THE DRAMA
"Whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own features, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure."
1. THE BEGINNINGS OF ROMAN LITERATURE
AND OLD ROMAN TRAGEDY
When Greece was at the height of her glory, and Greek literature was in its flower; when Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, all within two brilliant generations, were holding the polite world under the magic spell of their dramatic art, their rough and almost unknown Roman neighbors were just emerging from tradition into history. There the atmosphere was altogether one of struggle. The king-ruled Romans, long oppressed, had at last swept away that crumbling kingdom, and established upon its ruins the young republic; the unconsidered masses, still oppressed, were just heaving themselves up into legal recognition, and had already obtained their tribunes, and a little later the boon of a published law—the famous Law of the Twelve Tables, the first Roman code.
Three years before this, and in preparation for it, a committee of three Roman statesmen, the so-called triumvirs, had gone to Athens to study the laws of Solon. This visit was made in 454 B. C. Æschylus had died two years before; Sophocles had become famous, and Euripides had just brought out his first play. As those three Romans sat in the theater at Athens, beneath the open sky, surrounded by the cultured and pleasure-loving Greeks, as they listened to the impassioned lines of the popular favorite, unable to understand except for the actor's art—what a contrast was presented between these two nations which had as yet never crossed each other's paths, but which were destined to come together at last in mutual conquest. The grounds and prophecy of this conquest were even now present. The Roman triumvirs came to learn Greek law, and they learned it so well that they became lawgivers not alone for Greece but for all the world; the triumvirs felt that day the charm of Greek art, and this was but a premonition of that charm which fell more masterfully upon Rome in later years, and took her literature and all kindred arts completely captive.
Still from that day, for centuries to come, the Romans had sterner business than the cultivation of the arts of peace. They had themselves and Italy to conquer; they had a still unshaped state to establish; they had their ambitions, growing as their power increased, to gratify; they had jealous neighbors in Greece, Africa, and Gaul to curb. In such rough, troubled soil as this, literature could not take root and flourish. They were not, it is true, without the beginnings of native literature. Their religious worship inspired rude hymns to their gods; their generals, coming home, inscribed the records of their victory in rough Saturnian verse on commemorative tablets; there were ballads at banquets, and dirges at funerals. Also the natural mimicry of the Italian peasantry had no doubt for ages indulged itself in uncouth performances of a dramatic nature, which developed later into those mimes and farces, the forerunners of native Roman comedy and the old Medley-Satura. Yet in these centuries Rome knew no letters worthy of the name save the laws on which she built her state; no arts save the arts of war.
But in her course of Italian conquest, she had finally come into conflict with those Greek colonists who had long since been taking peaceful possession of Italy along the southeastern border. These Græco-Roman struggles in Italy, which arose in consequence, culminated in the fall of Tarentum, B. C. 272; and with this victory the conquest of the Italian peninsula was complete.
This event meant much for the development of Italian literature; it meant new impulse and opportunity—the impulse of close and quickening contact with Greek thought, and the opportunity afforded by the internal calm consequent upon the completed subjugation of Italy. Joined with these two influences was a third which came with the end of the first Punic War, a generation afterward. Rome has now taken her first fateful step toward world empire; she has leaped across Sicily and set victorious foot in Africa; has successfully met her first great foreign enemy. The national pride and exaltation consequent upon this triumph gave favorable atmosphere and encouragement for those impulses which had already been stirred.
The first Punic War was ended in 241 B. C. In the following year the first effects of the Hellenic influence upon Roman literature were witnessed, and the first literary work in the Latin language of which we have definite record was produced at Rome. This was by Livius Andronicus, a Greek from Tarentum, who was brought to Rome as a captive upon the fall of that city. He came as the slave of M. Livius Salinator, who employed him as a tutor for his sons in Latin and Greek, and afterward set him free to follow the same profession independently. That he might have a Latin text from which to teach that language, he himself translated into the Roman tongue the Odyssey of Homer and some plays of the Greek tragedians—the first professor of Latin on record! These same translations, strangely enough, remained school text-books in Rome for centuries.
His first public work, to which we have referred above, was the production of a play; but whether tragedy or comedy we do not know. It was at any rate, without doubt, a translation into the crude, unpolished, and heavy Latin of his time, from some Greek original. His tragedies, of which only forty-one lines of fragments, representing nine plays, have come down to us, are all on Greek subjects, and are probably only translations or bald imitations of the Greek originals.
The example set by Andronicus was followed by four Romans of marked ability, whose life and work form a continuous chain of literary activity from Nævius, who was but a little younger than Andronicus, and who brought out his first play in 235 B. C.; through Ennius, who first established tragedy upon a firm foundation in Rome; through Pacuvius, the nephew of Ennius and his worthy successor, to the death of Accius in (about) 94 B. C., who was the last and greatest of the old Roman tragedians.
As to the themes of these early tragedies, a few of them were upon subjects taken from Roman history. Tragedies of this class were called fabulæ prætextæ, because the actors wore the native Roman dress. When we think of the great value which these plays would have to-day, not only from a literary but also from a historical point of view, we cannot but regret keenly their almost utter loss. In the vast majority of cases, however, the old Roman tragedy was upon subjects taken from the traditional Greek cycles of stories, and was closely modeled after the Greek tragedies themselves. Æschylus and Sophocles were imitated to some extent, but Euripides was the favorite.
While these tragedies were Greek in subject and form, it is not at all necessary to suppose that they were servile imitations or translations merely of the Greek originals. The Romans did undoubtedly impress their national spirit upon that which they borrowed, in tragedy just as in all things else. Indeed, the great genius of Rome consisted partly in this—her wonderful power to absorb and assimilate material from every nation with which she came in contact. Rome might borrow, but what she had borrowed she made her own completely, for better or for worse. The resulting differences between Greek literature and a Hellenized Roman literature would naturally be the differences between the Greek and Roman type of mind. Where the Greek was naturally religious and contemplative, the Roman was practical and didactic. He was grave and intense, fond of exalted ethical effects, appeals to national pride; and above all, insisted that nothing should offend that exaggerated sense of both personal and national dignity which characterized the Roman everywhere.
