Scene the SecondA Wood near Rome.
Scene the SecondA Wood near Rome.
Scene the SecondA Wood near Rome.
(EnterNisidaandChloris,the latter with a lyre).
Nisida.Have you brought the instrument?
Chloris.Yes.
Nisida.40 pixelThen give it me, for hereIn this tranquil forest sphere,Where the boughs and blossoms blent,Ruby blooms and emerald stems,Round about their radiance fling,Where the canopy of springBreathes of flowers and gleams with gems,Here I wish that air to play,Which to words that Cynthia wroteI have set—a simple note.
Chloris.And the song, señora, say,What 's the theme?
Nisida.80 pixelA touching strain,—How a nightingale in a groveSinging sweetly of his love,Sang its pleasure and its pain.
EnterCynthia(reading in a book).
Cynthia(to herself).Whilst each alley here disclosesYouthful nymphs, who as they passTo Diana's shrine, the grassTurn to beds of fragrant roses,—Where the interlacéd barsOf these woods their beauty dowersSeem a verdant sky of flowers—Seem an azure field of stars.I shall here recline and read(While they wander through the grove)Ovid'sRemedy of Love.
Nisida(to Chloris).Hear the words and air.
Chloris.160 pixelProceed.
Nisida(singing).O nightingale, whose sweet exulting strainTells of thy triumphs to the listening grove,Thou fill'st my heart with envy and with pain.But no; but no; for if thou sing'st of love,Jealousy's pangs and sorrow's tears remain.
Cynthia(advancing).What a charming air! To meWhat an honour! From this dayI may well be vain, as theyMay without presumption be,Who, despite their numerous slips,Find their words can please the ear,Who their rugged verses hearTurn to music on thy lips.
Nisida.'T is thine own genius, not my skill,That produces this effect;For, without it, I suspect,Would my voice sound harsh and shrill,And my lute's strings should be brokenWith a just and wholesome rigour,For presuming to disfigureWhat thy words so well have spoken.Whither wert thou wending here?
Cynthia.Through the quiet wood proceeding,I the poet's book was reading,When there fell upon my ear,Soft and sweet, thy voice: its power,Gentle lodestone of my feet,Brought me to this green retreat—Led me to this lonely bower:But what wonder, when to listenTo thy sweetly warbled wordsCeased the music of the birds—Of the founts that glide and glisten?May I hope that, since I cameThus so opportunely near,I the gloss may also hear?
Nisida.I will sing it, though with shame.
(Sings)Sweet nightingale, that from some echoing grotSingest the rapture of thy love aloud,Singest with voice so joyous and so proud,All unforgetting thou mayst be forgot,Full of thyself and of thy happy lot!Ah! when thou trillest that triumphant strainTo all the listening lyrists of the grove,Thou fill'st my heart with envy and with pain!But no; but no; for if thou sing'st of love.Jealousy's pangs and sorrow's tears remain!
EnterDaria.
Daria.Ah! my Nisida, forbear,Ah! those words forbear to sing,Which on zephyr's wanton wingThou shouldst waft not on the air.All is wrong, how sweet it be,That the vestal's thoughts reprove:What is jealousy? what is love?That they should be sung by thee?Think this wood is consecratedTo Diana's service solely,Not to Venus: it is holy.Why then wouldst thou desecrate itWith thy songs? Does 't not amazeThee thyself—this strangest thing—In Diana's grove to singHymns of love to Cupid's praise?But I need not wonder, no,That thou 'rt so amused, since IHere see Cynthia with thee.
Cynthia.160 pixelWhyDost thou say so?
Daria.140 pixelI say soFor good cause: in books profaneThou unceasingly delightest,Verse thou readest, verse thou writest,Of their very vanity vain.And if thou wouldst have me proveWhat I say to thy proceeding,Tell me, what 's this book thou 'rt reading?
Cynthia.'T isThe Remedy of Love.Whence thou mayst perceive how weakIs thy inference, thy deductionFrom my studious self-instruction;Since the patient who doth seekRemedies to cure his painShows by this hewouldgrow better;—For the slave who breaks his fetterCannot surely love his chain.
Nisida.This, though not put quite so strong,Was involved in the conclusionOf my lay: Love's disillusionWas the burden of my song.
Daria.Remedies and disillusions,Seek ye both beneath one star?Ah! if so, you are not farFrom its pains and its confusions:For the very fact of pleadingDisillusion, shows that thou'Neath illusion's yoke doth bow,—And the patient who is needingRemedies doth prove that stillThe sharp pang he doth endure,For there 's no one seeks a cureEre he feels that he is ill:—Therefore to this wrong proceedingGrieved am I to see ye clinging—Seekingthouthy cure in singing—Thouthy remedy in reading.
