 | Gycia |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
—Lamachus' Palace, Cherson.Gycia and Irene.
Gycia.
Sweetest Irene,
What joy it is to see thee once again
After so long an absence! We had grown
Together on one stalk so long, since first
Our girlish lives began to burst to flower,
That it was hard to part us. But me thinks
That something of the rose from off thy cheek
Has faded, and its rounded outline fair
Seems grown a little thinner.
Ire.
Gycia,
The flower, once severed from the stalk, no more
Grows as before.
Gycia.
Thou strange girl, to put on
Such grave airs! Ah! I fear at Bosphorus
Some gay knight has bewitched thee; thou has fallen
In love, as girls say—though what it may be
To fall in love, I know not, thank the gods,
Having much else to think of.
Ire.
Prithee, dear,
Speak not of this.
Gycia.
Ah! then I know 'tis true.
Confess what manner of thing love is.
Ire.
Nay, nay, I cannot tell thee (weeping)
, Gycia;
Thou knowest not what thou askest. What is love?
Seek not to know it. 'Tis to be no more
Thy own, but all another's; 'tis to dwell
By day and night on one fixed madding thought,
Till the form wastes, and with the form the heart
Is warped from right to wrong, and can forget
All that it loved before, faith, duty, country,
Friendship, affection—everything but love.
Seek not to know it, dear; or, knowing it,
Be happier than I.
Gycia.
My poor Irene!
Then, 'tis indeed a misery to love.
I do repent that I have tortured thee
By such unthinking jests. Forgive me, dear,
I will speak no more of it; with me thy secret
Is safe as with a sister. Shouldst thou wish
To unburden to me thy unhappy heart,
If haply I might bring thy love to thee.
Thou shalt his name divulge and quality,
And I will do my best.
Ire.
Never, dear Gycia.
Forget my weakness; 'twas a passing folly,
I love a man who loves me not again,
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Than breathe his name to thee. Fare-well, dear lady!
Thou canst not aid me.
[Exit Irene.
Gycia.
Hapless girl! Praise Heaven
That I am fancy-free!
Enter Lamachus.
Lama.
My dearest daughter, why this solemn aspect?
I have glad news for thee. Thou knowest of old
The weary jealousies, the bloody feuds,
Which 'twixt our Cherson and her neighbour City
Have raged ere I was born—nay, ere my grandsire
First saw the light of heaven. Both our States
Are crippled by this brainless enmity.
And now the Empire, now the Scythian, threatens
Destruction to our Cities, whom, united,
We might defy with scorn. Seeing this weakness,
Thy father, wishful, ere his race be run,
To save our much-loved Cherson, sent of late
Politic envoys to our former foe,
And now—i' faith, I am not so old, 'twould seem
That I have lost my state-craft—comes a message.
The Prince Asander, heir of Bosphorus,
Touches our shores to-day, and presently
Will be with us.
Gycia.
Oh, father, is it wise?
Do fire and water mingle? Does the hawk
Mate with the dove; the tiger with the lamb;
The tyrant with the peaceful common-wealth;
Fair commerce with the unfruitful works of war?
What union can there be 'twixt our fair city
And this half-barbarous race? 'Twere against nature
To bid these opposite elements combine—
The Greek with the Cimmerian. Father, pray you,
Send them away, with honour if you please,
And soothing words and gifts—only, I pray you,
Send them away, this Prince who doth despise us,
And his false retinue of slaves.
Lama.
My daughter,
Thy words are wanting in thy wonted love
And dutiful observance. 'Twere an insult
Unwashed by streams of bloodshed, should our City
Scorn thus the guests it summoned. Come they must,
And with all hospitable care and honour,
Else were thy sire dishonoured. Thou wilt give them
A fitting welcome.
Gycia.
Pardon me, my father,
That I spoke rashly. I obey thy will.
[Going.
Lama.
Stay, Gycia. Dost thou know what 'tis to love?
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Ay, thee, dear father.
Lama.
Nay, I know it well.
But has no noble youth e'er touched thy heart?
Gycia.