All these characteristics made the Romanized Greek tragedies immensely popular; but, strangely enough, this did not develop a truly national Roman tragedy, as was the case, for instance, with epic and lyric literature. We have already seen how meager was the production of the fabulæ prætextæ. With the rich national traditions and history to inspire this, we can account for the failure to develop a native Roman tragedy only upon the assumption that the Roman lacked the gift of dramatic invention, at least to the extent of originating and developing great dramatic plots and characters, which form the essential elements of tragic drama.
We shall not weary the reader with quotations from the extant fragments of old Roman tragedy, fragments which, isolated as they are, can prove next to nothing as to the development of the plot or the other essential characteristics of a drama. A play is not like an animal: it cannot be reconstructed from a single fragment. It will be profitable, however, to dwell upon a few of these fragments, in order to get some idea of the nature and contents of all that is left of an extensive literature.
There is a very dramatic fragment of the Alexander or Paris of Ennius. It represents Cassandra, in prophetic raving, predicting the destruction which her brother Paris is to bring upon his fatherland. It is said that Hecuba, queen of Troy, before the birth of Paris, dreamed that she had brought forth a firebrand. Remembering this, Cassandra cries out at sight of her brother:
Here it is; here, the torch, wrapped in fire and blood. Many years it hath lain hid; help, citizens, and extinguish it. For now, on the great sea, a swift fleet is gathering. It hurries along a host of calamities. They come: a fierce host lines the shores with sail-winged ships.
Sellar.
Several of the fragments show a certain measure of descriptive power and poetic imagination in these early tragedians. The following passage from the Argonautæ of Accius shows this to a marked degree. It is a description of the first ship, Argo, as she goes plowing through the sea. It is supposed to be spoken by a rustic who from the shore is watching the vessel's progress. It should be remembered that the great boat is as strange a sight to him as were the ships of Columbus to the natives of newly discovered America. Hence the strange and seemingly strained metaphors.
The mighty mass glides on,
Like some loud-panting monster of the deep;
Back roll the waves, in eddying masses whirled.
It rushes on, besprinkling all the sea
With flying spray like backward streaming breath;
As when one sees the cloud-rack whirled along,
Or some huge mass of rock reft off and driven
By furious winds, or seething whirlpools, high
Upbeaten by the ever-rushing waves;
Or else when Ocean crashes on the shore,
Or Triton, from the caverns of the sea,
Far down beneath the swelling waters' depths,
A rocky mass to upper heaven uprears.
Miller.
Sellar, in speaking of the feeling for natural beauty, says of Accius: "The fragments of Accius afford the first hint of that enjoyment of natural beauty which enters largely into a later age"; and quotes the following passage from the Oenomaus as "perhaps the first instance in Latin poetry of a descriptive passage which gives any hint of the pleasure derived from contemplating the common aspects of nature":
By chance before the dawn, harbinger of burning rays, when the husbandmen bring forth the oxen from their rest into the fields, that they may break the red, dew-sprinkled soil with the plough, and turn up the clods from the soft soil.
When we read this delightful passage, and then turn to the exquisite and fuller pictures of natural beauty which Lucretius and Vergil have left us, we shall agree that Accius was himself indeed the "harbinger of burning rays."
2. LATER ROMAN TRAGEDY AND SENECA
Tragedy long continued to flourish after Accius, but its vitality was gone. Such men as Pollio, Varius, and Ovid in the Augustan period, and Maternus, Pomponius Secundus, and Lucan in the first century A. D., amused themselves by writing tragedies, and even produced some commendable work. Varius, who was the personal friend of Vergil and Horace, was perhaps the most gifted of these. He wrote a tragedy on Thyestes which was presented as part of the public rejoicings after the battle of Actium. Of this play Quintilian said that it would stand comparison with any Greek tragedy. Ovid also wrote a tragedy on Medea, which was highly praised by Roman critics. Maternus wrote tragedies on Medea and Thyestes, as well as prætextæ on Domitius and Cato. Of all these nothing remains but the barest fragments. But it is certain that the efforts of these later tragedians were for the most part of a dilettante sort, and that their plays were purely literary (see, however, the case of Varius), intended for dramatic reading and declamation, rather than for presentation upon the stage.
Of this sort also were the ten tragedies commonly attributed to L. Annæus Seneca, the philosopher, who is better known as the author of numerous philosophical essays. He lived in the time of Nero, and was, indeed, the tutor of that emperor. Of these ten plays, nine are modeled after the Greek, and one, the Octavia, which is undoubtedly not Seneca's, is a prætexta, in which Seneca himself appears.
These plays are of especial interest to us, aside from their intrinsic value, for the triple reason that they are the sole representatives of Roman tragedy preserved entire, that they reflect the literary complexion of the artificial age in which they were produced, and that they had so large an influence in shaping the early English drama. They are, in fact, the stepping-stone between ancient and modern, Greek and English, drama.
As to their style, even a cursory reading reveals their extreme declamatory nature, the delight of the author in the horrible and weird, the pains he has taken to select from the Greek sources the most harrowing of all the tales as the foundation of his tragedies, the boldness with which he has broken over the time-honored rule that deeds of blood should not be done upon the stage, and his fondness for abstruse mythological allusions. Add to these features the dreary prolixity with which the author spoils many of his descriptive passages, protracting them often into veritable catalogues of places and things, also his frequent exaggerations and repetitions, and we have the chief defects of these tragedies.
And yet they have equally marked excellences. They abound in brilliant epigrams, graphic descriptions, touching pathos, magnificent passion, subtile analysis of character and motive. But when all is said, it must be admitted that the plays, faults and virtues included, are highly rhetorical and artificial, such alone as that artificial age would be expected to produce.