Cynthia.Casual actions of this classThat are done without intentionOf a second end, to mentionHere were out of place: I passTo another point: There 's no oneWhowithgenius, or denied it,—Dowered with mind, but has applied itSome especial track to go on:This variety sufficesFor its exercise and action,Just as some by free attractionSeek the virtues and the vices;—This blind instinct, or this duty,We three share;—'t isthydelightNisida to sing,—to writeMine,—andthineto adore thy beauty.Which of these three occupationsIs the best—or those that needSkill and labour to succeed,Or thine own vain contemplations?—Have I not, when morning's raysGladdened grove and vale and mountain,Seen thee in the crystal fountainAt thyself enamoured gaze?Wherefore, once again returningTo our argument of love,Thou a greater pang must prove,If from thy insatiate yearningI infer a cause: the spellLighter falls on one who still,To herself not feeling ill,Would in other eyes seem well.
Daria.Ah! so far, so far from meIs the wish as vain as weak—(Now my virtue doth not speak,Now but speaks my vanity),Ah! so far, I say, my breastTurns away from things of love,That the sovereign hand of Jove,Were it to attempt its best,Could no greater wonder work,Than that I, Daria, shouldSo be changed in mind and moodAs to let within me lurkLove's minutest, smallest seed:—Only upon one conditionCould I love, and that fruitionThen would be my pride indeed.
Cynthia.What may that condition be?
Daria.When of all mankind, I knewOne who felt a love so trueAs to give his life for me,Then, until my own life fled,Him, with gratitude and pride,Were I sure that so he died,I would love though he were dead.
Nisida.Poor reward for love so greatWere that tardy recollection,Since, it seems, for thy affectionHe, till life is o'er, must wait.
Cynthia.Soars thy vanity so high?Thy presumption is aboveAll belief: be sure, for loveNo man will be found to die.
Daria.Why more words then? love must beIn my case denied by heaven:Since my love cannot be givenSave to one who 'll die for me.
Cynthia.Thy ambition is a thingSo sublime, whatcanbe said?—Better I resumed and read,Better, Nisida, thou shouldst sing,This disdain so strange and strong,This delusion little heeding.
Nisida.Yes, do thou resume thy reading,I too will resume my song.
Daria.I, that I may not renewSuch reproaches, whilst you sing,Whilst you read, in this clear springThoughtfully myself shall view.
Nisidasings.O nightingale, whose sweet exulting strainTells of thy triumphs to the listening grove,Thou fill'st my heart with envy and with pain!—But no, but no, for if thou sing'st of loveJealousy's pangs and sorrow's tears remain!
EnterChrysanthus, Claudius,andEscarpin.
Claudius,to Chrysanthus.Does not the beauty of this wood,This tranquil wood, delight thee?
Chrysanthus.180 pixelYes:Here nature's lord doth dower and blessThe world in most indulgent mood.Who could believe this greenwood hereFor the first time has blessed mine eyes?
Claudius.It is the second Paradise,Of deities the verdant sphere.
Chrysanthus.'T is more, this green and grassy gladeWhither our careless steps have strolled,For here three objects we beholdEqually fair by distance made.Of these that chain our willing feet,There yonder where the path is leading,One is a lady calmly reading,One is a lady singing sweet,And one whose rapt though idle airGives us to understand this truth—A woman blessed with charms and youth,Does quite enough in being fair.
Escarpin.You are quite right in that, I 've seenBeauties enough of that sort too.
Claudius.If of the three here given to view,The choice were thine to choose between,Which of them best would suit thy taste?Which wouldst thou make thy choice of, say?
Chrysanthus.I do not know: for in one wayThey so with equal gifts are graced,So musical and fair and wise,That while one captivates the mind,One works her witcheries with the wind,And one, the fairest, charms our eyes.The one who sings, it seems a duty,Trusting her sweet voice, to think sweet,The one who reads, to deem discreet,The third, we judge but by her beauty:And so I fear by act or wordTo wrong the three by judging ill,Of one her charms, of one her skill,And the intelligence of the third.For to chooseonedoes wrong to two,But if I so presumed to dare . . .
Claudius.Which would it be?
Chrysanthus.80 pixelThe one that 's fair.
Escarpin.My blessings on your choice and you!That 's my opinion in the case,'T is plain at least to my discerningThat in a woman wit and learningAre nothing to a pretty face.
Nisida.Chloris, quick, take up the lyre,For a rustling noise I hearIn this shady thicket near:Yes, I 'm right, I must retire.Swift as feet can fly I 'll go.For these men that here have strayedMust have heard me while I played. [Exeunt Nisida and Chloris.
Cynthia.One of them I think I know.Yes, 't is Claudius, as I thought,Now he has a chance: I 'll seeIf he cares to follow me,Guessing rightly what has broughtMe to-day unto the grove:—Ah! if love to grief is leadingOf what use to me is readingIn theRemedies of Love?[Exit.
Daria(to herself).In these bowers by trees o'ergrown,Here contented I remain,All companionship is vain,Save my own sweet thoughts alone:—
Claudius.Dear Chrysanthus, your electionWas to me both loss and gain,Gave me pleasure, gave me pain:—It seemed plain to my affection(Being in love) your choice should fallOn the maid of pensive look,Not on her who read the book:But your praise made up for all.And since each has equal force,My complaint and gratulation,Whilst with trembling expectationI pursue my own love's course,Try your fortune too, till weMeet again. [Exit.