None, father, Heaven be praised! The young Irene
Was with me when thou cam'st, and all her life
Seems blighted by this curse of love for one
Whose name she hides, with whom in Bosphorus
She met, when there she sojourned. Her young brother,
The noble Theodorus, whom thou knowest,
Lets all the world go by him and grows pale
For love, and pines, and wherefore?—For thy daughter,
Who knows not what love means, and cannot brook
Such brain-sick folly. Nay, be sure, good father,
I love not thus, and shall not.
Lama.
Well, well, girl,
Thou wilt know it yet. I fetter not thy choice,
But if thou couldst by loving bind together
Not two hearts only, but opposing peoples;
Supplant by halcyon days long years of strife,
And link them in unbroken harmony;—
Were this no glory for a woman, this
No worthy price of her heart?
Gycia.
Tell me, I pray,
What mean you by this riddle?
Lama.
Prince Asander
Comes here to ask your hand, and with it take
A gracious dower of peace and amity.
He does not ask thee to forsake thy home,
But leaves for thee his own. All tongues together
Are full of praise of him: virgin in love,
A brave youth in the field, as we have proved
In many a mortal fight; a face and form
Like a young god's. I would, my love, thy heart
Might turn to him, and find thy happiness
In that which makes me happy. I am old
And failing, and I fain would see thee blest
Before I die, and at thy kness an heir
To all my riches, and the State of Cherson
From anxious cares delivered, and through thee.
Gycia.
Father, we are of the Athenian race,
Which was the flower of Hellas. Ours the fame
Of Poets, Statesmen, Orators, whose works
And thoughts upon the forehead of mankind
Shine like a precious jewel; ours the glory
Of those great Soldiers who by sea and land
Scattered the foemen to the winds of heaven,
First in the files of time. And though our mother,
Our Athens, sank, crushed by the might of Rome,
What is Rome now?—An Empire rent in twain;
An Empire sinking 'neath the unwieldy weight
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Ranks lower than the Circus, and a wanton
Degrades the Imperial throne. But though to its fall
The monster totters, this our Cherson keeps
The bravery of old, and still maintains
The old Hellenic spirit and some likeness
Of the fair Commonwealth which ruled the world.
Surely, my father, 'tis a glorious spring
Drawn from the heaven-kissed summits whence we come;
And shall we, then, defile our noble blood
By mixture with this upstart tyranny
Which fouls the Hellenic pureness of its source
In countless bastard channels? If our State
Ask of its children sacrifice, 'tis well.
It shall be given; only I prithee, father,
Seek not that I should with barbaric blood
Taint the pure stream, which flows from Pericles.
Let me abide unwedded, if I may,
A Greek girl as before.
Lama.
Daughter, thy choice
Is free as air to accept or to reject
This suitor; only, in the name of Cherson,
Do nothing rashly, and meanwhile take care
That naught that fits a Grecian State be wanting
To do him honour.
Gycia.
Sir, it shall be done.
SCENE II.
—Outside the palace of Lamachus.Megacles and Courtiers.
Meg.
Well, my lords, and so this is
the palace. A grand palace, forsooth,
and a fine reception to match! Why,
these people are worse than barbarians.
They are worse than the sea, and that
was inhospitable enough. The saints
be praised that that is over, at any rate.
Oh, the intolerable scent of pitch, and
the tossing and the heaving! Heaven
spare me such an ordeal again! I
thought I should have died of the
smells. And here, can it be? Is it
possible that there is a distinct odour
of—pah! what? Oils, as I am a
Christian, and close to the very palace
of the Archon! What a detestable
people! Some civet, good friends,
some civet!
1st Court.
Here it is, good
Megacles. You did not hope, surely, to find
republicans as sweet as those who live
cleanly under a King? But here are
some of their precious citizens at last.
Enter Citizens hurriedly.
1st Citizen.
I pray you, forgive us,
gentlemen. We thought the Prince
would take the land at the other quay,
and had prepared our welcome
accordingly.
Meg.
Who are these men?
1st Court.
They are honourable
citizens of Cherson.
Meg.
Citizens! They will not do
for me. The Count of the Palace
should be here with the Grand
Chamberlain to meet my Master.
1st Cit.
Your Master? Oh! then
you are a serving man, as it would
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seem. Well, my good man, when
comes your Master?
Meg.
Oh, the impertinent
scoundrel! Do you know, sir, who I am?
