Chapter 2

Medea.Thou seest, Jason, that we flee. 'Tis no new thingTo suffer exile; but the cause of flight is strange;For with thee I was wont to flee, not from thee. Yes,I go; but whither dost thou send me whom thou driv'stFrom out thy home? Shall I the Colchians seek again,My royal father's realm whose soil is steeped in bloodMy brother shed? What country dost thou bid me seek?What way by sea is open? Shall I fare againWhere once I saved the noble kings of Greece and thee,Thou wanton, through the threatening jaws of Pontus' strait,The blue Symplegades? Or shall I hie me backTo fair Thessalia's realms? Lo, all the doors which I,For thee, have opened wide, I've closed upon myself.But whither dost thou send me now? Thou bidd'st me flee,But show'st no way or means of flight.[In bitter sarcasm.] But 'tis enough:The king's own son-in-law commands, and I obey.Come, heap thy torments on me; I deserve them all.Let royal wrath oppress me, wanton that I am,With cruel hand, and load my guilty limbs with chains;And let me be immured in dungeons black as night:Still will my punishment be less than my offense.—O ingrate! Hast thou then forgot the brazen bull,And his consuming breath? the fear that smote thee, when,Upon the field of Mars, the earth-born brood stood forthTo meet thy single sword? 'Twas by my arts that they,The monsters, fell by mutual blows. Remember, too,The long-sought fleece of gold I won for thee, whose guard,The dragon huge, was lulled to rest at my command;My brother slain for thee. For thee old Pelias fell,When, taken by my guile, his daughters slew their sire,Whose life could not return. All this I did for thee.In quest of thine advantage have I quite forgotMine own.And now, by all thy fond paternal hopes,By thine established house, by all the monsters slainFor thee, by these my hands which I have ever heldTo work thy will, by all the perils past, by heaven,And sea that witnessed at my wedlock—pity me!Since thou art blessed, restore me what I lost for thee:That countless treasure plundered from the swarthy tribesOf India, which filled our goodly vaults with wealth,And decked our very trees with gold. This costly storeI left for thee, my native land, my brother, sire,My reputation—all; and with this dower I came.If now to homeless exile thou dost send me forth,Give back the countless treasures which I left for thee.

And now again we have a situation which only the quick, sharp flashes, the clash of words like steel on steel, can relieve. Here is no chance for long periods, nor flights of oratory; but sentences as short and sharp as swords, flashes of feeling, stinging epigrams.

Jason.Though Creon, in a vengeful mood, would have thy life,I moved him by my tears to grant thee flight instead.Medea.I thought my exile punishment; 'tis now, I see,A gracious boon!Jason.O flee, while still the respite holds.Provoke him not, for deadly is the wrath of kings.Medea.Not so. 'Tis for Creüsa's love thou sayest this;Thou wouldst remove the hated wanton once thy wife.Jason.Dost thou reproach me with a guilty love?Medea.Yea, that,And murder too, and treachery.Jason.But name me now,If so thou canst, the crimes that I have done.Medea.Thy crimes—Whatever I have done.Jason.Why then, in truth, thy guiltMust all be mine, if all thy crimes are mine.Medea.They are,They are all thine: for who by sin advantage gainsCommits the sin. All men proclaim thy wife defiled;Do thou thyself protect her and condone her sins.Let her be guiltless in thine eyes who for thy gainHas sinned.Jason.But gifts which sin has brought 'twere shame to take.Medea.Why keep'st thou then the gifts which it were shame to take?Jason.Nay, curb thy fiery soul! Thy children—for their sakeBe calm.Medea.My children! Them I do refuse, reject,Renounce! Shall then Creüsa brothers bear to theseMy children?Jason.But the queen can aid thy wretched sons.Medea.May that day never dawn, that day of shame and woe,When in one house are joined the low-born and the high,The sons of that foul robber Sisyphus, and theseThe sons of Phoebus.Jason.Wretched one, and wilt thou, thenInvolve me also in thy fall? Begone, I pray.Medea.The king hath yielded to my prayer.Jason.What wouldst thou then?Medea.Of thee? I'd have thee dare the law.Jason.The royal powerDoth compass me.Medea.A greater than the king is here:Medea. Set us front to front, and let us strive;And of this royal strife let Jason be the prize.Jason.Outwearied by my woes I yield. But be thou ware,Medea, lest too often thou shouldst tempt thy fate.Medea.Yet Fortune's mistress have I ever been.Jason.But seeWith hostile front Acastus comes, on vengeance bent,While Creon threatens instant death.Medea.Then flee them both.I ask thee not to draw thy sword against the king,Nor yet to stain thy pious hands with kindred blood.Come, flee with me.Jason.But what resistance can we make,If war with double visage rear his horrid front,—If Creon and Acastus join in common cause?Medea.Add, too, the Colchian armies with my father's selfTo lead them; join the Scythian and Pelasgian hordes.In one deep grief of ruin will I whelm them all.Jason.Yet on the scepter do I look with fear.Medea.Beware,Lest not the fear, but lust of power prevail with thee.Jason.Too long we strive: have done, lest we suspicion breed.Medea.Now Jove, throughout thy heavens let the thunders roll!Thy mighty arm make bare! Thy darting flamesOf vengeance loose, and shake the lofty firmamentWith rending storms! At random hurl thy vengeful bolts,Selecting neither me nor Jason with thy aim,That thus whoever falls may perish with the brandOf guilt upon him. For thy hurtling darts can takeNo erring flight.Jason.Recall thee and in calmness speakWith words of peace and reason. Then if any giftFrom Creon's royal house can compensate thy woes,Take that as solace of thy flight.Medea.My soul doth scornThe wealth of kings. But let me have my little onesAs comrades of my flight, that in their childish breastsTheir mother's tears may flow. New sons await thy home.Jason.My heart inclines to yield to thee, but love forbids.For these my sons shall never from my arms be reft,Though Creon's self demand. My very spring of life,My sore heart's comfort and my joy are these my sons;And sooner could I part with limbs or vital breath,Or light of life.Medea.[Aside.] Doth he thus love his sons? 'Tis well;Then is he bound, and in his armored strength this flawReveals the place to strike.

Jason.Though Creon, in a vengeful mood, would have thy life,I moved him by my tears to grant thee flight instead.

Medea.I thought my exile punishment; 'tis now, I see,A gracious boon!

Jason.O flee, while still the respite holds.Provoke him not, for deadly is the wrath of kings.

Medea.Not so. 'Tis for Creüsa's love thou sayest this;Thou wouldst remove the hated wanton once thy wife.

Jason.Dost thou reproach me with a guilty love?

Medea.Yea, that,And murder too, and treachery.

Jason.But name me now,If so thou canst, the crimes that I have done.

Medea.Thy crimes—Whatever I have done.

Jason.Why then, in truth, thy guiltMust all be mine, if all thy crimes are mine.

Medea.They are,They are all thine: for who by sin advantage gainsCommits the sin. All men proclaim thy wife defiled;Do thou thyself protect her and condone her sins.Let her be guiltless in thine eyes who for thy gainHas sinned.

Jason.But gifts which sin has brought 'twere shame to take.

Medea.Why keep'st thou then the gifts which it were shame to take?

Jason.Nay, curb thy fiery soul! Thy children—for their sakeBe calm.

Medea.My children! Them I do refuse, reject,Renounce! Shall then Creüsa brothers bear to theseMy children?

Jason.But the queen can aid thy wretched sons.

Medea.May that day never dawn, that day of shame and woe,When in one house are joined the low-born and the high,The sons of that foul robber Sisyphus, and theseThe sons of Phoebus.

Jason.Wretched one, and wilt thou, thenInvolve me also in thy fall? Begone, I pray.