Chrysanthus.100 pixelConfused I stay,Without power to go away,Spirit-bound, my feet not free.From the instant that on me,As a sudden beam might dart,Flashed that form which Phidian artCould not reach, I 've known no rest.—Babylon is in my breast—Troy is burning in my heart.
Escarpin.Strange that I should feel as you,That one thought should fire us two,I too, sir, have lost my sensesSince I saw that lady.
Chrysanthus.180 pixelWho,Madman! fool! do you speak of?you!Dare to feel those griefs of mine!—
Escarpin.No, sir, yours I quite resign,Would I could my own ones too!—
Chrysanthus.Leave me, or my wrath you 'll rue;Hence! buffoon: by heaven I swear it,I will kill you else.
Escarpin.160 pixelI go:—For if you address her, oh!Could my jealous bosom bear it? [aside[Exit.
Chrysanthus(to Daria).If my boldness so may dare it,I desire to ask, señora,If thou art this heaven's Aurora,If the goddess of this fountain,If the Juno of this mountain,If of these bright flowers the Flora,So that I may rightly knowIn what style should speak to theeMy hushed voice . . . but pardon meNow I would not thou said'stso.Looking at thee now, the glowOf thy beauty so excelleth,Every charm so plainly tellethThou Diana's self must be;Yes, Diana's self is she,Who within her grove here dwelleth.
Daria.If, before you spoke to me,You desired my name to know,I inyourcase act not so,Since I speak, whoe'er you be,Forced, but most unwillingly(As to listening heaven is plain)To reply:—a bootless taskWere it in me, indeed, to ask,Since, whoe'er you be, my strainMust be one of proud disdain.So I pray you, cavalier,Leave me in this lonely wood,Leave me in the solitudeI enjoyed ere you came here.
Chrysanthus.Sweetly, but with tone severe,Thus my error you reprove—That of asking in this groveWhat your name is: you 're so fair,That, whatever name you bear,I must tell you of my love.
Daria.Love! a word to me unknown,Sounds so strangely in my ears,That my heart nor feels nor hearsAught of it when it has flown.
Chrysanthus.Then there is no rashness shownIn repeating it once more,Since to hear or to ignoreSuits alike your stoic coldness.
Daria.Yes, the speech, but not the boldnessOf the speaker I pass o'er,For this word, whate'er it be,When it breaks upon my ear,Quick 't is gone, although I hear.
Chrysanthus.You forget it?
Daria.140 pixelInstantly.
Chrysanthus.What! love's sweetest word! ah, me!Canst forget the mightiest rayDeath can dart, or heaven display?
Daria.Yes, for lightning, entering whereNaught resists, is lost in air.
Chrysanthus.How? what way?
Daria.80 pixelWell, in this way:If two doors in one straight lineOpen lie, and lightning falls,Then the bolt between the wallsPasses through, and leaves no sign.So 't is with this word of thine;Though love be, which I do n't doubt,Like heaven's bolt that darts about,Still two opposite doors I 've here,And what enters by one earBy the other ear goes out.
Chrysanthus.If this lightning then darts throughWhere no door lies open wideTo let it pass at the other side,Must not fire and flame ensue?This being so, 't is also trueThat the fire of love that fliesInto my heart, in flames must rise,Since without its feast of fireThe fatal flash cannot retire,That has entered by the eyes.
Daria.If to what I said but nowYou had listened, I believeYou would have preferred to leaveStill unspoken love's vain vow.This you would yourself allow.
Chrysanthus.What then was it?
Daria.120 pixelI do n't know:Something 't was that typifiedMy presumption and my pride.
Chrysanthus.Let me know it even so.
Daria.That in me no love could growSave for one who first would dieFor my love.
Chrysanthus.80 pixelAnd death being past,Would he win your love at last?—
Daria.Yes, on that he might rely.
Chrysanthus.Then I plight my troth that IWill to that reward aspire,—A poor offering at the fireBy those beauteous eyes supplied.
Daria.But as you have not yet died,Pray do n't follow me, but retire. [Exit.
Chrysanthus.In what bosom, at one moment,Oh! ye heavens! e'er met together6Such a host of anxious troubles?Such a crowd of boding terrors?Can I be the same calm studentWho awhile ago here wended?To a miracle of beauty,To a fair face now surrendered,I scarce know what brought me hither,I my purpose scarce remember.What bewitchment, what enchantment,What strange lethargy, what frenzyCan have to my heart, those eyesSuch divine delirium sent me?What divinity, desirousThat I should not know the endlessMysteries of the book I carry,In my path such snares presenteth,Seeking from these serious studiesTo distract me and divert me?But what 's this I say? One passionAccidentally developed,Should not be enough, no, no,From myself myself to sever.If the violence of one starDraws me to a deity's service,It compels not; for the planetsDraw, but force not, the affections.Free is yet my will, my mind too,Free is still my heart: then let meTry to solve more noble problemsThan the doubts that love presenteth.And since Claudius, the new Clytie7Of the sun, whose golden tressesLead him in pursuit, her footstepsFollows through the wood, my servantHaving happily too departed,And since yonder rocks where endethThe dark wood in savage wildnessMust be the rude rustic shelterOf the Christians who fled thither,I 'll approach them to endeavourTo find there Carpophorus:—He alone, the wise, the learnéd,Can my understanding rescueFrom its night-mare dreams and guesses. [Exit.