Such as they were, and perhaps because they were what they were, the tragedies of Seneca, rather than the Greek plays, were the model for Italian, French, and early English tragedy. The first and obvious reason for this no doubt is the fact that the Middle Age of Europe was an age of Latin rather than of Greek scholarship, so far as popular scholarship was concerned. And this made Seneca rather than Euripides available. But it is also probable that his style and spirit appealed strongly to those later-day imitators. So great, indeed, was the popularity of Seneca's tragedies in the early Elizabethan age, that he might be said to have monopolized the attention of writers of that time. He was a favorite with the schools as a classical text-book, as old Roger Ascham testifies; and his works were translated entire into English then for the first time by five English scholars, and collected into a single volume in 1581 by Thomas Newton, one of the translators.
In addition to the version of 1581, the tragedies of Seneca were again translated into English by Glover in 1761. Since that date no English version was attempted until the present writer a few years ago undertook the task again, and produced a metrical version of three of these plays.
We have selected the tragedy of Medea for presentation to the readers of this volume as an illustration of the Senecan tragedy, and (alas for the fate of so many noble works!) of the entire field of Roman tragedy. It follows Euripides in general development of the plot; but if the reader will take the trouble to compare the two plays, he will find that the imitation is by no means close.
Although the play is confined in time to the final day of catastrophe at Corinth, the background is the whole romantic story of the Argonauts: how Jason and his hero-comrades, at the instigation of Pelias, the usurping king of Thessalian Iolchos, undertook the first voyage in quest of the golden fleece; how after many adventures these first sailors reached the kingdom of Æëtes, who jealously guarded the fleece, since upon its possession depended his own kingship; how the three deadly labors were imposed upon Jason before the fleece could be won; how, smitten by love of him, the beautiful, barbaric Medea, daughter of the king, by the help of her magic, aided Jason in all his labors and accompanied him in his flight; how, to retard her father's pursuit, she slew her brother and scattered his mangled remains in the path as she fled; how again, for love of Jason, she restored his father to youth, and tricked Pelias' own daughters into slaying their aged sire; how, for this act, Medea and her husband were exiled from Thessaly and went and dwelt in Corinth; how, for ten happy years, she lived with her husband and two sons in this alien land, her wild past almost forgotten, her magic untouched. But now Jason has been gradually won away from his wife, and is about to wed Creüsa, the daughter of Creon, king of Corinth. The wedding festivities have already begun, when the play opens and reveals Medea invoking all the powers of heaven and hell in punishment of her false lord.
Into her frenzied and dreadful imprecations breaks the sound of sweet voices from without of a chorus of Corinthian women, chanting the epithalamium for the nuptials of Jason and Creüsa.
Hearing this cruel song in praise of her rival and of her false husband, Medea goes into a wilder passion of rage. Medea's old nurse tries to soothe her mistress and recall her to her right mind by wise saws and prudent philosophy. But the flood of passion will not be checked.
Nurse.
Be silent now, I pray thee, and thy plaints confine
To secret woe. The man who heavy blows can bear
In silence, biding still his time with patient soul,
Full oft his vengeance gains. 'Tis hidden wrath that harms;
But hate proclaimed oft loses half its power to harm.
Medea.
But small the grief is that can counsel take and hide
Its head; great ills lie not in hiding, but must rush
Abroad and work their will.
Nurse.
O cease this mad complaint,
My mistress; scarce can friendly silence help thee now.
Medea.
But Fortune fears the brave, the faint of heart o'erwhelms.
Nurse.
Then valor be approved, if for it still there's room.
Medea.
But it must always be that valor finds its place.
Nurse.
No star of hope points out the way from these our woes.
Medea.
The man who hopes for naught at least has naught to fear.
Nurse.
The Colchians are thy foes; thy husband's vows have failed;
Of all thy vast possessions not a jot is left.
Medea. Yet I am left. There's left both sea and land and fire
And sword and gods and hurtling thunderbolts.
Nurse.
The king must be revered.
Medea.
My father was a king.
Nurse.
Dost thou not fear?
Medea.
Not though the earth produced the foe.
Nurse.
Thou'lt perish.
Medea.
So I wish it.
Nurse.
Flee!
Medea.
I'm done with flight.
Why should Medea flee?
Nurse.
Thy children!
Medea.
Whose, thou know'st.
Nurse.
And dost thou still delay?
Medea.
I go, but vengeance first.
Nurse.
Th' avenger will pursue.
Medea.
Perchance I'll stop his course.
Nurse.
Nay, hold thy words and cease thy threats, O foolish one.
Thy temper curb; 'tis well to yield to fate's decrees.
Medea.
Though fate may strip me of my all, myself am left.
But who flings wide the royal palace doors? Behold,
'Tis Creon's self, exalted high in Grecian sway.
[Medea retires to the back of the stage.
Creon.
[As he enters.] Medea, baleful daughter of the Colchian king,
Has not yet taken her hateful presence from our realm.
On mischief is she bent; well known her treacherous power.
For who escapes her? Who may pass his days in peace?
This cursed pestilence at once would I have stayed
By force of arms: but Jason's prayers prevailed. She still
May live, but let her free my borders from the fear
Her presence genders, and her safety gain by flight.
[He sees Medea approaching.]
But lo, she comes with fierce and threatening mien to seek
An audience with us.
Slaves! defend us from her touch
And pestilential presence! Bid her silence keep,
And learn at length obedience to the king's
Commands.
[To Medea.] Go, speed thy flight, thou thing of evil, fell
And monstrous!
Medea.
What the crime, my lord, or what the guilt
That merits exile?
Creon.
Let the guiltless question thus.
Medea.
If now thou judgest, hear me; if thou reign'st, command.
Creon.
The king's command thou must obey, nor question aught.
Medea.
Unrighteous kingdoms never long endure.
Creon.
Go, bear
Thy plaints to Colchis.
Medea.
Yea, but let him take me hence
Who brought me to thy shores.
Creon.
Too late thy prayer, for fixed
Is my decree.
Medea.
Who sits in judgment and denies
His ear to either suitor, though his judgment right
Appear, is still himself unrighteous.
Creon.
Didst thou lend
Thine ear to Pelias, ere thou judgedst him to death?—
But come, I'll give thee grace to plead thy goodly cause.