Medea.The king hath yielded to my prayer.

Jason.What wouldst thou then?

Medea.Of thee? I'd have thee dare the law.

Jason.The royal powerDoth compass me.

Medea.A greater than the king is here:Medea. Set us front to front, and let us strive;And of this royal strife let Jason be the prize.

Jason.Outwearied by my woes I yield. But be thou ware,Medea, lest too often thou shouldst tempt thy fate.

Medea.Yet Fortune's mistress have I ever been.

Jason.But seeWith hostile front Acastus comes, on vengeance bent,While Creon threatens instant death.

Medea.Then flee them both.I ask thee not to draw thy sword against the king,Nor yet to stain thy pious hands with kindred blood.Come, flee with me.

Jason.But what resistance can we make,If war with double visage rear his horrid front,—If Creon and Acastus join in common cause?

Medea.Add, too, the Colchian armies with my father's selfTo lead them; join the Scythian and Pelasgian hordes.In one deep grief of ruin will I whelm them all.

Jason.Yet on the scepter do I look with fear.

Medea.Beware,Lest not the fear, but lust of power prevail with thee.

Jason.Too long we strive: have done, lest we suspicion breed.

Medea.Now Jove, throughout thy heavens let the thunders roll!Thy mighty arm make bare! Thy darting flamesOf vengeance loose, and shake the lofty firmamentWith rending storms! At random hurl thy vengeful bolts,Selecting neither me nor Jason with thy aim,That thus whoever falls may perish with the brandOf guilt upon him. For thy hurtling darts can takeNo erring flight.

Jason.Recall thee and in calmness speakWith words of peace and reason. Then if any giftFrom Creon's royal house can compensate thy woes,Take that as solace of thy flight.

Medea.My soul doth scornThe wealth of kings. But let me have my little onesAs comrades of my flight, that in their childish breastsTheir mother's tears may flow. New sons await thy home.

Jason.My heart inclines to yield to thee, but love forbids.For these my sons shall never from my arms be reft,Though Creon's self demand. My very spring of life,My sore heart's comfort and my joy are these my sons;And sooner could I part with limbs or vital breath,Or light of life.

Medea.[Aside.] Doth he thus love his sons? 'Tis well;Then is he bound, and in his armored strength this flawReveals the place to strike.

Here, apparently, is the first suggestion to Medea of the most terrible part of the revenge which she was to take upon Jason. The obvious revenge upon Creon and his daughter, as well as upon her husband, Medea had already foreshadowed in her opening words; but her deadly passion had not yet been aimed at her children. It is true that twice she had bitterly renounced them, once to the nurse, and again but now to Jason himself, since they were Jason's also, and were likely now to be brothers to the sons of her hated rival; nevertheless her mother-love still is strong. But now, by Jason's unfortunate emphasis upon the love he bears his sons, she sees a chance to obtain that measure of revenge which in her heart she has already resolved to find. And yet this thought is so terrible to her that, even though we see her shape her present course in reference to it, it is evident that she gives it no more than a subconscious existence.

But now she resolves to conceal her purposes of revenge and overcome Jason with guile, and thus addresses him:

At least ere I departGrant me this last request: let me once more embraceMy sons. E'en that small boon will comfort my sad heart.And this my latest prayer to thee: if, in my grief,My tongue was over-bold, let not my words remainTo rankle in thy heart. Remember happier thingsOf me, and let my bitter words be straight forgot.

Jason is completely deceived, as Creon had been, by Medea's seeming humility, as if, indeed, a passionate nature like hers, inflamed by wrongs like hers, could be restrained and tamed by a few calm words of advice! He says: advice! He says:

Not one shall linger in my soul; and curb, I pray,Thy too impetuous heart, and gently yield to fate.For resignation ever soothes the woful soul.

[Exit Jason.

As Jason leaves her, calmly satisfied with this disposition of affairs, with no recognition of his wife's great sufferings, the thought of this adds fresh fuel to her passion.

He's gone! And can it be? And shall he thus depart,Forgetting me and all my service? Must I drop,Like some discarded toy, out of his faithless heart?It shall not be. Up then, and summon all thy strengthAnd all thy skill! And this, the fruit of former crime,Count nothing criminal that works thy will!But lo,We're hedged about; scant room is left for our designs.Now must the attack be made where least suspicion makesThe least resistance. Now Medea, on! And do,And dare thine utmost, yea, beyond thy utmost power![To the Nurse.] Do thou, my faithful nurse, the comradeof my grief,And all the devious wanderings of my checkered course,Assist me now in these my plans. There is a robe,The glory of our Colchian realm, the precious giftOf Phoebus' self to King Æëtes as a proofOf fatherhood; a gleaming circlet, too, all wroughtWith threads of gold, the yellow gold bespangled o'erWith gems, a fitting crown to deck a princess' head.These treasures let Medea's children bear as giftsTo Jason's bride. But first imbue them with the powerOf magic, and invoke the aid of Hecate;The woe-producing sacrifices then prepare,And let the sacred flames through all our courts resound.

The chorus, which is supposed to be present throughout the play, an interested though inactive witness of all that passes, has already been seen to be a partisan of Jason, and hostile to Medea. It now sings a choral interlude opening on the text "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," and continuing with a prayer for Jason's safety. It then recounts the individual history of Jason's companions subsequent to the Argonautic expedition, showing how almost all came to an untimely end. These might indeed be said to have deserved their fate, for they volunteered to assist in that first impious voyage in quest of the golden fleece; but Jason should be spared the general doom, for the task had been imposed upon him by his usurping uncle, Pelias.

As the next scene opens, the old nurse voices the feeling that we all have upon the eve of some expected but unknown horror.

My spirit trembles, for I feel the near approachOf some unseen disaster. Swiftly grows her grief,Its own fires kindling; and again her passion's forceHath leaped to life. I oft have seen her, with the fitOf inspiration in her soul, confront the gods,And force the very heavens to her will. But now,A monstrous deed of greater moment far than theseMedea is preparing. For, but now, did sheWith step of frenzy hurry off until she reachedHer stricken home. There, in her chamber, all her storesOf magic wonders are revealed; once more she viewsThe things herself hath held in fear these many years,Unloosing one by one her ministers of ill,Occult, unspeakable, and wrapt in mystery.

We omit the remainder of the nurse's speech out of regard for Seneca's reputation as an artist, for in a long passage of sixty lines he proceeds to scour heaven, earth, and the waters under the earth, for every form of venomous serpent, noxious herb, and dread, uncanny thing that the mind of man can conceive; and by the time he has his full array of horrors marshaled before us, we have grown so familiar with the gruesome things that we cease to shiver at them. But at last the ingredients for the hell-broth are ready.

These deadly, potent herbs she takes and sprinkles o'erWith serpent venom, mixing all; and in the brothShe mingles unclean birds, a wailing screech-owl's heart,A ghastly vampire's vitals torn from living flesh.Her magic poisons all she ranges for her use:The ravening power of hidden fire is held in these,While deep in others lurks the numbing chill of frost.Now magic runes she adds, more potent far.But lo!Her voice resounds, and as with maddened step she comesShe chants her charms, while heaven and earth convulsiverock.

Medea now enters, chanting her incantations. Madness has done fearful work with her in the last few hours. We see at a glance that she has indeed, as the nurse has told us, gone back to

The things herself hath held in fear these many years,

and has been changed from a true wife and loving mother to a wild and murderous witch once more. She calls upon the gods of the underworld, the silent throng from the dark world of spirits, the tormented shades, all to come to her present aid. She recounts her miraculous powers over nature which she has used aforetime, and which are still in her grasp.