Scene III.The extremity of the wood:wild rocks with the entrance to a cave.Carpophorus comes forth from the cave, but is for a while unseen by Chrysanthus, who enters.
Scene III.The extremity of the wood:wild rocks with the entrance to a cave.Carpophorus comes forth from the cave, but is for a while unseen by Chrysanthus, who enters.
Scene III.The extremity of the wood:wild rocks with the entrance to a cave.Carpophorus comes forth from the cave, but is for a while unseen by Chrysanthus, who enters.
Chrysanthus.What a labyrinthine thicketIs this place that I have entered!Nature here takes little trouble,Letting it be seen how perfectIs the beauty that arisesEven from nature's careless efforts:Deep within this darksome grottoWhich no sunbeam's light can enter,I shall penetrate: it seemethAs if until now it neverHad been trod by human footsteps.There where yonder marge impendethO'er a streamlet that swift-flyingCarries with it the white freshnessOf the snows that from the mountainsEver in its waves are melted,Stands almost a skeleton;The sole difference it presentethTo the tree-trunks near it is,That it moves as well as trembles,Slow and gaunt, a living corse.Oh! thou venerable elderWho, a reason-gifted tree,Mid mere natural trees here dwelleth.—
Carpophorus.Wo! oh! wo is me!—a Roman!(At seeing Chrysanthus, he attempts to fly.)
Chrysanthus.Though a Roman, do not dread me:With no evil end I seek thee.
Carpophorus.Then what wouldst thou have, thou gentleRoman youth? for thou hast silencedMy first fears even by thy presence.
Chrysanthus.'T is to ask, what now I ask thee,Of the rocks that in this desertGape for ever open wideIn eternal yawns incessant,Which is the rough marble tombOf a living corse interred here?Which of these dark caves is thatIn whose gloom Carpophorus dwelleth?'T is important I speak with him.
Carpophorus.Then, regarding not the perils,I will own it. I myselfAm Carpophorus.
Chrysanthus.120 pixelOh! let me,Father, feel thy arms enfold me.
Carpophorus.To my heart: for as I press thee,How, I know not, the mere contactBrings me back again the freshnessAnd the greenness of my youth,Like the vine's embracing tendrilsTwining round an aged tree:Gallant youth, who art thou? tell me.
Chrysanthus.Father, I am called Chrysanthus,Of Polemius, the first memberOf the Roman senate, son.
Carpophorus.And thy purpose?
Chrysanthus.100 pixelIt distressesMe to see thee standing thus:On this bank sit down and rest thee.
Carpophorus.Kindly thought of; for, alas!I a tottering wall resemble:At the mouth of this my caveLet us then sit down together. [They sit down.What now wouldst thou have, Sir Stranger?
Chrysanthus.Sir, as long as I remember,I have felt an inclinationTo the love of books and letters.In my casual studies latelyI a difficulty met withThat I could not solve, and knowingNo one in all Rome more learnédThan thyself (thy reputationHaving with this truth impressed me)I have hither come to ask theeTo explain to me this sentence:For I cannot understand it.'T is, sir, in this book.
Carpophorus.80 pixelPray, let meSee it then.
Chrysanthus.60 pixel'T is at the beginning;Nay, the sentence that perplexesMe so much isthat.
Carpophorus.120 pixelWhy, theseAre the Holy Gospels! Heavens!
Chrysanthus.What! you kiss the book?
Carpophorus.120 pixelAnd press itTo my forehead, thus suggestingThe profound respect with whichI even touch so great a treasure.
Chrysanthus.Why, whatisthe book, which IBy mere accident selected?
Carpophorus.'T is the basis, the foundationOf the Scripture Law.
Chrysanthus.120 pixelI trembleWith an unknown horror.
Carpophorus.160 pixelWhy?
Chrysanthus.Deeper now I would not enterInto the secrets of a bookWhich are magic spells, I 'm certain.
Carpophorus.No, not so, but vital truths.
Chrysanthus.How canthatbe, when its versesOpen with this line that says(A beginning surely senseless)"In the beginning was the Word,And it was with God": andthenitAdds: this Word itself was God;Then unto the Word reverting,Says explicitly thatIt"Was made flesh"?
Carpophorus.60 pixelA truth most certain:For this first evangelistHere to us our God presentethIn a twofold way: the firstAs being God, as Man the second.
Chrysanthus.God and Man combined together?
Carpophorus.Yes, in one eternal PersonAre both natures joined together.
Chrysanthus.Then, for this is what more pressesOn my mind, can that same WordWhen it was made flesh, be reckonedGod?
Carpophorus.40 pixelYes, God and Man is ChristCrucified for our transgressions.
Chrysanthus.Pray explain this wondrous problem.