Medea.
How hard the task to turn the soul from wrath, when once
To wrath inclined; how 'tis the creed of sceptered kings
To swerve not from the proposed course they once have taken,
Full well I know, for I have tasted royalty.
For, though by present storms of ill I'm overwhelmed,
An exile, suppliant, lone, forsaken, all undone,
I once in happier times a royal princess shone,
And traced my proud descent from heavenly Phoebus' self.
Then princes humbly sought my hand in wedlock, mine,
Who now must sue.—
O changeful Fortune, thou my throne
Hast reft away, and given me exile in its stead.
Trust not in kingly realms, since fickle chance may strew
Their treasures to the winds. Lo this is regal, this
The work of kings, which time nor change cannot undo:
To succor the afflicted, to provide at need
A trusty refuge for the suppliant. This alone
I brought of all my Colchian treasure, this renown,
This very flower of fame,—that by my arts I saved
The bulwark of the Greeks, the offspring of the gods.
My princely gift to Greece is Orpheus, that sweet bard,
Who can the trees in willing bondage draw, and melt
The crag's hard heart. Mine too are Boreas' winged sons,
And Leda's heaven-born progeny, and Lynceus, he
Whose glance can pierce the distant view; yea, all the Greeks,
Save Jason; for I mention not the king of kings,
The leader of the leaders: he is mine alone,
My labor's recompense. The rest I give to you.
Nay, come, O king, arraign me, and rehearse my crimes.
But stay! for I'll confess them all. The only crime
Of which I stand accused is this—the Argo saved.
Suppose my maiden scruples had opposed the deed;
Suppose my filial piety had stayed my hand:
Then had the mighty chieftains fall'n, and in their fate
All Greece had been o'erwhelmed; then this thy son-in-law
Had felt the bull's consuming breath, and perished there.
Nay, nay, let Fortune when she will my doom decree;
I glory still that kings have owed their lives to me.
But what reward I reap for all my glorious deeds
Is in thy hands. Convict me, if thou wilt, of sin,
But give him back for whom I sinned. O Creon, see,
I own that I am guilty. This much thou didst know,
When first I clasped thy knees, a humble suppliant,
And sought the shelter of thy royal clemency.
Some little corner of thy kingdom now I ask
In which to hide my grief. If I must flee again,
O let some nook remote within thy broad domain
Be found for me!
Creon claims to have been merciful in having shielded Jason and Medea all these years from the just resentment of the king of Thessaly. Jason's cause would be easy enough to defend, for he has been innocent of guilt; but it is impossible longer to shield Medea, who has committed so many bloody deeds in the past, and is capable of doing the like again.
Creon.
Then go thou hence and purge our kingdom of its stain;
Bear with thee in thy flight thy fatal poisons; free
The state from fear; abiding in some other land,
Outwear the patience of the gods.
Medea.
Thou bidst me flee?
Then give me back my bark in which to flee. Restore
The partner of my flight. Why should I flee alone?
I came not thus. Or if avenging war thou fear'st,
Then banish both the culprits; why distinguish me
From Jason? 'Twas for him old Pelias was o'ercome;
For him the flight, the plunder of my father's realm,
My sire forsaken and my infant brother slain,
And all the guilt that love suggests; 'twas all for him.
Deep-dyed in sin am I, but on my guilty soul
The sin of profit lieth not.
Creon.
Why seek delay
By speech? Too long thou tarriest.
Medea.
I go, but grant
This last request: let not the mother's fall o'erwhelm
her hapless babes.
Creon.
Then go in peace; for I to them
A father's place will fill, and take them to my breast.
Medea.
Now by the fair hopes born upon this wedding day,
And by thy hopes of lasting sovereignty secure
From changeful fate's assault, I pray thee grant from flight
A respite brief, while I upon my children's lips
A mother's kiss imprint, perchance the last.
Creon.
A time
Thou seek'st for treachery.
Medea.
What fraud can be devised
In one short hour?
Creon.
To those on mischief bent, be sure,
The briefest time is fraught with mischief's fatal power.
Medea.
Dost thou refuse me, then, one little space for tears?
Creon.
Though deep-ingrafted fear would fain resist thy plea,
A single day I'll give thee ere my sentence holds.
Medea.
Too gracious thou. But let my respite further shrink,
And I'll depart content.
Creon.
Thy life shall surely pay
The forfeit if to-morrow's sun beholds thee still
In Corinth.
But the voice of Hymen calls away
To solemnize the rites of this his festal day.
Creon goes out toward his palace. Medea remains gazing darkly after him for a few moments, and then takes her way in the opposite direction.
The chorus sings in reminiscent strain of the old days before the Argo's voyage, the simple innocent life of the golden age when each man was content to dwell within the horizon of his birth; the impious rash voyage of the Argonauts, their dreadful experiences in consequence, their wild adventure's prize of fatal gold and more fatal Colchian sorceress; their dark forebodings of the consequences in after years, when the sea shall be a highway, and all hidden places of the world laid bare. Medea comes rushing in bent upon using for vengeance the day which Creon has granted her. The nurse tries in vain to restrain her.
Nurse.
My foster daughter, whither speedest thou abroad?
O stay, I pray thee, and restrain thy passion's force.
But Medea hastens by without answering or noticing her. The nurse, looking after her, reflects in deep distress:
As some wild bacchanal, whose fury's raging fire
The god inflames, now roams distraught on Pindus' snows,
And now on lofty Nysa's rugged slopes; so she
Now here, now there, with frenzied step is hurried on,
Her face revealing every mark of stricken woe,
With flushing cheek and sighs deep drawn, wild cries
and tears,
And laughter worse than tears. In her a medley strange
Of doubts and fears is seen, and overtopping wrath,
Bewailings, bitter groans of anguish.—Whither tends
This overburdened soul? What mean her frenzied threats?
When will the foaming wave of fury spend itself?
No common crime, I fear, no easy deed of ill
She meditates. Herself she will outvie. For well
I recognize the wonted marks of rage. Some deed
Is threatening, wild, profane and hideous. Behold,
Her face betrays her madness. O ye gods, may these
Our fears prove vain forebodings!