Thou radiant moon,Night's glorious orb, my supplications hear and comeTo aid; put on thy sternest guise, thou goddess dreadOf triple form! Full oft have I with flowing locks,And feet unsandaled, wandered through thy darkling groves,And by thy inspiration summoned forth the rainFrom cloudless skies; the heaving seas have I subdued,And sent the vanquished waves to ocean's lowest depths.At my command the sun and stars together shine,The heavenly law reversed; while in the Arctic SeaThe Bears have plunged. The seasons, too, obey my will:I've made the burning summer blossom as the spring,And hoary winter autumn's golden harvests bear.The Phasis sends his swirling waves to seek their source;And Ister, flowing to the sea with many mouths,His eager water checks and sluggish rolls along.The billows roar, the mad sea rages, though the windsAll silent lie. At my command primeval grovesHave lost their leafy shade, and Phoebus, wrapped in gloom,Has stood in middle heaven; while falling HyadesAttest my charms.

Here again Seneca's love for the curious runs counter to his art; for he represents Medea as possessed of a veritable museum of curious charms which she has in some occult way gathered from various mythological and traditionary sources, and which she now takes occasion to recount. And it is to this catalogue that we are compelled to listen, though we are waiting in breathless suspense to know what is to come of all this preparation!

After these and much more somewhat confused ravings, Medea at last says to her attendants:

Take now Creüsa's bridal robe, and steep in theseMy potent drugs; and when she dons the clinging folds,Let subtle flames go stealing through her inmost heart.

We are told that these magic flames are compounded of some of that fire which Prometheus stole from heaven; certain sulphurous fire which Vulcan had given her; a flame gained from the daring young Phaëthon, who had himself perished in flames because of his overweening folly; the fiery Chimera's breath, and some of "that fierce heat that parched the brazen bull of Colchis." The imagination flags before such an array of fires. The mystery of the burning robe and crown is no longer mysterious. Truly, he doth explain too much.

But now, in more hurried strain, we hasten on the dénouement.

Now, O Hecate,Give added force to these my deadly gifts,And strictly guard the hidden seeds of flame;Let them escape detection of the eye,But spring to instant life at human touch.Let burning streams run through her veins;In fervent heat consume her bones,And let her blazing locks outshineHer marriage torches!—Lo, my prayerIs heard: thrice have replied the hounds,The baying hounds of Hecate.Now all is ready: hither callMy sons, and let them bear the giftsAs costly presents to the bride. [Enter sons.]Go, go, my sons, of hapless mother born,And win with gifts and many prayersThe favor of the queen!Begone, but quick your way retrace,That I may fold you in a last embrace.[Exit sons toward the palace, Medea in theopposite direction.]

[Exit sons toward the palace, Medea in theopposite direction.]

The chorus, which but dimly comprehends Medea's plans, briefly voices its dread of her unbridled passion. It knows that she has one day only before her banishment from Corinth, and prays that this day may soon be over.

And now, as the chorus and the old nurse wait in trembling suspense for what is to follow, a messenger comes running breathless from the direction of the royal palace. All ears are strained to hear his words, for his face and manner betoken evil tidings. He gasps out his message:

Lo, all is lost! The kingdom totters from its base!The daughter and the father lie in common dust!Chorus.By what snare taken?Messenger.By gifts, the common snare of kings.Chorus.What harm could lurk in them?Messenger.In equal doubt I stand;And, though my eyes proclaim the dreadful deed is done,I scarce can trust their witness.Chorus.What the mode of death?Messenger.Devouring flames consume the palace at the willOf her who sent them; there complete destruction reigns,While men do tremble for the very city's doom.Chorus.Let water quench the fire.Messenger.Nay, here is added wonder:The copious streams of waterfeedthe deadly flames;And opposition only fans their fiery rageTo whiter heat. The very bulwarks feel their power.

Lo, all is lost! The kingdom totters from its base!The daughter and the father lie in common dust!

Chorus.By what snare taken?

Messenger.By gifts, the common snare of kings.

Chorus.What harm could lurk in them?

Messenger.In equal doubt I stand;And, though my eyes proclaim the dreadful deed is done,I scarce can trust their witness.

Chorus.What the mode of death?

Messenger.Devouring flames consume the palace at the willOf her who sent them; there complete destruction reigns,While men do tremble for the very city's doom.

Chorus.Let water quench the fire.

Messenger.Nay, here is added wonder:The copious streams of waterfeedthe deadly flames;And opposition only fans their fiery rageTo whiter heat. The very bulwarks feel their power.

Medea has entered meanwhile, and has heard enough to be assured that her magic has been successful. The nurse, seeing her, and fearing for her mistress, exclaims:

O haste thee, leave this land of Greece in headlongflight!Medea.Thou bidst me speed my flight? Nay, rather, had I fled,I should return for this. Strange bridal rites I see!

O haste thee, leave this land of Greece in headlongflight!

Medea.Thou bidst me speed my flight? Nay, rather, had I fled,I should return for this. Strange bridal rites I see!

But now, forgetful of all around her, she becomes absorbed in her own meditations. And here follows a masterful description of the struggle of conflicting passions in a human soul. The contending forces are mother-love and the passionate hate of an outraged wife. And when the mother-love is at last vanquished, we may be sure that all the woman is dead in her, and she becomes what the closing scene of the play portrays—an incarnate fury.

Medea.Why dost thou falter, O my soul? 'Tis well begun;But still how small a portion of thy just revengeIs that which gives thee present joy? Not yet has loveBeen banished from thy maddened heart if 'tis enoughThat Jason widowed be. Pursue thy vengeful questTo acts as yet unknown, and steel thyself for these.Away with every thought and fear of God and man;Too lightly falls the rod that pious hands upbear.Give passion fullest sway; exhaust thy ancient powers;And let the worst thou yet hast done be innocentBeside thy present deeds. Come, let them know how slightWere those thy crimes already done; mere training theyFor greater deeds. For what could hands untrained in crimeAccomplish? Or what mattered maiden rage? But now,I am Medea; in the bitter school of woeMy powers have ripened.

This mood culminates in an ecstasy of madness as she dwells upon her former successful deeds of blood.

O the bliss of memory!My infant brother slain, his limbs asunder rent,My royal father spoiled of his ancestral realm,And Pelias' guiltless daughters lured to slay their sire!But here I must not rest; no untrained hand I bringTo execute my deeds.But now, by what approach,Or by what weapon wilt thou threat the treacherous foe?Deep hidden in my secret heart have I conceivedA purpose which I dare not utter. O I fearThat in my foolish madness I have gone too far.—I would that children had been born to him of thisMy hated rival. Still, since she hath gained his heart,His children too are hers.—That punishment would be most fitting and deserved.Yes, now I see the final deed of crime, and thou,My soul, must face it. You, who once were called my sons,Must pay the penalty of these your father's crimes.—My heart with horror melts, a numbing chill pervadesMy limbs, and all my soul is filled with sinking fear.Now wrath gives place, and, heedless of my husband's sins,The tender mother-instinct quite possesses me.And could I shed my helpless children's blood? Not so,O say not so, my maddened heart! Far from my handAnd thought be that unnamable and hideous deed!What sin have they that shedding of their wretched bloodWould wash away?Their sin—that Jason is their sire,And, deeper guilt, that I have borne them. Let them die;They are not mine.—Nay, nay, they are my own, my sons,And with no spot of guilt.—Full innocent they are,'Tis true: my brother too was innocent. O soul,Why dost thou hesitate? Why flow these streaming tearsWhile with contending thoughts my wavering heart is torn?And waves, to stormy waves opposed, the sea invade,And to their lowest sands the briny waters boil:With such a storm my heart is tossed. Hate conquers love,And love puts impious hate to flight. O yield thee, grief,To love! Then come, my sons, sole comfort of my heart,Come cling within thy mother's close embrace. UnharmedYour sire may keep you, while your mother holds you too.

