were at Bosphorus.

Gycia.
'Tis clear
Thou art a stranger here, or thou wouldst know
That never would I leave my native city
To win the crown of Rome.

Lys.
Madam, 'tis pity.

Gycia.
Sir, this is courtly talk. You came to see
My husband; I will order that they send him
At once to you.

[Exit Gycia.
Lys.
That was indeed good fortune brought me hither
When her lover knelt to her. I do not wonder
That kneel he should, for she is beautiful
As Helen's self. There comes some difference
Between her and Asander, and 'twere strange
If I might not so work on't as to widen
The breach good fortune sends me, and to bind,
Through that which I have seen, the boy her husband,
To execute my will.

Enter Asander.
Asan.
Lysimachus,
I am rejoiced to see thee.

Lys.
Good my lord,
How goes the world with thee? Thou art in mien
Graver than thou wast once.

Asan.
I am ill at ease!
I am ill at ease! How does the King my father?

Lys.
Alas! sir, he is ailing, and I fear
Will never mend.

Asan.
Is he in present danger?

Lys.
Ay, that he is. A month or less from this
May see the end.

Asan.
Keeps he his bed as yet?

Lys.
Nay, not yet, when I left him; but his mind
Turns always to his absent son with longing,
And sometimes, as it were 'twixt sleep and waking,
I hear him say, “Asander, oh, my son!
Shall I not see thee more?”

Asan.
Oh, my dear father!
And dost thou love me thus, who have forgot thee
These two long years? Belovèd, lonely life!
Belovèd failing eyes! Lysimachus,
I must go hence, and yet my honour binds me.
O God, which shall I choose? They do forbid me—
The ruler of this place and that good woman
Who is my wife, but holds their cursèd State
More than my love—to go.

Lys.
My prince, I come
To find a way by which thou mayst go free
From that which binds thee fast. This festival
To the dead Lamachus will give the occasion
To set thee free. If thou dost doubt to break
Thy word, yet doth a stronger, straiter chain
Bind thee—thy oath. Thou hast not forgot thy oath
To Bosphorus?

Asan.
Nay, I forget it not.
But what is it thou wouldst of me?

Lys.
Asander,
The night which ends the festival shall see us
Masters of Cherson.

Asan.
Nay, but 'twere dishonour
To set upon a friendly State from ambush—
'Twere murder, and not battle.

Lys.
Art thou false
To thy own land and to thy dying father?

Asan.
That I am not; but never could I bear
To play the midnight thief, and massacre
Without announcement of legitimate war
Whom daily I have known. My wife I love
With all the love of my soul. If she seem cold
When any word is spoken which may touch
The safety of the State, think you she would love
The husband who destroyed it? All my heart
Is in her keeping.

Lys.
It is well indeed
To have such faith. Doubtless the Lady Gycia
Returns this pure affection.

Asan.
I would doubt
The saints in heaven sooner than her truth,
Which if I doubted, then the skies might fall,
The bounds of right and wrong might be removed,
The perjurer show truthful, and the wanton
Chaste as the virgin, and the cold, pure saint
More foolish than the prodigal who eats
The husks of sense—it were all one to me;
I could not trust in virtue.

Lys.
Thou art changed
Since when thy ship set sail from Bosphorus;
Thou didst not always think with such fond thought
As now thou dost. Say, didst thou find thy bride
Heart-whole as thou didst wish? Had she no lover
Ere yet thou camest?

Asan.
Nay, nay; I found my wife
Virgin in heart and soul.

Lys.
My Lord Asander,
Art thou too credulous here? What if I saw her
On that same spot, not half an hour ago,
In tears, and kneeling at her feet a gallant
Noble and comely as a morn in June,
Who bade her break, with passionate words of love,
Her hateful marriage vows, and make him blest
Who must for ever love

Asan.
Thou sawest my wife
Gycia, my pearl of women, my life, my treasure?
Nay, nay, 'tis some sick dream! Thou art mistaken.
Who knelt to her?

Lys.
She called him Theodorus.

Asan.
Irene's brother! Who was it who said
He loved her without hope? Lysimachus,
What is it that thou sawest? Come, 'tis a jest!
Kneeling to Gycia, praying her to fly!
Nay, nay, what folly is this?

[Laughs.
Lys.
My lord, I swear
It is no jest indeed, but solemn earnest.
I saw him kneel to her; I heard the passion
Burn through his voice.

Asan.
And she? What did my lady?
She did repulse him sternly?

Lys.
Nay, indeed,
She wept; was greatly moved, and whispered to him,
“I am a wife.”

Asan.
Peace, peace! I will not hear
Another word. How little do they know thee,
My white, pure dove! My Lord Lysimachus,
Some glamour has misled thee.

Lys.
Well, my lord,
I should rejoice to think it, but I cannot
Deny my eyes and ears. Is not this noble
The brother of the lady who was once
At Bosphorus at Court, and now attends
The Lady Gycia?

Asan.
Ay, indeed he is.

Lys.
Well, she is near at hand; if thy belief
Inclines not to my tale—which yet is true—
Couldst thou not ask of her if ere your marriage
Her brother was enamoured of your wife,
And she of him?

Asan.
That might I do indeed.
But, sooth to say, I would not speak again
With her you name; and it may be indeed,
I know her well, the Lady Gycia,
Who is angered with her for what cause I know not,
Might well resent the converse.

Lys.
Prince Asander,
There is no man so blind as he who closes
His eyes to the light and will not have it shine,
As thou dost now.

Asan.
Then will I see this lady,
Though knowing it is vain.

[Exit Asander.
Lys.
I do not know
What he will hear, but this at least I know:
That woman loves him, and will lie to sow
Dissension 'twixt these lovers—which accomplished,
The rest is easy, and I hold this Cherson
To make or mar at will. Ha! a good thought.
I will send a message to the Lady Gycia
Which shall ensure't. If she mislikes her friend,
It is odds of ten to one some jealous humour
Has caused it, or may grow of it.
[Writes.
“Dear lady,
Thou art wronged; the Prince Asander presently
Is with Irene alone. Seek them, and wring
Confession of their fault.”
[Summons a Messenger.
Ho there! convey
These to the Lady Gycia, but stay not
To tell her whence they come.

Mess.
I go, my lord.