Our own imaginations and our fears keep pace with those of the devoted nurse, and we listen in fearful silence while Medea, communing with her tortured soul, reveals the depth of suffering and hate into which she has been plunged.
Medea.
For thy hate, poor soul,
Dost thou a measure seek? Let it be deep as love.
And shall I tamely view the wedding torches' glare?
And shall this day go uneventful by, this day
So hardly won, so grudgingly bestowed? Nay, nay;
While, poised upon her heights, the central earth shall
bear
The heavens up; while seasons run their endless round,
And sands unnumbered lie; while days and nights and sun
And stars in due procession pass; while round the pole
The ocean-fearing bears revolve, and tumbling streams
Flow downward to the sea: my grief shall never cease
To seek revenge, and shall forever grow. What rage
Of savage beast can equal mine? What Scylla famed?
What sea-engulfing pool? What burning Ætna placed
On impious Titan's heaving breast? No torrent stream,
Nor storm-tossed sea, nor breath of flame fanned by
the gale,
Can check or equal my wild storm of rage. My will
Is set on limitless revenge!
But this wild rage can lead nowhere. She struggles to calm her terrible passion to still more terrible reason and resolve.
Will Jason say
He feared the power of Creon and Acastus' wrath?—
True love is proof against the fear of man. But grant
He was compelled to yield, and pledged his hand in fear:
He might at least have sought his wife with one last word
Of comfort and farewell. But this, though brave in heart,
He feared to do. The cruel terms of banishment
Could Creon's son-in-law not soften? No. One day
Alone was given for last farewell to both my babes.
But time's short space I'll not bewail; though brief in
hours,
In consequence it stretches out eternally.
This day shall see a deed that ne'er shall be forgot.—
But now I'll go and pray the gods, and move high heaven
But I shall work my will!
As Medea hastens from the scene, Jason himself enters; and now we hear from his own lips the fatal dilemma in which he finds himself. Regard for his marriage vows, love for his children, and fear of death at the hands of Creon—all are at variance and must be faced. It is the usual tragedy of fate.
Jason.
O heartless fate, if frowns or smiles bedeck thy brow!
How often are thy cures far worse than the disease
They seek to cure! If, now, I wish to keep the troth
I plighted to my lawful bride, my life must pay
The forfeit; if I shrink from death, my guilty soul
Must perjured be. I fear no power that man can wield,
But in my heart paternal love unmans me quite;
For well I know that in my death my children's fate
Is sealed. O sacred Justice, if in heaven thou dwell'st,
Be witness now that for my children's sake I act.
Nay, sure am I that even she, Medea's self,
Though fierce she is of soul, and brooking no restraint,
Will see her children's good outweighing all her wrongs.
With this good argument my purpose now is fixed,
In humble wise to brave her wrath.
[Re-enter Medea.] But lo! at sight
Of me her fury flames anew! Hate, like a shield,
She bears, and in her face is pictured all her woe.
But Medea's passion has for the moment spent itself. She is now no sorceress, no mad woman breathing out dreadful threatenings; but only the forsaken wife, indignant, indeed, but pathetic in her appeals for sympathy and help from him for whose sake she had given up all her maiden glory, and broken every tie that held her to the past. Her quiet self-control is in marked contrast to her recent ravings.
Medea.
Thou seest, Jason, that we flee. 'Tis no new thing
To 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'st
From out thy home? Shall I the Colchians seek again,
My royal father's realm whose soil is steeped in blood
My brother shed? What country dost thou bid me seek?
What way by sea is open? Shall I fare again
Where 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 back
To 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 forth
To 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 forgot
Mine own.
And now, by all thy fond paternal hopes,
By thine established house, by all the monsters slain
For thee, by these my hands which I have ever held
To 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 tribes
Of India, which filled our goodly vaults with wealth,
And decked our very trees with gold. This costly store
I 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 guilt
Must all be mine, if all thy crimes are mine.
Medea.
They are,
They are all thine: for who by sin advantage gains
Commits 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 gain
Has 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 sake
Be calm.
Medea.
My children! Them I do refuse, reject,
Renounce! Shall then Creüsa brothers bear to these
My 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 these
The sons of Phoebus.
Jason.
Wretched one, and wilt thou, then
Involve 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 power
Doth 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 see
With 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 self
To 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 flames
Of vengeance loose, and shake the lofty firmament
With rending storms! At random hurl thy vengeful bolts,
Selecting neither me nor Jason with thy aim,
That thus whoever falls may perish with the brand
Of guilt upon him. For thy hurtling darts can take
No erring flight.
Jason.
Recall thee and in calmness speak
With words of peace and reason. Then if any gift
From Creon's royal house can compensate thy woes,
Take that as solace of thy flight.
Medea.
My soul doth scorn
The wealth of kings. But let me have my little ones
As comrades of my flight, that in their childish breasts
Their 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 flaw
Reveals 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 depart
Grant me this last request: let me once more embrace
My 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 remain
To rankle in thy heart. Remember happier things
Of 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 strength
And 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 makes
The 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 comrade
of 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 gift
Of Phoebus' self to King Æëtes as a proof
Of fatherhood; a gleaming circlet, too, all wrought
With threads of gold, the yellow gold bespangled o'er
With gems, a fitting crown to deck a princess' head.
These treasures let Medea's children bear as gifts
To Jason's bride. But first imbue them with the power
Of 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 approach
Of some unseen disaster. Swiftly grows her grief,
Its own fires kindling; and again her passion's force
Hath leaped to life. I oft have seen her, with the fit
Of 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 these
Medea is preparing. For, but now, did she
With step of frenzy hurry off until she reached
Her stricken home. There, in her chamber, all her stores
Of magic wonders are revealed; once more she views
The 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'er
With serpent venom, mixing all; and in the broth
She 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 comes
She chants her charms, while heaven and earth convulsive
rock.