But she remembers, even as she embraces her children, that this is her last embrace.

But flight and exile drive me forth! And even nowMy children must be torn away with tears and cries.—Then let them die to Jason since they're lost to me.Once more has hate resumed her sway, and passion's fireIs hot within my soul. Now fury, as of yore,Reseeks her own. Lead on, I follow to the end!I would that I had borne twice seven sons, the boastOf Niobe! But all too barren have I been.Still will my two sufficient be to satisfyMy brother and my sire.

She suddenly falls distraught, as one who sees a dreadful vision.

But whither hastes that throngOf furies? What their quest? What mean their brandishedfires?Whom threats this hellish host with horrid, bloody brands?I hear the writhing lash of serpents huge resound.Whom seeks Magæra with her deadly torch?—Whose shadeComes gibbering there with scattered limbs?—It is mybrother!Revenge he seeks; and we will grant his quest. Then come,Within my heart plunge all your torches—rend me—burn!For lo, my bosom open to your fury's stroke.O brother, bid those vengeful goddesses departAnd go in peace down to the lowest shades of Hell.And do thou leave me to myself, and let this handThat slew thee with the sword now offer sacrificeUnto thy shade.

Roused to the point of action by this vision, and still at the very pitch of frenzy, she plunges her dagger into the first of her sons. (The poet thus violates the canons of the classical drama in representing deeds of blood upon the stage.)

But now hoarse shouts and the quick tramping of many feet are heard; and well does Medea know their meaning.

What sudden uproar meets my ear?'Tis Corinth's citizens on my destruction bent.Unto the palace roof I'll mount, and there completeThis bloody sacrifice.[To her other son.] Do thou come hence with me;But thee, poor senseless corse, within mine arms I'll bear.Now gird thyself, my heart, with strength. Nor must thisdeedLose all its just renown because in secret done;But to the public eye my hand must be approved.

Medea disappears within, leading one son, terrified and reluctant, and bearing the body of her other child in her arms. Jason and a crowd of Corinthian citizens rush upon the stage. Stopping in front of his own palace, he shouts:

Ho, all ye loyal sons who mourn the death of kings!Come, let us seize the worker of this hideous crime.Now ply your arms and raze her palace to the ground.

At this moment, though as yet unseen by those below, Medea emerges upon the palace roof.

Medea.Now, now have I regained my regal power, my sire,My brother! Once again the Colchians hold the spoilOf precious gold, and by the magic of this hourI am a maid once more! O heavenly powers appeasedAt length! O festal hour! O nuptial day! On! on!Accomplished is the guilt, but not the recompense.Complete the task while yet thy hands are strong to act.Why dost thou linger still? Why dost thou hesitateUpon the threshold of the deed? Thou canst perform it.Now wrath has died within me, and my soul is filledWith shame and deep remorse. Ah me, what have I done,Wretch that I am? Wretch that thou art, well mayest thoumourn,For thou hast done it!—At that thought delirious joyO'ermasters me and fills my heart which fain would grieve.And yet, methinks, the act was almost meaningless,Since Jason saw it not; for naught has been performedIf to his grief be added not the woe of sight.Jason.[discovering her.] Lo, there she stands upon thelofty battlements!Bring torches! Fire the house! That she may fall ensnaredBy those devices she herself hath planned.Medea.[derisively.] Not so;But rather build a lofty pyre for these thy sons;Their funeral rites prepare. Already for thy brideAnd father have I done the service due the dead;For in their ruined palace have I buried them.One son of thine has met his doom; and this shall dieBefore his father's face.—Jason.By all the gods, and by the perils of our flight,And by our marriage bond which I have ne'er betrayed,I pray thee spare the boy, for he is innocent.If aught of sin there be, 'tis mine. Myself I giveTo be the victim. Take my guilty soul for his.Medea.'Tis for thy prayers and tears I draw, not sheathe thesword.Go now, and take thee maids for wives, thou faithless one;Abandon and betray the mother of thy sons.Jason.And yet, I pray thee, let one sacrifice atone.Medea.If in the blood of one my passion could be quenched,No vengeance had it sought. Though both my sons I slay,The number still is all too small to satisfyMy boundless grief.Jason.Then finish what thou hast begun—I ask no more—and grant at least that no delayProlong my helpless agony.Medea.Now hasten not,Relentless passion, but enjoy a slow revenge.This day is in thy hands; its fertile hours employ.Jason.O take my life, thou heartless one.Medea.Thou bidst me pity—Well—[She slays the second child]—'Tis done!No more atonement, passion, can I offer thee.Now hither lift thy tearful eyes, ungrateful one.Dost recognize thy wife? 'Twas thus of old I fled.The heavens themselves provide me with a safe retreat.Twin serpents bow their heads submissive to the yoke.

Jason.[discovering her.] Lo, there she stands upon thelofty battlements!Bring torches! Fire the house! That she may fall ensnaredBy those devices she herself hath planned.

Medea.[derisively.] Not so;But rather build a lofty pyre for these thy sons;Their funeral rites prepare. Already for thy brideAnd father have I done the service due the dead;For in their ruined palace have I buried them.One son of thine has met his doom; and this shall dieBefore his father's face.—

Jason.By all the gods, and by the perils of our flight,And by our marriage bond which I have ne'er betrayed,I pray thee spare the boy, for he is innocent.If aught of sin there be, 'tis mine. Myself I giveTo be the victim. Take my guilty soul for his.

Medea.'Tis for thy prayers and tears I draw, not sheathe thesword.Go now, and take thee maids for wives, thou faithless one;Abandon and betray the mother of thy sons.

Jason.And yet, I pray thee, let one sacrifice atone.

Medea.If in the blood of one my passion could be quenched,No vengeance had it sought. Though both my sons I slay,The number still is all too small to satisfyMy boundless grief.

Jason.Then finish what thou hast begun—I ask no more—and grant at least that no delayProlong my helpless agony.

Medea.Now hasten not,Relentless passion, but enjoy a slow revenge.This day is in thy hands; its fertile hours employ.

Jason.O take my life, thou heartless one.

Medea.Thou bidst me pity—Well—[She slays the second child]—'Tis done!No more atonement, passion, can I offer thee.Now hither lift thy tearful eyes, ungrateful one.Dost recognize thy wife? 'Twas thus of old I fled.The heavens themselves provide me with a safe retreat.Twin serpents bow their heads submissive to the yoke.

For there suddenly appears in the air a chariot drawn by dragons.

Now, father, take thy sons; while I, upon my car,With winged speed am borne aloft through realms of air.Jason.[calling after as she vanishes].Speed on through realms of air that mortals never see:But heaven bear witness, whither thou art gone, no godscan be.

Now, father, take thy sons; while I, upon my car,With winged speed am borne aloft through realms of air.

Jason.[calling after as she vanishes].Speed on through realms of air that mortals never see:But heaven bear witness, whither thou art gone, no godscan be.

We have already said that the natural mimicry of the Italian peasantry no doubt for ages indulged itself in uncouth performances of a dramatic nature, which developed later into those mimes and farces, the forerunners of Roman comedy and the old Medley-Satura. We have also shown how powerfully Rome came under the influence of Greek literature and Greek art; and how the first actual invasion of Rome by Greek literature was made under Livius Andronicus, who, in 240 B. C., produced the first play before a Roman audience translated from the Greek into the Roman tongue. What the history of native comedy would have been, had it been allowed to develop entirely apart from Greek influence, we shall never know, since it did come powerfully under this influence, and retained permanently the form and character which it then acquired.