1st Cit.
Probably the Prince's
attendant, his lackey, or possibly his
steward. I neither know nor care.
Meg.
Oh, you barbarian! Where
is the Count of the Palace, I say?
1st Cit.
Now, citizen, cease this
nonsense. We have not, thank Heaven,
any such foolish effeminate functionary.
Meg.
No Count of the Palace?
Heavens! what a crew! Well, if
there is none, where are your leading
nobles? where the Respectable and
Illustrious? You are certainly not
Illustrious nor Respectable; you
probably are not even Honourable, or if
you are you don't look it.
1st Cit.
What, you wretched
popinjay of a serving man! You dare
address a Greek citizen in that way?
Take that, and that!
[Beats him.
1st Court.
Draw, gentlemen!
These are ruffians!
[They fight.
Enter Asander.
Asan.
Put up your swords,
gentlemen. Why, fellows, what is this? Is
this your hospitality to your guests?
1st Cit.
Nay, sir; but this servant
of yours has been most insolent, and
has abused and insulted our State and
its manners. He told us that we were
not men of honour; and some of us,
sir, are young, and have hot blood,
and, as Greek citizens of Cherson, will
not bear insults.
Asan.
Insolent upstarts, you are
not worthy of our swords! Come, my
Lord Megacles, heed them not. Here
is their master.
Enter Lamachus and Senators.
Lama.
We bid you heartfelt welcome, Prince, to Cherson.
That we have seemed to fail to do you honour
Comes of the spite of fortune, For your highness,
Taking the land at the entrance of the port,
Missed what of scanty pomp our homely manners
Would fain have offered; but we pray you think
'Twas an untoward accident, no more.
Welcome to Cherson, Prince!
Asan.
Methinks, my lord,
Scarce in the meanest State is it the custom
To ask the presence of a noble guest
With much insistance, and when he accepts
The summons, and has come, to set on him
With insolent dogs like these.
Lama.
Nay, Prince, I pray you,
What is it that has been?
Asan.
Our chamberlain
Was lately, in your absence, which your highness
So glibly doth excuse, set on and beaten
By these dogs here.
Lama.
Nay, sir, they are not dogs,
But citizens of honour; yet indeed
Wanting, I fear, in that deep courtesy
Which from a stranger and a guest refuses
To take provoked offence. My lord, indeed
I am ashamed that citizens of Cherson
Should act so mean a part. Come, Prince, I pray you
Forget this matter, and be sure your coming
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The Prince is safe in Cherson.
Enter Gycia, Irene, Melissa, and Ladies. Irene, seeing Asander, faints, and is withdrawn, Gycia supporting her. Confusion.
Meg.
My Lord Asander, remember
what is due to yourself and Bosphorus.
Remember, when this merchant's
daughter comes, you must not treat her
as an equal. Courtesy to a woman is
all very well, but rank has greater
claims still, especially when you have
to deal with such people as these.
Now, remember, you must make no
obeisance at all; and if you advance to
meet her more than one step, you are
lost for ever. These are the truly
important things.
Asan.
Good Megacles,
Forewarned I am forearmed.
(Aside)
Thou fluent trickster!
Fit head of such a State! I would to Heaven
I had never come!
Re-enter Gycia.
Nay, nay, I thank the saints
That I have come. Who is this peerless creature?
Is this the old man's daughter?
Lama.
That I have come. Who is this peerless creature?
Is this the old man's daughter?
Prince Asander,
This is my daughter, Gycia. Of the prince
Thou hast heard many a time, my daughter.
Gycia
(confused).
Ay!—
Indeed I—
Lama.
Come, my girl, thou art not used
To fail of words.
Asan.
Nay, sir, I pray you press her not to speak.
And yet I fain would hear her. Artemis
Showed not so fair, nor with a softer charm
Came Hebe's voice.
Gycia.
Nay, sir, I did not know
A soldier could thus use a courtier's tongue.
Asan.
If being bred in courts would give me power
To put my thought in words, then would I fain
Be courtier for thy sake.
Gycia.
Ah, sir, you jest.