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 come
To aid; put on thy sternest guise, thou goddess dread
Of triple form! Full oft have I with flowing locks,
And feet unsandaled, wandered through thy darkling groves,
And by thy inspiration summoned forth the rain
From 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 Sea
The 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 winds
All silent lie. At my command primeval groves
Have lost their leafy shade, and Phoebus, wrapped in gloom,
Has stood in middle heaven; while falling Hyades
Attest 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 these
My 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 outshine
Her marriage torches!—Lo, my prayer
Is heard: thrice have replied the hounds,
The baying hounds of Hecate.
Now all is ready: hither call
My sons, and let them bear the gifts
As costly presents to the bride. [Enter sons.]
Go, go, my sons, of hapless mother born,
And win with gifts and many prayers
The 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 the
opposite 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 will
Of 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 water feed the deadly flames;
And opposition only fans their fiery rage
To 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 headlong
flight!
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 revenge
Is that which gives thee present joy? Not yet has love
Been banished from thy maddened heart if 'tis enough
That Jason widowed be. Pursue thy vengeful quest
To 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 innocent
Beside thy present deeds. Come, let them know how slight
Were those thy crimes already done; mere training they
For greater deeds. For what could hands untrained in crime
Accomplish? Or what mattered maiden rage? But now,
I am Medea; in the bitter school of woe
My 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 bring
To 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 conceived
A purpose which I dare not utter. O I fear
That in my foolish madness I have gone too far.—
I would that children had been born to him of this
My 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 pervades
My 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 hand
And thought be that unnamable and hideous deed!
What sin have they that shedding of their wretched blood
Would 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 tears
While 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. Unharmed
Your 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 now
My 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 fire
Is 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 boast
Of Niobe! But all too barren have I been.
Still will my two sufficient be to satisfy
My brother and my sire.
She suddenly falls distraught, as one who sees a dreadful vision.
But whither hastes that throng
Of furies? What their quest? What mean their brandished
fires?
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 shade
Comes gibbering there with scattered limbs?—It is my
brother!
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 depart
And go in peace down to the lowest shades of Hell.
And do thou leave me to myself, and let this hand
That slew thee with the sword now offer sacrifice
Unto 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 complete
This 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 this
deed
Lose 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 spoil
Of precious gold, and by the magic of this hour
I am a maid once more! O heavenly powers appeased
At 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 hesitate
Upon the threshold of the deed? Thou canst perform it.
Now wrath has died within me, and my soul is filled
With shame and deep remorse. Ah me, what have I done,
Wretch that I am? Wretch that thou art, well mayest thou
mourn,
For thou hast done it!—At that thought delirious joy
O'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 performed
If to his grief be added not the woe of sight.
Jason.
[discovering her.] Lo, there she stands upon the
lofty battlements!
Bring torches! Fire the house! That she may fall ensnared
By 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 bride
And 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 die
Before 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 give
To be the victim. Take my guilty soul for his.
Medea.
'Tis for thy prayers and tears I draw, not sheathe the
sword.
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 satisfy
My boundless grief.
Jason.
Then finish what thou hast begun—
I ask no more—and grant at least that no delay
Prolong 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 gods
can be.
3. ROMAN COMEDY
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 the Phormio of 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 named Phormio from 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. She was a 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, that was a 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 comments sotto 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.
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 I don't know. 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 it fui minæ. Phor. Ho! ho! ho! Well, you are a 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.
The two old men go into Chremes' house; and now Geta finds himself confronted by the indignant Antipho, who has hardly been able to contain himself during this (to him) inexplicable dialogue, in which his wife was being coolly bargained away. It is only with the greatest difficulty that Geta can make the angry bridegroom appreciate the ruse by which the money has been obtained for Phædria's use. In the end Antipho goes off to tell the news to Phædria. Demipho and Chremes now come out, the former with a bag of money in his hand. He wants it understood that no one can cheat him; he is going to be very business-like and have ample witness to the transactions. Chremes' only desire is that the business may be settled as soon as possible. Demipho now tells Geta to lead the way to Phormio, and they start toward the Forum. Chremes' troubles are only in part allayed. His Lemnian daughter's marriage with Antipho seems now safely provided for, but where is his Lemnian daughter and her mother? That they are here in Athens fills him with terror. He paces back and forth in deep thought, muttering:
Where can I find those women now, I wonder?
And just at this moment out from Demipho's house comes old Sophrona, Phanium's nurse, who also seems to be in great distress:
O, what shall I do? Where shall I find a friend in my distress, or to whom shall I go for advice? Where get help? For I'm afraid that my young mistress is going to get into trouble from this marriage that I persuaded her into. I hear that the young man's father is very much put out about it. Chr. [aside]. Who in the world is this old woman coming out of my brother's house? So. But want made me advise her as I did, though I knew that the marriage was a bit shaky, in order that for awhile at least we might be sure of our living. Chr. [aside in great excitement]. By Jove! unless I'm much mistaken, or my eyes don't see straight, that's my daughter's nurse! So. And I can't get any trace of the man who is her father. Chr. [aside]. Shall I go up to her, or shall I wait until I understand better what she's talking about? So. But if I could only find him now, I'd have nothing to fear. Chr. [aside]. It is Sophrona; I'll speak to her. [Calling softly]. Sophrona! So. Who is this I hear calling my name? Chr. Look here, Sophrona. So. [finally looking the right way]. My goodness gracious! Is this Stilpho? Chr. No. So. No? Chr. [drawing her cautiously away from the vicinity of his house]. Say, Sophrona, come away a little from that door, will you? And don't you ever call me by that name again. So. O, my goodness, aren't you the man you always said you were? Chr. Sh! So. What makes you so afraid of that door? Chr. I've got a savage wife shut up there. I gave you the wrong name on purpose, that you might not thoughtlessly blurt it out in public sometime, and so let my wife here get wind of it. So. And so that's the reason why we poor women could never find you here. Chr. Tell me now what business you have with this household from which you have just come out. Where are those women? So. [with a burst of tears]. O dear me! Chr. How? What's that? Aren't they alive? So. Your daughter is. But the mother, sick at heart over this business, is dead. Chr. That's too bad! So. And then, considering that I was just a lonely old woman, in a strange city without a cent of money, I think I did pretty well for the girl, for I married her off to the young man the heir of this family here. Chr. What, Antipho? So. Why, yes! Chr. You don't mean to say he's got two wives? So. O gracious, no! This is the only one. Chr. But what about that other girl who is said to be related to him? So. Why, this is the one. Chr. [beside himself with joy and wonder]. You don't mean it! So. That was a cooked up scheme that her lover might marry her without a dowry. Chr. Thank heaven for that! How often things come about by mere chance that you wouldn't dare hope for! Here I find my daughter happily married to the very man I had picked out for her! What my brother and I were taking the greatest pains to bring about, here this old woman, without any help from us, all by herself, has done. So. But now, sir, we've got to bestir ourselves. The young man's father is back, and they say he's in a terrible stew about it. Chr. O, there's no danger on that score. But, for heaven's sake, don't let any one find out that she's my daughter. So. Well, no one shall find it out from me. Chr. Now you follow me, we'll talk about the rest inside. [They go into Demipho's house.]