When Rome turned to Greece for comedy, there were three models from which to choose: the Old Athenian Comedy of Eupolis, Cratinus, and Aristophanes, full of criticism boldly aimed at public men and policies, breathing the most independent republican spirit; the Middle Comedy, which was still critical, directed, however, more at classes of men and schools of thought than at individuals; and New Comedy, the product of the political decadence of Greece, written during a period (340-260 B. C.) when the independence which had made the trenchant satire of the Old Comedy possible had gone out of Greece. These plays aimed at amusement and not at reform. Every vestige of politics was squeezed out of them, and they were merely society plays, supposed to reflect the amusing and entertaining incidents of the social life of Athens. The best known writers of New Comedy were Philemon, Apollodorus, and Menander, only fragments of whose works have come down to us.

Which of these models did the Romans follow? There is some evidence in the fragments of the plays of Nævius, a younger contemporary of Andronicus, and who produced his first play in 235 B. C., that he wrote in the bold spirit of the Old Comedy, and criticized the party policies and leaders of his time. But he soon discovered that the stern Roman character was quite incapable of appreciating a joke, especially when its point was directed against that ineffably sacred thing, the Roman dignity. For presuming to voice his criticisms from the stage the poet was imprisoned and afterward banished from Rome.

Perhaps warned by the experience of Nævius, Roman comic poets turned to the perfectly colorless and safe society plays of the New Comedy for translation and imitation. They not only kept within the limitations of these plays as to spirit and plot, but even confined the scene itself and characters to some foreign city, generally Athens, and for the most part were careful to exclude everything Roman or suggestive of Rome from their plays.

Judging from the remaining fragments, there must have been many writers of comedy during this period of first impulse; but of all these, the works of only two are preserved to us. These are Titus Maccius Plautus, who died in 184 B. C., and Publius Terentius Afer, commonly known as Terence, who was born in 195 B. C., and died in 159 B. C. These two writers have much in common, but there are also many important points of difference. Plautus displays a rougher, more vigorous strength and a broader humor; and, within the necessary limitations of which we have spoken, he is more national in his spirit, more popular in his appeal. Terence, on the other hand, no doubt because he was privileged to associate with the select and literary circle of which Scipio and Lælius were the center, was more polished and correct in style and diction. But while he thus gains in elegance as compared with Plautus, he loses the breezy vigor of the older poet.

As an illustration of the society play of the New Comedy, we are giving with some abridgment thePhormioof Terence, which we have taken the liberty of translating into somewhat free modern vernacular. This is perhaps the best of the six plays of Terence which we have, and was modeled by him after a Greek play of Apollodorus. It is namedPhormiofrom the saucy parasite who takes the principal rôle. The other characters are two older men, brothers, Demipho and Chremes; two young men, sons of these, Antipho and Phædria; a smart slave, Geta; a villainous slave-driver, Dorio; Nausistrata, wife of Chremes, and Sophrona, an old nurse. The scene, which does not change throughout the play, is laid in Athens. As for the plot, it will develop itself as we read.

A shock-headed slave comes lounging in from the direction of the Forum and stops in front of Demipho's house. He carries in his hand a purse of money which, it appears, he has brought in payment of a debt:

Friend Geta paid me a call yesterday; I've been owing him a beggarly balance on a little account some time back, and he wanted me to pay it. So I've got it here. It seems that his young master has gone and got married; and this money, I'm thinking, is being scraped together as a present for the bride. Things have come to a pretty pass, to be sure, when the poor must all the time be handing over to the rich. What my poor gossip has saved up out of his allowance, a penny at a time, almost starving himself to do it, this precious bride will gobble up at one fell swoop, little thinking how hard Geta had to work to get it. Pretty soon he will be struck for another present when a child is born; for another when its birthday comes around, and so on, and so on. The mother will get it all; the child will be only an excuse. But here comes Geta himself.

The private marriage of the young man Antipho, mentioned in this slave's soliloquy, is one of the important issues of the play. The real situation is revealed in the following conversation between the two slaves. After the payment of the money and an interchange of civilities, says the friend:

Davus.But what's the matter with you?Geta.Me? Oh, you don't know in what a fix we are.Da.How's that?Ge.Well, I'll tell you if you won't say anything about it.Da.O, come off, you dunce, you have just trusted money with me; are you afraid to lend me words? Besides, what good would it do me to give you away?Ge.Well, listen then. You know our old man's brother Chremes?Da.Well, I should say.Ge.And his son Phædria?Da.As well as I do you.Ge.Both the old men went away, Chremes to Lemnos, and his brother to Cilicia, and left me here to take care of their two sons. My guardian spirit must have had it in for me. At first I began to oppose the boys; but there—my faithfulness to the old men I paid for with my bones. Then I just gave it up and let them do as they pleased. At first, my young master Antipho was all right; but his cousin Phædria lost no time in getting into trouble. He fell in love with a little lute-player—desperately in love. She was a slave, and owned by a most villainous fellow. Phædria had no money to buy her freedom with—his father had looked out for that; so the poor boy could only feast his eyes upon her, tag her around and walk back and forth to school with her. Antipho and I had nothing else to do, so we watched Phædria. Well, one day when we were all sitting in the barber-shop across the street from the little slave-girl's schoolhouse, a fellow came in crying like a baby. When we asked him what the trouble was, he said: "Poverty never seemed to me so dreadful before. Just now I saw a poor girl here in the neighborhood crying over her dead mother. And there wasn't a single soul around, not an acquaintance or a relative or any one at all to help at the funeral, except one little old woman, her nurse. I did feel sorry for the girl. She was a beauty, too." Well, he stirred us all up. Then Antipho speaks up and says: "Let's go and see her; you lead the way." So we went and saw her. Shewasa beauty. And she wasn't fixed up a bit either: her hair was all hanging loose, she was bare-footed, unkempt, eyes red with weeping, dress travel-stained. So she must have been an all-round beauty, or she couldn't have seemed so then. Phædria says: "She'll do pretty well." But Antipho—Da.O yes, I know, he fell in love with her.Ge.But do you know how much? Wait and see how it came out. Next day he went straight to the nurse and begged her to let him see the girl; but the old woman wouldn't allow it. She said he wasn't acting on the square; that the girl was a well-born citizen of Athens, and that if he wanted to marry her he might do so in the legal way. If he had any other object it was no use. Our young man didn't know what to do. He wanted to marry her fast enough, but he was afraid of his absent father.Da.Why, wouldn't his father have forgiven him when he came back?Ge.What, he allow his son to marry a poor girl that nobody knew anything about? Not much!Da.Well, what came next?Ge.What next? There is a certain parasite named Phormio, a bold fellow—curse his impudence!Da.What did he do?Ge.He gave this precious piece of advice. Says he: "There is a law in Athens that orphan girls shall marry their next of kin, and the same law requires the next of kin to marry them. Now I'll say that you are related to this girl, and will bring suit against you to compel you to marry her. I'll pretend that I am her guardian. We'll go before the judges; who her father was, who her mother, how she is related to you—all this I'll make up on the spur of the moment. You won't attempt any defense and of course I shall win the suit. I'll be in for a row when your father gets back, but what of that? You will be safely married to the girl by that time."Da.Well, thatwasa jolly bluff.Ge.So the youth was persuaded, the thing was done, they went to court, our side lost the suit, and Antipho married the girl.Da.What's that?Ge.Just what I say.Da.O Geta, what will become of you?Ge.I'll be blessed if I know. I'm sure of one thing, though: whatever happens, I'll bear it with equanimity.Da.That's the talk! You've got the spirit of a man! But what about the pedagogue, the little lute-player's young man? How is he getting on?Ge.Only so so.Da.He hasn't much to pay for her, I suppose?Ge.Not a red; only his hopes.Da.Has Antipho's father come back yet?Ge.No.Da.When do you expect him?Ge.I'm not sure, but I have just heard that a letter has been received from him down at the custom-house, and I'm going for it now.Da.Well, Geta, can I do anything more for you?Ge.No. Be good to yourself. Good-by.