The ways of courts we know not, but I bid thee
Good welcome to our city, and I prithee
Command whatever service our poor Cherson
Can give whilst thou art here. (To Megacles)
Pray you my lord,
Accompany his Highness and our house-hold
To the poor chambers which our homely state
Allots for him. They are but poor, I know,
For one who lives the stately life of kings;
But such as our scant means can reach they are.
Meg.
My lady, I have lived long time in courts,
But never, in the palaces of Rome,
Have I seen beauty such as yours, or grace
More worthy of a crown. (To Melissa)
To you, my lady,
I bow with most respectful homage. Surely
The goddess Heré has not left the earth
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For the present of your Highness with a thousand
Obeisances, and to your gracious father
Humbly I bend the knee. My Lord Asander,
I do attend your Highness.
Mel.
What a man!
What noble manners! What a polished air!
How poor to such a courtier our rude Court
And humble manners show!
Asan.
Good Megacles,
Get me to my chamber—quick, ere I o'erpass
All reasonable limits. I am sped;
I am myself no more.
Lama.
Farewell awhile.
We will welcome you at supper.
[Exeunt all but Lamachus and Gycia.
Lama.
Well, my daughter,
What think you of this hot-brained youth? I' faith,
I like his soldier's bluntness, and he seemed
To be a little startled, as I thought,
By something which he saw when thou didst come.
Perchance it was the charm of one who came
Among thy ladies took him.
Gycia.
Nay, my father,
I think not so indeed.
Lama.
Ah! well, I am old,
And age forgets. But this I tell thee, daughter:
If in my youth I had seen a young man's gaze
Grow troubled, and he should start, and his cheek pale,
A young girl drawing near, I had almost thought
Him suddenly in love.
Gycia.
Oh, nay indeed!
Who should be favoured thus? There is no woman
In our poor Cherson worthy that his gaze
Might rest on her a moment.
Lama.
Ah, my girl,
Is it thus with thee? They say that love is blind,
And thou art blind, therefore it may be, Gycia,
That thou too art in love. Tell me how it is.
Couldst thou love this man, if he loved thee?
Gycia.
(throwing herself on her father's neck).
Father!
Lama.
Say no more, girl. I am not so old as yet
That I have quite forgotten my own youth,
When I was young and loved; and if I err not,
I read love's fluttering signals on thy cheek,
And in his tell-tale eyes. But listen! Music!
We must prepare for supper with our guests.
SCENE III.
—A street in Cherson.Megacles; afterwards Melissa.
Megacles.
Well, it is time for the
banquet. Somehow, this place
improves on acquaintance, after all. Poor,
of course, and rude to a degree. But
truly the Lady Gycia is fair—as fair,
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indeed, as if she was the Emperor's
daughter. She is a beautiful creature,
truly. But give me that delightful
lady-in-waiting of hers, the Lady Melissa.
What grace! what rounded proportions!
I like mature beauty. She is as like the
late divine Empress as two peas, and
I thought—I dare say I was wrong, but
I really thought—I made an impression.
Poor things! poor things! They can't
help themselves. We courtiers really
ought to be very careful not to abuse
our power. It is positive cruelty. The
contest is too unequal. It makes one
inclined sometimes to put on the
manners of a clown, so as to give them
a chance. Nay, nay, you might as well
ask the Ethiopian to change his skin as
a courtier his fine manners. By all the
saints! here she comes in propriâ
personâ.
Enter the Lady Melissa.
Mel.
Heavens! it is the strange
nobleman. I am sure I am all of a
flutter.
Meg.
(advancing with formal bows).
My lady, I am enchanted (bows again;
then takes several steps to the right, then
to the left, and bows).
What a
wonderful good fortune! Ever since I had
the honour to see you just now, I have
only lived in the hope of seeing you
again.
Mel.
(curtsying).
Oh, my lord, you
great courtiers can find little to interest
you in our poor little Court and its
humble surroundings.
Meg.
Madam, I beg! not a word!
I was just thinking that you exactly
resembled the late divine Empress.
Mel.
Oh, my lord, forbear! The
Empress! and I have never been out
of Cherson! You flatter me, you
flatter me, indeed. That is the way
with all you courtiers from
Constantinople. Now, if you had said that my
Lady Gycia was beautiful—
Meg.