Carpophorus.He is God, because He neverWas created: He is the Word,For, besides, He was engenderedBy the Father, from both whomIn eternal due processionComes the Holy Ghost, three Persons,But one God, thrice mystic emblem!—In the Catholic faith we holdIn one Trinity one God dwelleth,And that in one God is alsoOne sole Trinity, ever blesséd,Which confounds not the three Persons,Nor the single substance severs.One is the person of the Father,One the Son's, beloved for ever,One, the third, the Holy Ghost's.But though three, you must rememberThat in the Father, and in the Son,And in the Holy Ghost . . .
Chrysanthus.140 pixelUnheard ofMysteries these!
Carpophorus.80 pixelThere 's but one God,Equal in the power exerted,Equal in the state and glory;For . . .
Chrysanthus.40 pixelI listen, but I tremble.
Carpophorus.The eternal Father isLimitless, even so unmeasuredAnd eternal is the Son,And unmeasured and eternalIs the Holy Ghost; but thenThree eternities are not meant here,Three immensities, no, but One,Who is limitless and eternal.For though increate the three,They are but one Uncreated.First the Father was not made,Or created, or engendered;Then engendered was the SonBy the Father, not created;And the Spirit was not madeOr created, or engenderedBy the Father or the Son,But proceeds from both together.This is God's divinityViewed as God alone, let 's enterOn the human aspect.
Chrysanthus.180 pixelStay:For so strange, so unexpectedAre the things you say, that INeed for their due thought some leisure.Let me my lost breath regain,For entranced, aroused, suspended,Spell-bound your strong reasons hold me.Is there then but one sole GodIn three Persons, one in essence,One in substance, one in power,One in will?
Carpophorus.80 pixelMy son, 't is certain.
(Enter Aurelius and Soldiers.)
Aureliusto the Soldiers.Yonder is the secret cavernOf Carpophorus, at its entranceSee him seated with anotherReading.
A Soldier.100 pixelWhy delay? Arrest them.
Aurelius.Recollect Polemius bade us,When we seized them, to envelopeEach one's face, that so, the Christians,Their accomplices and fellows,Should not know or recognize them.
A Soldier.You 're our prisoners.[A veil is thrown over the head of each.]
Chrysanthus.60 pixelWhat! base wretches . . .
Aurelius.Gag their mouths.
Chrysanthus.100 pixelBut then I am . . .
Aurelius.Come, no words: now tie togetherBoth their hands behind their backs.
Chrysanthus.Why I am . . .
Carpophorus.80 pixelOh! sacred heaven!Now my wished-for day has come.
A Voice from Heaven.No, not yet, my faithful servant:—I desire the constancyOf Chrysanthus may be tested:—Heed not him, as for thyself,In this manner I preserve thee. [Carpophorus disappears.
(Enter Polemius.)
Polemius.What has happened?
Aurelius.100 pixelOh! a wonder.—We Carpophorus arrested,And with him this other Christian;Both we held here bound and fettered,When from out our hands he vanished.
Polemius.By some sorcery 't was effected,For those Christians use enchantments,And then miracles pretend them.
A Soldier.See, a crowd of them there flyingTo the mountains.
Polemius.120 pixelIntercept them,And secure the rabble rout;This one I shall guard myself here:— [Exeunt Aurelius and soldiers.Miserable wretch! who art thou?Thus that I may know thee better,Judging from thy face thy crimes,I unveil thee. Gracious heaven!My own son!
Chrysanthus.60 pixelOh! heavens! my father!
Polemius.Thou with Christians here detected?Thou here in their caverns hidden?Thou a prisoner? Wherefore, wherefore,O immense and mighty Jove,Are thy angry bolts suspended?
Chrysanthus.'T was to solve a certain doubtWhich some books of thine presented,That I sought Carpophorus,That I wandered to these deserts,And . . .
Polemius.40 pixelCease, cease; for now I seeWhat has led to this adventure:Thou unhappily art giftedWith a genius ill-directed;For I count as vain and foolishAll the lore that lettered leisureHas in human books e'er written;But this passion has possessed thee,And to learn their magic ritesHere, a willing slave, has led thee.
Chrysanthus.No, not magic was the knowledgeI came here to learn—far better—The high mysteries of a faithWhich I reverence, while I dread them.
Polemius.Cease, oh! cease once more, nor letSuch vile treason find expressionOn thy lips. What! thou to praise them!
Aurelius(within).Yonder wait the two together.
Polemius.Cover up thy face once more,That the soldiers, when they enter,May not know thee, may not knowHow my honour is affectedBy this act, until I tryMeans more powerful to preserve it.
Chrysanthus(aside).God, whom until now I knew not,Grant Thy favour, deign to help me:Grant through suffering and through sorrowI may come to know Thee better.
(Enter Aurelius and Soldiers.)
Aurelius.Though we searched the whole of the mountain,Not one more have we arrested.