Davus.But what's the matter with you?

Geta.Me? Oh, you don't know in what a fix we are.

Da.How's that?Ge.Well, I'll tell you if you won't say anything about it.Da.O, come off, you dunce, you have just trusted money with me; are you afraid to lend me words? Besides, what good would it do me to give you away?Ge.Well, listen then. You know our old man's brother Chremes?Da.Well, I should say.Ge.And his son Phædria?Da.As well as I do you.Ge.Both the old men went away, Chremes to Lemnos, and his brother to Cilicia, and left me here to take care of their two sons. My guardian spirit must have had it in for me. At first I began to oppose the boys; but there—my faithfulness to the old men I paid for with my bones. Then I just gave it up and let them do as they pleased. At first, my young master Antipho was all right; but his cousin Phædria lost no time in getting into trouble. He fell in love with a little lute-player—desperately in love. She was a slave, and owned by a most villainous fellow. Phædria had no money to buy her freedom with—his father had looked out for that; so the poor boy could only feast his eyes upon her, tag her around and walk back and forth to school with her. Antipho and I had nothing else to do, so we watched Phædria. Well, one day when we were all sitting in the barber-shop across the street from the little slave-girl's schoolhouse, a fellow came in crying like a baby. When we asked him what the trouble was, he said: "Poverty never seemed to me so dreadful before. Just now I saw a poor girl here in the neighborhood crying over her dead mother. And there wasn't a single soul around, not an acquaintance or a relative or any one at all to help at the funeral, except one little old woman, her nurse. I did feel sorry for the girl. She was a beauty, too." Well, he stirred us all up. Then Antipho speaks up and says: "Let's go and see her; you lead the way." So we went and saw her. Shewasa beauty. And she wasn't fixed up a bit either: her hair was all hanging loose, she was bare-footed, unkempt, eyes red with weeping, dress travel-stained. So she must have been an all-round beauty, or she couldn't have seemed so then. Phædria says: "She'll do pretty well." But Antipho—Da.O yes, I know, he fell in love with her.Ge.But do you know how much? Wait and see how it came out. Next day he went straight to the nurse and begged her to let him see the girl; but the old woman wouldn't allow it. She said he wasn't acting on the square; that the girl was a well-born citizen of Athens, and that if he wanted to marry her he might do so in the legal way. If he had any other object it was no use. Our young man didn't know what to do. He wanted to marry her fast enough, but he was afraid of his absent father.Da.Why, wouldn't his father have forgiven him when he came back?Ge.What, he allow his son to marry a poor girl that nobody knew anything about? Not much!Da.Well, what came next?Ge.What next? There is a certain parasite named Phormio, a bold fellow—curse his impudence!Da.What did he do?Ge.He gave this precious piece of advice. Says he: "There is a law in Athens that orphan girls shall marry their next of kin, and the same law requires the next of kin to marry them. Now I'll say that you are related to this girl, and will bring suit against you to compel you to marry her. I'll pretend that I am her guardian. We'll go before the judges; who her father was, who her mother, how she is related to you—all this I'll make up on the spur of the moment. You won't attempt any defense and of course I shall win the suit. I'll be in for a row when your father gets back, but what of that? You will be safely married to the girl by that time."Da.Well, thatwasa jolly bluff.Ge.So the youth was persuaded, the thing was done, they went to court, our side lost the suit, and Antipho married the girl.Da.What's that?Ge.Just what I say.Da.O Geta, what will become of you?Ge.I'll be blessed if I know. I'm sure of one thing, though: whatever happens, I'll bear it with equanimity.Da.That's the talk! You've got the spirit of a man! But what about the pedagogue, the little lute-player's young man? How is he getting on?Ge.Only so so.Da.He hasn't much to pay for her, I suppose?Ge.Not a red; only his hopes.Da.Has Antipho's father come back yet?Ge.No.Da.When do you expect him?Ge.I'm not sure, but I have just heard that a letter has been received from him down at the custom-house, and I'm going for it now.Da.Well, Geta, can I do anything more for you?Ge.No. Be good to yourself. Good-by.

We see from the foregoing conversation what the situation is at the opening of the play, and can guess at the problems to be solved by the development of the action: How shall Phædria obtain the money with which to buy his sweetheart? and how shall Antipho's father be reconciled to the marriage so that he may not annul it or disown both the young people upon his return?

The two cousins Antipho and Phædria now appear, each envying the seemingly happy lot of the other, and deploring his own. Antipho has already repented of his hasty action, and is panic-stricken when he thinks of the wrath of his father. While Phædria can think only of his friend's good fortune in being married to the girl of his heart. Geta's sudden appearance from the direction of the harbor strikes terror into Antipho, and both the cousins retire to the back of the stage. The slave is evidently much disturbed, though the young men can catch only a word now and then.

Desirous, yet fearful of knowing the worst, Antipho now calls out to his slave, who turns and comes up to him.

Antipho.Come, give us your news, for goodness' sake, and be quick.Ge.All right, I will.Ant.Well, out with it, then.Ge.Just now at the harbor—Ant.What, my—Ge.That's right.Ant.I'm done for!

Phædria has not Antipho's fear-sharpened imagination to get Geta's news from these fragmentary statements, and asks the slave to tell him what it is all about.

Geta.I tell you that I have seen his father, your uncle.Ant.[frantically]. How shall I meet this sudden disaster? But if it has come to this, Phanium [his wife], that I am to be separated from you, then I don't want to live any longer.Ge.There, there, Antipho, in such a state of things you ought to be all the more on the watch. Fortune favors the brave, you know.Ant.[with choking voice]. I'm not myself to-day.Ge.But you must be, Antipho; for if your father sees that you are timid and meek about it, he'll think of course that you are in the wrong.Ant.But, I tell you, I can't do any different.Ge.What would you do if you had some harder job yet?Ant.Since I can't do this, I couldn't do that.Ge.Come, Phædria, there's no use fooling with this fellow; we're only wasting our time. Let's be off.Phæd.All right, come on.Ant.O say, hold on! What if I pretend to be bold. [Strikes an attitude]. Will that do?Ge.Stuff and nonsense.Ant.Well, how will this expression do?Ge.It won't do at all.Ant.How is this?Ge.That's more like it.Ant.Is this better?Ge.That's just right. Keep on looking that way. And remember to answer him word for word, tit for tat, and don't let the angry old man get the better of you.Ant.I—I—w-won't.Ge.Tell him you were forced to it against your will—Phæd.By the law, by the court.Ge.Do you catch on?—But who is this old man I see coming up the street?

Antipho casts one look of terror down the street, cries: "It's father himself, I just can't stay," and takes to his heels.

Phæd.Now, Geta, what next?Ge.Well, you're in for a row; and I shall be hung up by the heels and flogged, unless I am much mistaken. But what we were advising Antipho to do just now, we must do ourselves.Phæd.O, come off with your "musts"! Tell me just what to do.Ge.Do you remember how you said when we were planning how to get out of blame for this business that "Phormio's suit was just dead easy, sure to win"? Well, that's the game we want to work now,—or a better one yet, if you can think of one. Now you go ahead and I'll wait here in ambush, in case you want any help.