My dear lady, I do not
admire her in the least. She has no
manners, really—nothing, at any rate,
to attract a man of the great world; a
mere undeveloped girl, with all the
passion to come. No, no, my good
lady, give me a woman who has lived.
We courtiers know manners and
breeding when we see them, and yours are
simply perfect, not to say Imperial.
Mel.
What a magnificent nature!
Well, to say the truth, the Lady Gycia
is not at all to my taste. It is a cold,
insipid style of beauty, at the best; and
she is as self-willed and as straitlaced
as a lady abbess. I suppose she is well
matched with the Prince Asander?
Meg.
Well, he is a handsome lad
enough, and virtuous, but weak, as
youth always is, and pliable. Now,
for myself, I am happy to say I am
steadfast and firm as a rock.
Mel.
Ah, my lord, if all women saw
with my eyes, there would not be such
a run after youth. Give me a mature
man, who has seen the world and knows
something of life and manners.
Meg.
What an intelligent creature!
Madam, your sentiments do you credit.
I beg leave to lay at your feet the
assurance of my entire devotion.
Mel.
Oh, my lord, you are too good!
Why, what a dear, condescending
creature!—the manners of a Grand
Chamberlain and the features of an Apollo!
Meg.
Permit me to enrol myself
among the ranks of your humble slaves
and admirers (kneels and kisses her
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hand).
But hark! the music, and I
must marshal the guests to the banquet.
Permit me to marshal you.
[Exeunt with measured steps.
SCENE IV.
—The garden without the banqueting-room. Moonlight. The sea in the distance, with the harbour.Asander and Gycia descend the steps of the palace slowly together. Music heard from within the hall.
Asan.
Come, Gycia, let us take the soft sweet air
Beneath the star of love. The festive lights
Still burn within the hall, where late we twain
Troth-plighted sate, and I from out thine eyes
Drank long, deep draughts of love stronger than wine.
And still the minstrels sound their dulcet strains,
Which then I heard not, since my ears were filled
With the sweet music of thy voice. My sweet,
How blest it is, left thus alone with love,
To hear the love-lorn nightingales complain
Beneath the star-gemmed heavens, and drink cool airs
Fresh from the summer sea! There sleeps the main
Which once I crossed unwilling. Was it years since,
In some old vanished life, or yesterday
When saw I last my father and the shores
Of Bosphorus? Was it days since, or years,
Tell me, thou fair enchantress, who hast wove
So strong a spell around me?
Gycia.
Nay, my lord;
Tell thou me first what magic 'tis hath turned
A woman who had scoffed so long at love
Until to-day—to-day, whose blessed night
Is hung so thick with stars—to feel as I,
That I have found the twin life which the gods
Retained when mine was fashioned, and must turn
To what so late was strange, as the flower turns
To the sun; ay, though he withers her, or clouds
Come 'twixt her and her light, turns still to him,
And only gazing lives.
Asan.
Thou perfect woman!
And art thou, then, all mine? What have I done,
What have I been, that thus the favouring gods
And the consentient strength of hostile States
Conspire to make me happy? Ah! I fear,
Lest too great happiness be but a snare
Set for our feet by Fate, to take us fast
And then despoil our lives.
Gycia.
My love, fear not.
We have found each other, and no power has strength
To put our lives asunder.
Asan.
Thus I seal
Our contract with a kiss.
[Kisses her.
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Oh, happiness!
To love and to be loved! And yet methinks
Love is not always thus. To some he brings
Deep disappointment only, and the pain
Of melancholy years. I have a lady
Who loves, but is unloved. Poor soul! she lives
A weary life. Some youth of Bosphorus
Stole her poor heart.
Asan.
Of Bosphorus saidst thou?
And her name is?
Gycia.
Irene. Didst thou know her?
Asan.
Nay, love, or if I did I have forgot her.
Gycia.
Poor soul! to-day when first we met, she saw
Her lover 'midst thy train and swooned away.
Asan.
Poor heart! This shall be seen to. Tell me, Gycia,
Didst love me at first sight?
Gycia.
Unreasonable,
To bid me tell what well thou knowest already.
Thou know'st I did. And when did love take thee?
Asan.