Demipho and Geta appear in a brief scene, in which the former grumblingly comments upon the bargain which they have just made with Phormio. He disappears into his brother's house. Geta, left alone, soliloquizes upon the situation and sums it up so far as it is known to him. As he disappears into Demipho's house, the latter is seen coming out of his brother's house with his brother's wife, Nausistrata, whom in fulfilment of his promise he is taking in to see Phanium in order to reconcile the bride to the new arrangements that have been made for her.
And just at this moment Chremes comes rushing out of his brother's house; he calls to Demipho, not seeing in his excitement that Nausistrata is also on the stage.
Chr. Say, Demipho! Have you paid the money yet? Dem. Yes, I've tended to that. Chr. Well, I wish you hadn't. [Aside as he sees his wife]. Gracious! There's my wife! I almost said too much. Dem. Why do you wish it, Chremes? Chr. O, that's all right. Dem. What do you mean? Have you talked with the girl on whose account I'm taking Nausistrata in? Chr. Yes, I've had a talk with her. Dem. Well, what does she say? Chr. She can't be disturbed. Dem. Why can't she? Chr. O, because—they're so fond of each other. Dem. What difference does that make to us? Chr. A great deal. And besides, I've found that she's related to us, after all. Dem. What's that? You're off your base. Chr. No, I'm not. I know what I'm talking about. I remember all about it now. Dem. Surely, you are crazy. Naus. I beg you won't do any harm to a relative. Dem. She's no relative. Chr. Don't say that. She gave the wrong name for her father. That's where you make your mistake. Dem. Nonsense! Didn't she know her own father? Chr. Yes, she knew him. Dem. Well, then, why didn't she tell his right name? Chr. [apart to Demipho, in low, desperate tones]. Won't you ever let up? Won't you understand? Dem. How can I, if you tell me nothing? Chr. O, you'll be the death of me. Naus. I wonder what it's all about. Dem. I'll be blest if I know. Chr. Do you want to know? I swear to you there's no one nearer to her than you and I. Dem. Good gracious! Let's go to her, then. Let's all together get to the bottom of this business. [He starts toward his house with Nausistrata]. Chr. I say, Demipho! Dem. Well, what now? Chr. [angrily]. Have you so little confidence in me as that? Dem. Do you want me to take your word for it? Do you want me to seek no further in the matter? All right, so be it. But what about the daughter of our friend? What's to become of her? Chr. She'll be all right. Dem. Are we to drop her, then? Chr. Why not? Dem. And is Phanium to remain? Chr. Just so. Dem. Well, Nausistrata, I guess we will excuse you. [Exit Nausistrata into her own house]. Now, Chremes, what in the world is all this about? Chr. Is that door tight shut? Dem. Yes. Chr. [leading his brother well out of earshot of the house]. O Jupiter! The gods are on our side. My daughter I have found—married—to your son! Dem. What? How can that be? Chr. It isn't safe to talk about it here. Dem. Well, go inside then. Chr. But see here, I don't want even our sons to find this out. [They go into Demipho's house.]
Antipho has seen Phædria's business happily settled, and now comes in, feeling very gloomy about his own affairs. His deep dejection serves as a happy contrast to the fortunate turn of his affairs which we have just witnessed. In his unsettled state he starts off to find the faithful Geta, when Phormio comes on the stage, in high spirits over his success in cheating the old men out of their money in behalf of Phædria. It is his own rôle now, he says, to keep well in the background. Now the door of Demipho's house opens and out rushes Geta, shouting and gesticulating:
O luck! O great good luck! How suddenly have you heaped your choicest gifts on my master Antipho this day! Ant. [apart]. What can he mean? Ge. And freed us all from fear! But what am I stopping here for? I'll throw my cloak over my shoulder and hurry up and find the man, that he may know how things have turned out. Ant. [aside]. Do you know what this fellow is talking about? Pho. No, do you? Ant. No. Pho. No more do I. Ge. I'll run over to Dorio's house. They are there now. Ant. [calling]. Hello, Geta! Ge. [without looking back]. Hello yourself! That's an old trick, to call a fellow back when he's started to run. Ant. I say, Geta! Ge. Keep it up; you won't catch me with your mean trick. Ant. Won't you stop? Ge. You go hang. Ant. That's what will happen to you, you rogue, unless you hold on. Ge. This fellow must be one of the family by the way he threatens. But isn't it the man I'm after—the very man? Come here right off. Ant. What is it? Ge. O, of all men alive you are the luckiest! There's no doubt about it, Antipho, you are the pet child of heaven. Ant. I wish I were. But please tell me how I am to believe it. Ge. Isn't it enough if I say that you are fairly dripping with joy? Ant. You're just killing me. Pho. [coming forward]. Why don't you quit your big talk, Geta, and tell us your news. Ge. O, you were there, were you, Phormio? Pho. Yes, I was; but hurry up. Ge. Well, then, listen. Just now, after we gave you the money in the Forum, we went straight home; and then my master sent me in to your wife. Ant. What for? Ge. Never mind that now, Antipho; it has nothing to do with this story. When I am about to enter the woman's apartments, the slave-boy Mida runs up to me, plucks me by the coat and pulls me back. I look around, and ask him what he does that for; he says, it's against orders for any one to go to the young mistress. "Sophrona has just taken the old man's brother Chremes in there," he says, "and he's in there with 'em now." As soon as I heard that, I tiptoed toward the door of the room—got there, stood still, held my breath and put my ear to the key-hole. So I listened as hard as I could to catch what they said. Ant. Good for you, Geta! Ge. And then I heard the finest piece of news. I declare I almost shouted for joy! Ant. What for? Ge. What do you think? Ant. I haven't the slightest idea. Ge. But, I tell you, it was the grandest thing! Your uncle turns out to be—the father of—Phanium—your wife! Ant. What? How can that be? Ge. He lived with her mother secretly in Lemnos. Pho. Nonsense! Wouldn't the girl have known her own father? Ge. Be sure there's some explanation of it, Phormio. You don't suppose that I could hear everything that passed between them, from outside the door? Ant. Now I think of it, I too have had some hint of that story. Ge. Now I'll give you still further proof: pretty soon your uncle comes out of the room and leaves the house, and before long he comes back with your father, and they both go in. And now they both say that you may keep her. In short, I was sent to hunt you up and bring you to them. Ant. [all excitement]. Well, why don't you do it then? What are you waiting for? Ge. Come along. Ant. O my dear Phormio, good-by! Pho. Good-by, my boy. I declare, I'm mighty glad it's turned out well for you.