They retire to the back of the stage as Demipho enters from the direction of the harbor. The old man is in a towering rage, for he has heard the news, which by this time is all over town. After listening awhile to his angry soliloquy, and interjecting sneering commentssotto voce, Geta and Phædria conclude that it is time to act. So Phædria advances to his uncle with an effusive welcome:

Phæd.My dear uncle, how do you do?Demipho[crustily]. How are you? But where is Antipho?Phæd.I'm so glad to see—Dem.Oh, no doubt; but answer my questions.Phæd.Oh, he's all right; he's here in the house. But, uncle, has anything gone wrong with you?Dem.Well, I should say so.Phæd.What do you mean?Dem.How can you ask, Phædria? This is a pretty marriage you have gotten up here in my absence.Phæd.Why, uncle, you aren't angry with him for that, are you?Dem.Not angry with him, indeed? I can hardly wait to see him and let him know how through his own fault his indulgent father has become most stern and angry with him.Phæd.Now, uncle, if Antipho has been at fault in that he wasn't careful enough of his purse or reputation, I haven't a word to say to shield him from blame. But if some one with malicious intent has laid a trap for him and got the best of him, is that our fault, or that of the judges, who often decide against the rich through envy, and in favor of the poor out of pity?Dem.But how is any judge to know the justice of your case, when you don't say a word in self-defense, as I understand he didn't?Phæd.Well, in that he acted like a well-bred young man; when he came before the judges, he couldn't remember a word of his speech that he had prepared; he was so bashful.

Seeing that Phædria is getting along so well, Geta decides to come forward.

Ge.Hail, master! I'm very glad to see you home safe again.Dem.[with angry irony]. Hail! A fine guardian you are! A regular pillar of the family! So you are the fellow that I left in charge of my son when I went away?

Geta plays injured innocence, and wants to know what Demipho would have had him do. Being a slave, he could neither plead the young man's cause nor testify in his behalf.

Dem.O, yes; I admit all that. But even if the girl was never so much related, he needn't have married her. Why didn't you take the other legal alternative, give her a dowry, and let her find another husband? Had he no more sense than to marry her himself?Ge.O, he had sense enough; it was the dollars he lacked.Dem.Well, he might have borrowed the money.Ge.Borrowed it? That's easier said than done.Dem.He might have gotten it from a usurer on a pinch.Ge.Well, I do like that! As if any one would lend him money in your lifetime!

The old man, beaten to a standstill, can only fall back upon his obstinate determination, and vow that he won't have it.

Dem.No, no; it shall not be, it cannot be! I won't permit this marriage to continue for a single day longer. Now, I want to see that other fellow, or at least find out where he lives.Ge.Do you mean Phormio?Dem.I mean that woman's guardian.Ge.I'll go get him for you.Dem.Where is Antipho now?Ge.O, he's out somewhere.Dem.Phædria, you go hunt him up and bring him to me.Phæd.Yes, sir; I'll go find him right away.Ge.[leering at Phædria as the latter passes him]. You mean you'll go to Pamphila [Phædria's sweetheart].

Demipho, left alone, announces that he will get some friends together to advise him in the business, and prepare him for his interview with Phormio. The act ends with the prospect pretty dark for Antipho, and with no plan of action formed in his behalf.

We are now introduced, at the opening of the second act, to the actor of the title rôle, the keen-witted, reckless parasite, Phormio. He is accompanied upon the stage by Geta, who is telling him the situation. Geta beseeches Phormio to come to their aid, since he is, after all, entirely responsible for the trouble. Phormio remains buried in thought awhile, and then announces that he has his plans formed, and is ready to meet the old man.

[Enter Demipho and three friends from the other side of the stage. Demipho is talking to his friends.]Dem.Did you ever hear of any one suffering more outrageous treatment than I have? I beg you to help me.Ge.[apart to Phormio]. My, but he's mad!Phor.You just watch me now; I'll stir him up. [Speaking in a loud enough tone to be overheard by Demipho]. By all the powers! Does Demipho say that Phanium isn't related to him? Does Demipho say so?Ge.Yes, he does.

[Enter Demipho and three friends from the other side of the stage. Demipho is talking to his friends.]

Dem.Did you ever hear of any one suffering more outrageous treatment than I have? I beg you to help me.Ge.[apart to Phormio]. My, but he's mad!Phor.You just watch me now; I'll stir him up. [Speaking in a loud enough tone to be overheard by Demipho]. By all the powers! Does Demipho say that Phanium isn't related to him? Does Demipho say so?Ge.Yes, he does.

Demipho is caught by this bait, as Phormio had intended, and says to his friends in an undertone:

I believe this is the very fellow I was seeking. Let's go a little nearer.

Phormio continues in a loud voice to berate Demipho for his neglect of the supposed relative, while Geta noisily takes his master's part. Demipho now interrupts this sham quarrel, and after snubbing Geta, he turns with mock politeness to Phormio.

Dem.Young man, I beg your pardon, but will you be kind enough to tell me who that friend of yours was that you are talking about, and how he said I was related to him?Phor.O, you ask as if you didn't know.Dem.As if I didn't know?Phor.Yes.Dem.And I say that Idon'tknow. Now do you, who say that I do, refresh my memory.Phor.Didn't you know your own cousin?Dem.O, you make me tired. Tell me his name.Phor.The name? Why, certainly.

But now the name by which he had heard Phanium speak of her father has slipped from his mind, and he is forced to awkward silence. Demipho is quick to see his embarrassment:

Well, why don't you speak?Phor.[aside]. By George! I'm in a box! I have forgotten the name.Dem.What's that you say?Phor.[aside in a whisper to Geta]. Say, Geta, if you remember that name we heard the other day, tell it to me. [Then determining to bluff it out, he turns to Demipho]. No, I won't tell you the name. You are trying to pump me, as if you didn't know it already.Dem.[angrily]. I pump you?Ge.[whispering]. It's Stilpho.Phor.[to Demipho]. And yet what do I care? It's Stilpho.Dem.Who?Phor.[shouting it at him]. Stilpho, I say. Did you know him?Dem.No, I didn't, And I never had a relative of that name.Phor.No? Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Now if he had left a matter of ten talents—Dem.Confound your impudence!Phor.You would be the first to come forward, with a very good memory, and trace your connection with him for generations back.Dem.Well, have it as you say. Then when I had come into court. I should have told just how she was related to me. Now you do the same. Come, how is she related to me?Phor.I have already explained that to those who had a right to ask—the judges. If my statement was false then, why didn't your son refute it?Dem.Don't mention my son to me! I can't possibly express my disgust at his folly.Phor.Then do you, who are so wise, go before the magistrates and ask them to reopen the case. [This, according to the law of Athens, was impossible.]

Demipho has twice been completely beaten in a war of words—once by Geta and now by Phormio. He chokes down his rage as best he can, and now makes a proposition to his enemy. He is still too angry to express himself very connectedly.

Dem.Although I have been outraged in this business, still, rather than have a quarrel with such as you, just as if she were related to me, since the law bids to give her a dowry, take her away from here, and make itfui minæ.Phor.Ho! ho! ho! Well, youarea cheerful idiot!Dem.What's the matter? Have I asked anything wrong? Or can't I get even what is my legal right?Phor.Well, really now, I should like to ask you, when you have once married a girl, does the law bid you then to give her some money and send her packing? On the contrary, it is for the very purpose that a citizen of Athens may not come to shame on account of her poverty, that her next of kin is bidden to take her to wife. And this purpose you are attempting to thwart.Dem.Yes, that's just it—"her next of kin." But where do I come in on that score?Phor.O pshaw! don't thresh over old straw.Dem.Sha'n't I? I vow I shall not stop until I have accomplished my ends.

After further badgering and bear-baiting on the part of Phormio, Demipho finally falls back upon his dogged determination as before, and gives his ultimatum:

See here, Phormio, we have said enough. Unless you take immediate steps to get that woman away, I'll throw her out of the house. I have spoken, Phormio.