I was wrapt up in spleen and haughty pride,
When, looking up, a great contentment took me,
Shed from thy gracious eyes. Nought else I saw,
Than thy dear self.
Gycia.
And hadst thou ever loved?
Asan.
Never, dear Gycia.
I have been so rapt in warlike enterprises
Or in the nimble chase, all my youth long,
That never had I looked upon a woman
With thought of love before, though it may be
That some had thought of me, being a Prince
And heir of Bosphorus.
Gycia.
Not for thyself;
That could not be. Deceiver!
Asan.
Nay, indeed!
Gycia.
Oh, thou dear youth!
Asan.
I weary for the day
When we our mutual love shall crown with marriage.
Gycia.
Not yet, my love, we are so happy now.
Asan.
But happier then, dear Gycia.
Gycia.
Nay, I know not
If I could bear it and live. But hark, my love!
The music ceases, and the sated guests
Will soon be sped. Thou must resume thy place
Of honour for a little. I must go,
If my reluctant feet will bear me hence,
To dream of thee the livelong night. Farewell,
Farewell till morning. All the saints of heaven
Have thee in keeping!
Asan.
Go not yet, my sweet;
And yet I bid thee go. Upon thy lips
I set love's seal, thus, thus.
[Kisses her. They embrace.
Good night!
Gycia.
Good night!
[Exit Gycia.
Enter Irene unperceived.
Asan.
Ah, sweetest, best of women! pgon
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Helen, the curse of cities and of men,
Marshalled the hosts of Greece! But she brought discord;
Thou, by thy all-compelling sweetness, peace
And harmony for strife. What have I done,
I a rough soldier, like a thousand others
Upon our widespread plains, to have won this flower
Of womanhood—this jewel for the front
Of knightly pride to wear, and, wearing it,
Let all things else go by? To think that I,
Fool that I was, only a few hours since,
Bemoaned the lot which brought me here and bade me
Leave my own land, which now sinks fathoms deep
Beyond my memory's depths, and scarce would deign
To obey thee, best of fathers, when thy wisdom
Designed to make me blest! Was ever woman
So gracious and so comely? And I scorned her
For her Greek blood and love of liberty!
Fool! purblind fool! there is no other like her;
I glory being her slave.
Irene.
I pray you, pardon me, my Lord Asander.
I seek the Lady Gycia; is she here?
Asan.
No, madam; she has gone, and with her taken
The glory of the night. But thou dost love her—
Is it not so, fair lady?
Ire.
Ay, my lord,
For we have lived together all our lives;
I could not choose but love.
Asan.
Well said indeed.
Tell me, and have I seen thy face before?
A something in it haunts me.
Ire.
Ay, my lord.
Am I forgot so soon?
Asan.
Indeed! Thy name?
Where have I seen thee?
Ire.
Where? Dost thou, then, ask?
Asan.
Ay; in good truth, my treacherous memory
Betrays me here.
Ire.
Thou mayest well forget
My name, if thou hast quite forgot its owner.
[Weeps.
I am called Irene.
Asan.
Strange! the very name
My lady did relate to me as hers
Who bears a hopeless love. Weep not, good lady;
Take comfort. Heaven is kind.
Ire.
Nay, my good lord,
What comfort? He I love loves not again,
Or not me, but another.
Asan.
Ah, poor lady!
I pity you indeed, now I have known
True recompense of love.
Ire.
Dost thou say pity?
And pity as they tell's akin to love.
What comfort is for me, my Lord Asander,
Who love one so exalted in estate
That all return of honourable love
Were hopeless, as if I should dare to raise
My eyes to Cæsar's self? What comfort have I,
If lately I have heard this man I love
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Betray a heart flung prostrate at the feet
Of another, not myself; and well I know
Not Lethe's waters can wash out remembrance
Of that o'ermastering passion—naught but death
Or hopeless depths of crime?
Asan.
Lady, I pity
Thy case, and pray thy love may meet return.
Ire.
Then wilt thou be the suppliant to thyself,
And willing love's requital, Oh, requite it!
Thou art my love, Asander—thou, none other.
There is naught I would not face, if I might win thee.
That I a woman should lay bare my soul;
Disclose the virgin secrets of my heart
To one who loves me not, and doth despise
The service I would tender!
Asan.