Polemius.Take this prisoner here to Rome,And be sure that you rememberAll of you my strict commands,That no hand shall dare divest himOf his veil:— [Chrysanthus is led out.80 pixelWhy, why, O heavens! [aside.Do I pause, but from my breast hereTear my bleeding heart? How actIn so dreadful a dilemma?If I say who he is, I tarnishWith his guilt my name for ever,And my loyalty if I 'm silent,Since he being here transgressesBy that fact alone the edict:Shall I punish him? The offenderIs my son. Shall I free him? HeIs my enemy and a rebel:—If between these two extremesSome mean lies, I cannot guess it.As a father I must love him,And as a judge I must condemn him. [Exeunt.
ACT THE SECOND.Scene I.A hall in the house of Polemius.
ACT THE SECOND.Scene I.A hall in the house of Polemius.
Scene I.A hall in the house of Polemius.
Enter Claudius and Escarpin.
Claudius.Has he not returned? Can no oneGuess in the remotest manner8Where he is?
Escarpin.100 pixelSir, since the dayThat you left me with my masterIn Diana's grove, and IHad with that divinest charmerTo leavehim,no eye has seen him.Love alone knows how it mads me.
Claudius.Of your loyalty I doubt not.
Escarpin.Loyalty 's a different matter,'T is not wholly that.
Claudius.160 pixelWhat then?
Escarpin.Dark suspicions, dismal fancies,That perhaps to live with herHe lies hid within those gardens.
Claudius.If I could imagine that,I, Escarpin, would be gladdenedRather than depressed.
Escarpin.140 pixelI 'mnot:—I am filled, like a full barrel,With depressions.
Claudius.120 pixelAnd for what?
Escarpin.Certain wild chimeras haunt me,Jealousy doth tear my heart,And despairing love distracts me.
Claudius.You in love and jealous?
Escarpin.200 pixelIJealous and in love. Why marvel?Am I such a monster?
Claudius.180 pixelWhat!With Daria?
Escarpin.120 pixel'T is no matterWhat her name is, or DariaOr Maria, I would have herBoth subjective and subjunctive,She verb passive, I verb active.
Claudius.You to love so rare a beauty?
Escarpin.Yes, her beauty, though uncommon,Would lack something, if it had notMy devotion.
Claudius.120 pixelHow? explain:—
Escarpin.Well, I prove it in this manner:—Mr. Dullard fell in love(I do n't tell where all this happened,Or the time, for of the DullardsEvery age and time give samples)With a very lovely lady:At her coach-door as he chatteredOne fine evening, he such nonsenseTalked, that one who heard his clatter,Asked the lady in amazementIf this simpleton's advancesDid not make her doubt her beauty?—But she quite gallantly answered,Never until now have IFelt so proud of my attractions,For no beauty can be perfectThat all sorts of men do n't flatter.
Claudius.What a feeble jest!
Escarpin.120 pixelThis feeble?—
Claudius.Yes, the very type of flatness:—Cease buffooning, for my uncleHere is coming.
Escarpin.120 pixelOf his sadnessPlainly is his face the mirror.
Enter Polemius and servants.
Claudius.Jupiter doth know the anguish,My good lord, with which I ventureTo approach thee since this happened.
Polemius.Claudius, as thine own, I 'm sure,Thou dost feel this great disaster.
Claudius.I my promise gave thee thatTo Chrysanthus . . .
Polemius.100 pixelCease; I ask theeNot to proffer these excuses,Since I do not care to have them.
Claudius.Then it seems that all thy effortsHave been useless to unravelThe strange mystery of his fate?
Polemius.With these questions do not rack me;For, though I would rather notGive the answer, still the answerRises with such ready aptnessTo my lips from out my heart,That I scarcely can withstand it.
Claudius.Why conceal it then from me,Knowing that thy blood meandersThrough my veins, and that my lifeOwns thee as its lord and master?—Oh! my lord, confide in me,Let thy tongue speak once the languageThat thine eyes so oft have spoken.
Polemius.Let the servants leave the apartment.
Escarpin(aside).Ah! if beautiful DariaWould but favour my attachment,Though I have no house to give her,Lots of stories I can grant her:— [Exeunt Escarpin and servants.
Claudius.Now, my lord, we are alone.