Phormio is not to be outdone in bluster, and adopting Demipho's formula, as well as his tone and gestures, he says:

And if you touch that girl except as becomes a free-born citizen, I'll bring a cracking suit against you. I have spoken, Demipho.

So saying, he turns and swaggers off the stage, much to the secret delight of Geta, the impotent rage of Demipho, and the open-mouthed amazement of the three friends.

Demipho now appeals to his friends for advice as to how to proceed in this crisis; but they are so obsequious in their manner, and so contradictory in their advice, that Demipho is in greater perplexity than before, and decides to take no action at all until his brother Chremes comes home. He accordingly leaves the stage in the direction of the harbor, his three friends having already bowed themselves out.

This temporary disposition of Antipho's case is fittingly followed by the appearance of the young man himself in self-reproachful soliloquy that he should have run away and left his young wife in the lurch. Geta appears, and tells Antipho all that has passed in his absence, much to Antipho's gratitude and relief, though he sorely dreads the return of his uncle, who, it seems, is to be the arbiter of his destiny.

Phædria and his troubles now claim the center of the stage. As Antipho and Geta stand talking, they hear a pitiful outcry, and looking up, they see a black-browed, evil-faced, typical stage villain, who we presently discover is Dorio, the slave-driver who owns Phædria's sweetheart. Things have evidently come to a crisis with that young man. He is following Dorio, and imploring him to wait three days until he can get money enough to buy his sweetheart. But Dorio says he has a customer who offers cash down. After much entreaty, however, he tells Phædria that if the money is forthcoming before to-morrow morning he will consider the bargain closed. So there Phædria's business is brought to a head, and the attention of us all must be at once turned to what has suddenly become the paramount issue. What is to be done? Phædria is too hysterical to be of any help in the matter, and Antipho tells the faithful and resourceful Geta that he must get the money somehow. Geta says that this is liable to be a pretty difficult matter, and doesn't want to undertake it, but is finally persuaded by Phædria's pitiful despair to try. He asks Phædria how much money he needs.

Phæd.Only six hundred dollars.Ge.Six hundred dollars! Whew! she's pretty dear, Phædria.Phæd.[indignantly]. It's no such thing! She's cheap at the price.Ge.Well, well! I'll get you the money somehow.

The third act gives a picture of the situation from the point of view of the two old men, Demipho and Chremes, for the latter has just returned from Lemnos, and now comes upon the stage fresh from his travels, in company with his brother. We now discover for the first time what is probably the real reason for the opposition to Antipho's marriage to the orphan girl.

Dem.Well, Chremes, did you bring your daughter with you, for whose sake you went to Lemnos?Chr.No, I didn't.Dem.Why not?Chr.When her mother saw that I was delaying my coming too long, and that my negligence was harming our daughter, who had now reached a marriageable age, she simply packed up her whole household, and came here to hunt me up—so they told me over there. And then I heard from the skipper who brought them that they reached Athens all right.Dem.Have you heard what has happened to my son while I was gone?Chr.Yes, and it's knocked all my plans into a cocked hat. For if I make a match for my daughter with some outsider, I'll have to tell him categorically just how she comes to be mine, and who her mother is. I was secure in our proposed match between her and Antipho, for I knew that my secret was as safe in your hands as in my own; whereas if an outsider comes into the family, he will keep the secret as long as we are on good terms; but if we ever quarrel, he will know more than is good for me [looking around cautiously, and speaking with bated breath]; and I'm dreadfully afraid that my wife will find it out in some way. And if she does, the only thing left for me to do is to take myself off and leave home; for my soul is the only thing I can call my own in this house.

From this it develops that Chremes has had a wife and daughter in Lemnos, and now lives in wholesome fear of his too masterful Athenian spouse.

Geta now comes upon the stage in fine spirits, loud in his praises of the shrewdness of Phormio, with whom he has just concluded a scheme for getting the money. He is in search of Demipho, and is surprised to find Chremes on hand as well. Meanwhile, Antipho has come cautiously upon the stage in search of Geta, just as the latter goes boldly up to the two old men. As yet unseen by any one, Antipho retires to the back of the stage, and overhears the following conversation:

Ge.O, how do you do, good Chremes!Chr.[crustily]. How are you?Ge.How are things with you?Chr.One finds many changes on coming back, as is natural enough—very many.Ge.That's so. Have you heard about Antipho?Chr.The whole story.Ge.[to Demipho]. O, you've been telling him? [To Chremes]. It's a shame, Chremes, to be taken in that way!Dem.I have been discussing the situation with him.Ge.I've been thinking it over, too, and I think I have found a way out of it.Chr.How's that, Geta?Dem.A way out of it?Ge.[in a confidential tone]. Just now when I left you, I chanced to meet Phormio.Chr.Who's Phormio?Ge.That girl's—Chr.O, I see.Ge.I thought I'd test the fellow, so I got him off alone, and said: "Now, Phormio, don't you see that it's better to settle this matter in a friendly way than to have a row about it? My master is a gentleman, and hates a fuss. If it wasn't for that he would have sent this girl packing, as all his friends advised him to do."Ant.[aside]. What in the world is this fellow getting at?Ge."Do you say that the law will make him suffer for it if he casts her out? Oh, we've looked into that point. I tell you you'll sweat for it if you ever get into a law-suit with that man. He's a regular corker. But suppose you do win out; it's not a matter of life and death, but only of damages. Now here, just between ourselves, how much will you take, cash down, to take this girl away and make us no more trouble."Ant.[aside]. Good heavens, is the fellow crazy?Ge."For I know that if you make any sort of an offer, my master is a good fellow, and will take you up in a minute."Dem.Who told you to say that?Chr.There, there, we couldn't have gained our point better.Ant.[aside]. I'm done for!Dem.Well, go on with your story.Ge.At first the fellow was wild.Chr.Come, come, tell us how much he wants.Ge.How much? Altogether too much. Said he: "Well, a matter of twelve hundred dollars would be about right."Dem.Confound his impudence! Has he no shame?Ge.That's just what I said. Said I: "What if he were marrying off an only daughter? Small gain it's been to him not to have raised a girl. One has been found to call for a dowry just the same." Well, to make a long story short, he finally said: "I've wanted from the first to marry the daughter of my old friend, as was right that I should; but, to tell you the honest truth, I've got to find a wife who will bring me in a little something, enough to pay my debts with. And even now, if Demipho is willing to pay me as much as I am getting from the other girl to whom I am engaged, I'd just as soon turn around and marry this girl of yours."Dem.What if he is over his head in debt?Ge.Says he: "I have a little farm mortgaged for two hundred dollars."Dem.Well, well! Let him marry her; I'll give him that much.Ge."And then there's a bit of a house mortgaged for two hundred more."Dem.Ow! that's too much.Chr.No, that's all right. Let him have that two hundred from me.Ge."Then I must buy a little maid for my wife," says he, "and I've got to have a little more furniture, and then there's all the wedding expenses. Put all that down at an even two hundred more."Dem.[in a rage]. Then let him bring as many suits as he wants to. I won't give a cent. What, is the dirty fellow making game of me?Chr.O, do please keep still! I only ask that you have your son marry that girl that we know of. This girl is being sent off for my sake; so it's only right that I should pay for it.Ge.Phormio says to let him know as soon as possible if you are going to give Phanium to him, in order that he may break his engagement with the other girl; for her people have promised the same dowry.Chr.Well, we will give it to him, so let him break his other engagement and marry the girl.Dem.And a plague on him into the bargain!Chr.[to Demipho]. Very fortunately, I have brought some money with me—the rent I have collected from my wife's Lemnian estate. I'll take it out of that, and tell her that you needed it.

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