Cease, I pray you;
These are distempered words.
Ire.
Nay, they are true,
And come from the inner heart. Leave these strange shores
And her you love. I know her from a child.
She is too high and cold for mortal love;
Too wrapt in duty, and high thoughts of State,
Artemis and Athené fused in one,
Ever to throw her life and maiden shame
As I do at thy feet.
[Kneels.
Asan.
Rise, lady, rise;
I am not worthy such devotion.
Ire.
Take me
Over seas; I care not where. I'll be thy slave,
Thy sea-boy; follow thee, ill-housed, disguised,
Through hardship and through peril, so I see
Thy face sometimes, and hear sometimes thy voice,
For I am sick with love.
Asan.
Lady, I prithee
Forget these wild words. I were less than man
Should I remember them, or take the gift
Which 'tis not reason offers. I knew not
Thy passion nor its object, nor am free
To take it, for the vision of my soul
Has looked upon its sun, and turns no more
To any lower light.
Ire.
My Lord Asander,
She is not for thee; she cannot make thee happy,
Nor thou her. Oh, believe me! I am full
Of boding thoughts of the sure fatal day
Which shall dissolve in blood the bonds which love
To-day has plighted. If thou wilt not take me,
Then get thee gone alone. I see a fire
Which burns more fierce than love, and it consumes thee.
Fly with me, or alone, but fly.
Asan.
Irene,
Passion distracts thy brain. I pray you, seek
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And gone beyond recall.
[Exit.
Enter Theodorus unseen.
Ire.
(weeping passionately).
Disgraced! betrayed!
Rejected! All the madness of my love
Flung back upon me, as one spurns a gift
Who scorns the giver. That I love him still,
And cannot hate her who has robbed me of him!
I shall go mad with shame!
Theo.
Great Heaven! sister,
What words are these I hear? My father's daughter
Confessing to her shame!
[Irene weeps
Come, tell me, woman;
I am thy brother and protector, tell me
What mean these words?
Ire.
Nay, nay, I cannot, brother.
They mean not what they seem, indeed they do not.
Theo.
They mean not what they seem! Thou hast been long
In Bosphorus, and ofttimes at the Court
Hast seen the Prince. When he to-day comes hither,
Thou swoonest at the sight. I, seeking thee,
Find thee at night alone, he having left thee,
Lamenting for thy shame. Wouldst have me credit
Thy innocence? Speak, if thou hast a word
To balance proofs like these, or let thy silence
Condemn thee.
Ire.
(after a pause, and slowly, as if calculating consequences).
Then do I keep silence, brother,
And let thy vengeance fall.
Theo.
Oh, long-dead mother,
Who now art with the saints, shut fast thy ears
Against thy daughter's shame! These are the things
That make it pain to live: all precious gifts,
Honour, observance, virtue, flung away
For one o'ermastering passion. Why are we
Above the brute so far, if we keep still
The weakness of the brute? Go from my sight,
Thou vile, degraded wretch. For him whose craft
And wickedness has wronged thee, this I swear—
I will kill him, if I can, or he shall me.
I will call on him to draw, and make my sword
Red with a villain's blood.
Ire.
(eagerly).
Nay, nay, my brother,
That would proclaim my shame; and shouldst thou slay him,
Thou wouldst break thy lady's heart.
Theo.
Doth she so love him?
Ire.
Ay, passionately, brother.
Theo.
Oh, just Heaven!
And oh, confusèd world!
How are we fettered here! I may not kill
A villain who has done my sister wrong,
Since she I love has given her heart to him,
And hangs upon his life. I would not pain
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That wrings a childish heart, for all the world.
How, then, to kill her love, though killing him
Would rid the world of a villain, and would leave
My lady free to love? 'Twere not love's part
To pain her thus, not for the wealth and power
Of all the world heaped up. I tell thee, sister,
Thy pmour is safe—I will not seek
To do him hurt; but thou shalt go tonight
To my Bithynian castle. Haply thence,
After long penances and recluse days,
Thou mayst return, and I may bear once more
To see my sister's face.
Ire.
Farewell, my brother!
I do obey; I bide occasion, waiting
For what the years may bring.
Theo.
Repent thy sin.
| Gycia | |