Polemius.Listen then; for though to baffleThy desire were my intention,By my miseries overmastered,I am forced to tell my secret;Not so much have I been grantedLicense to avow my sufferings,But I am, as 't were commandedThus to break my painful silence,Doing honestly, though sadly,Willingly the fact disclosing,Which by force had been extracted.Hear it, Claudius: my Chrysanthus,My Chrysanthus is not absent:In this very house he 's living!—Would the gods, ah! me, had ratherMade a tomb and not a prisonOf his present locked apartment!Which is in this house, within itIs he prisoned, chained, made captive.This surprises thee, no wonder:More surprised thou 'lt be hereafter,When thou com'st to know the reasonOf a fact so strange and startling.On that fatal day, when ISought the mount and thou the garden,Him I found where thou didst lose him,Near the wood where he had rambled:He was taken by my soldiersAt the entrance of a cavern,With Carpophorus:—oh! herePatience, patience may heaven grant me!—It was lucky that they did notSee his face, for thus it happenedThat the front of my dishonourWas not in his face made patent:Him they captured without knowingWho he was, it being commandedThat the faces of the prisonersShould be covered, but ere capturedThis effectually was doneBy themselves, they flying backwardWith averted faces; heThus was taken, but his partner,That strange prodigy of Rome—Man in mind, wild beast in manners,Doubly thus a prodigy—Saved himself by power of magic.Thus Chrysanthus was sole prisoner,While the Christian crowd, disheartened,Fled for safety to the mountainsFrom their grottoes and their caverns.These the soldiers quickly followed,And behind in that abandonedSavage place remained but two—Two, oh! think, a son and father.—One a judge, too, in a causeWicked, bad, beyond example,In a cause that outraged Cæsar,And the gods themselves disparaged.There with a delinquent sonStood I, therefore this should happen,That both clemency and rigourIn my heart waged fearful battle—Clemency in fine had won,I would have removed the bandageFrom his eyes and let him fly,But that instant, ah! unhappy!Came the soldiers back, and thenIt were but more misery added,If they knew of my connivance:All that then my care could manageTo protect him was the secretOf his name to keep well guarded.Thus to Rome I brought him prisoner,Where pretending great exactness,That his friends should not discoverWhere this Christian malefactorWas imprisoned, to this house,To my own house, I commandedThat he should be brought; there hiddenAnd unknown, a few days afterI inhisplace substituted . . .Ah! what will not the untrammelledStrength of arbitrary powerDare attempt? what law not trample?Substituted, I repeat,For my son a slave, whose strangled,Headless corse thus paid the debtWhich from me were else exacted.You will say, "Since fortune thusHas the debt so happily cancelled,Why imprison or conceal him?"—And, thus, full of doubts, I answerThat though it is true I wished not,Woe is me! the common scaffoldShould his punishment make public,I as little wished his hardenedHeart should know my love and pitySince it did not fear my anger:Ah! believe me, Claudius,'Twixt the chastisement a fatherAnd an executioner gives,A great difference must be granted:One hand honours what it striketh,One disgraces, blights, and blackens.Soon my rigour ceased, for truly,In a father's heart it lastethSeldom long: but then what wonder,If the hand that in its angerSmites his son, in his own breastLeaves a wound that ever rankles—I one day his prison enteredWith the wish (I own it frankly)To forgive him, and when IThought he would have even thanked meFor receiving a reproof,Not severe, too lenient rather,He began to praise the ChristiansWith such earnestness and ardour,In defence of their new law,That my clemency departed,And my angrier mood returned.I his doors and windows fastened.In the room where he is lying,Well secured by gyves and shackles,Sparingly his food is given him,Through my hands alone it passes,For I dare not to anotherTrust the care his state demandeth.You will think in this I reached toThe extreme of my disasters—The full limits of misfortune,But not so, and if you hearken,You 'll perceive they 're but beginning,And not ended, as you fancied.All these strange events so muchHave unnerved him and unmanned him,That, forgetful of himself,Of himself he is regardless.Nothing to the purpose speaks he.In his incoherent languageFrenzy shows itself, delusionIn his thoughts and in his fancies:—Many times I 've listened to him,Since so high-strung and abstractedIs his mind, he takes no note ofWho goes in or who departeth.Once I heard him deprecatingSome despotic beauty's hardness,Saying, "Since I die for thee,Thou thy favour sure wilt grant me".At another time he said,"Three in one, oh! how canthatbe?"Things which these same Christian peopleIn their law hold quite established.Thus it is my life is troubled,Lost in doubts, emeshed, and tangled.If to freedom I restore him,I have little doubt that, darkenedBy the Christian treachery, heWill declare himself instanterOpenly a Christian, whichWould to me be such a scandal,That my blood henceforth were tainted,And my noble name were branded.If I leave him here in prison,So excessive is his sadness,So extreme his melancholy,That I fear 't will end in madness.In a word, I hold, my nephew,Hold it as a certain axiom,That these dark magician ChristiansKeep him bound by their enchantments;Who through hatred of my house,And my office to disparage,Now revenge themselves on meThrough my only son Chrysanthus.Tell me, then, what shall I do;But before you give the answerWhich your subtle wit may dictate,I would with your own eyes have theeSee him first, you 'll then know betterWhat my urgent need demandeth.Come, he 's not far off, his quarterIs adjoining this apartment;When you see him, I am certainYou will think it a disasterFar less evil he should die,Than that in this cruel mannerHe should outrage his own blood,And my bright escutcheon blacken.[He opens a door, and Chrysanthus is seen seated in a chair, with his hands and feet in irons.]
Claudius.Thus to see my friend, o'erwhelms meWith a grief I cannot master.
Polemius.Stay, do not approach him nearer;For I would not he remarked thee,I would save him the disgraceOf being seen by thee thus shackled.
Claudius.What his misery may dictateWe can hear, nor yet attract him.
Chrysanthus.Was ever human fate so strange as mine?20 pixelWere unmatched wishes ever mated so?20 pixelIs it not enough to feel one form of woe,Without being forced 'neath opposite forms to pine?A triune God's mysterious power divine,20 pixelFrom heaven I ask for life, that I may know,20 pixelFrom heaven I ask for death, life's grisly foe,A fair one's favour in my heart to shrine:But how can death and life so well agree,20 pixelThat I can ask of heaven to end their strife,And grant them both in pitying love to me?20 pixelYet I will ask, though both with risks are rife,Neither shall hinder me, for heaven must be20 pixelThe arbiter of death as well as life.
Polemius.See now if I spoke the truth.
Claudius.I am utterly distracted. (The door closes.
Polemius.Lest perhaps he should perceive us,Let us move a little further.Now advise me how to act,Since you see the grief that racks me.
Claudius.Though it savours of presumptionTo white hairs like yours, to hazardWords of council, yet at timesEven a young man may impart them:Well-proportioned punishmentGrave defects oft counteracteth.But when carried to extremes,It but irritates and hardens.Any instrument of musicOf this truth is an example.Lightly touched, it breathes but sweetness,Discord, when 't is roughly handled.'T is not well to send an arrowTo such heights, that in dischargingThe strong tension breaks the bowstring,Or the bow itself is fractured.These two simple illustrationsAre sufficiently adaptedTo my purpose, of advisingMeans of cure both mild and ample.You must take a middle course,All extremes must be abandoned.Gentle but judicious treatmentIs the method for Chrysanthus.For severer methods end inDisappointment and disaster.Take him, then, from out his prison,Leave him free, unchecked, untrammelled,For the danger is an infantWithout strength to hurt or harm him.Be it that those wretched ChristiansHave bewitched him, disenchant him,Since you have the power; for NatureWith such careful forethought acteth,That an antidotal herbShe for every poison planteth.And if, finally, your wishIs that he this fatal sadnessShould forget, and wholly change itTo a happier state and gladder,Get him married: for rememberNothing is so well adaptedTo restrain discursive fanciesAs the care and the attachmentCentered in a wife and children;Taking care that in this matterMere convenience should not weighMore than his own taste and fancy:Let him choose his wife himself.Pleased in that, to rove or rambleThen will be beyond his power,Even were he so attracted,For a happy married loverThinks of naught except his rapture.
Polemius.I with nothing such good counselCan repay, except the franknessOf accepting it, which isThe reward yourself would ask for.And since I a mean must chooseBetween two extremes of action,From his cell, to-day, my sonShall go forth, but in a mannerThat will leave his seeming freedomCircumscribed and safely guarded.Let that hall which looketh overGreat Apollo's beauteous gardenBe made gay by flowing curtains,Be festooned by flowery garlands;Costly robes for him get ready;Then invite the loveliest damselsRome can boast of, to come hitherTo the feasts and to the dances.Bring musicians, and in fineLet it be proclaimed that anyWoman of illustrious bloodWho from his delusive passionsCan divert him, by her charmsCuring him of all his sadness,Shall become his wife, how humbleHer estate, her wealth how scanty.And if this be not sufficient,I will give a golden talentYearly to the leech who cures himBy some happy stroke of practice. [Exit.
Claudius.Oh! a father's pitying love,What will it not do, what marvelNot attempt for a son's welfare,For his life?
EnterEscarpin.
Escarpin.120 pixelMy lordpor Baco!(That 's the god I like to swear by,Jolly god of all good rascals)May I ask you what 's the secret?
Claudius.You gain little when you ask meFor a secret all may know.After his mysterious absenceYour young lord 's returned home ill.
Escarpin.In what way?
Claudius.60 pixelThat none can fathom,Since he does not tell his ailmentSave by signs and by his manner.
Escarpin.Then he 's wrong, sir, not to tell itClearly: with extreme exactnessShould our griefs, our pains be mentioned.A back tooth a man once maddened,And a barber came to draw it.As he sat with jaws expanded,"Which tooth is it, sir, that pains you?"Asked of him the honest barber,And the patient in affectedLanguage grandly thus made answer,"The penultimate"; the dentistNot being used to such pedanticTalk as this, with ready forcepsSoon the last of all extracted.The poor patient to be certain,With his tongue the spot examined,And exclaimed, his mouth all bleeding,"Why, that 's not the right tooth, master"."Is it not the ultimate molar?"Said the barber quite as grandly."Yes" (he answered), "but I saidThe penultimate, and I 'd have youKnow, your worship, that it meansSimply that that 's next the farthest".Thus instructed, he returnedTo the attack once more, remarking"In effect then the bad toothIs the one that 's next the last one?""Yes", he said, "then here it is",Spoke the barber with great smartness,Plucking out the tooth that thenWas the last but one; it happenedFrom not speaking plain, he lostTwo good teeth, and kept his bad one.
Claudius.Come and something newer learnIn the stratagem his fatherHas arranged to cure the illnessOf Chrysanthus, whom he fancies . . .
Escarpin.What?
Claudius.40 pixelIs spell-bound by the ChristiansThrough the power of their enchantments:—(Since to-day I cannot see thee, [aside.Cynthia fair, forgive my absence). [Exit.
Escarpin.While these matters thus proceed,I shall try, let what will happen,Thee to see, divine Daria:—At my love, oh! be not angered,Since the penalty of beautyIs to be beloved: then pardon. [Exit.