Antipho and Geta hurry away to Demipho's house, while Phormio retires up a convenient alley to await future developments.
The only problem now remaining on Phormio's side is how to keep the money that has been given him by the old men, so that Phædria may not be again embarrassed; on the side of the old men the problem is to get back their money. How the poet treats us to the liveliest scene of all after the more important matters have been settled, is now to be seen. Demipho and Chremes come upon the stage, congratulating each other upon the happy turn which their affairs have taken.
Dem. I ought to thank the gods, as indeed I do, that these matters have turned out so well for us, brother. Chr. Isn't she a fine girl, just as I told you? Dem. Yes, indeed. But now we must find Phormio as soon as possible, so as to get our six hundred dollars back again before he makes away with it.
Phormio now walks across the stage in a lordly way without seeming to see the old men, and goes straight to Demipho's door, upon which he raps loudly and calls to the attendant within:
If Demipho is at home. I want to see him, that— Dem. [stepping up from without]. Why, we were just coming to see you, Phormio. Pho. On the same business, perhaps? Dem. Very likely. Pho. I supposed so. But why were you coming to me? It's absurd. Were you afraid that I wouldn't do what I had promised? No fear of that. For, however poor I may be, I have always been particularly careful to keep my word. And so I have come to tell you, Demipho, that I am ready; whenever you wish, give me my wife. For I put all my own private considerations aside, as was quite right, when I saw that you wanted this so much. Dem. [who does not know quite what to say]. But my brother here has asked me not to give her to you. "For," says he, "what a scandal there will be if you do that! At the time when she could have been given to you honorably it was not done; and now it would be a disgrace to cast her off." Almost the same arguments that you yourself urged upon me not long ago. Pho. Well, you have got gall! Dem. What do you mean? Pho. Can't you see? I can't even marry that other girl now; for with what face could I go back to her after I had once thrown her over? Chr. [prompting Demipho, sotto voce]. "Then I find that Antipho is unwilling to to let his wife go"—tell him that. Dem. And then I find that my son objects to letting his wife go. But come right over to the Forum, if you please, Phormio, and sign this money back to me again. Pho. How can I, when I have already used it to pay my debts with? Dem. Well, what then? Pho. [pompously]. If you are willing to give me the girl you promised for my wife, I'll marry her: but if you want her to stay with you, why, the dowry stays with me, Demipho. For it isn't right that I should lose this on your account, when it was for the sake of your honor that I broke with the other girl who was offering the same dowry. Dem. Go be hanged, with your big talk, you jail-bird! Do you suppose that I don't see through you and your tricks? Pho. Look out, I'm getting hot. Dem. Do you mean to say you would marry this girl if we gave her to you? Pho. Just try me and see. Dem. [with a sneer]. O yes, your scheme is to have my son live with her at your house. Pho. [indignantly]. What do you mean? Dem. Come, give me that money. Pho. Come, give me my wife. Dem. [laying hands on him]. You come along to court with me. Pho. You'd better look out! If you don't stop— Dem. What will you do? Pho. I? [Turning to Chremes]. Perhaps you think that I take only poor girls under my protection. I'll have you know I sometimes stand as patron to girls with dowries too. Chr. [with a guilty start]. What's that to us? Pho. O nothing. I knew a woman here once whose husband had— Chr. O! Dem. What's that? Pho. Another wife in Lemnos— Chr. I'm a dead man. Pho. By whom he had a daughter; and he's bringing her up on the quiet. Chr. I'm buried. Pho. And these very things I'll tell his real wife. Chr. Good gracious, don't do that! Pho. Oho! You were the man, were you, Chremes? Dem. [in a rage]. How the villain gammons us! Chr. You may go. Pho. The deuce you say! Chr. Why, what do you mean? We are willing that you should keep the money. Pho. Yes, I see. But what, a plague! do you mean? Do you think you can guy me by changing your minds like a pair of silly boys? "I won't, I will—I will, I won't, again—take it, give it back—what's said is unsaid—what's been agreed on is no go"—that's your style. [He turns to go away]. Chr. [apart]. How in the world did he find that out? Dem. I don't know, but I'm sure I never told any one. Chr. Lord! it seems like a judgment on me! Pho. [gleefully, aside]. I've put a spoke in their wheel! Dem. [aside]. See here, Chremes, shall we let this rascal cheat us out of our money and laugh in our faces besides? I'd rather die first. Now make up your mind to be manly and resolute. You see that your secret is out, and that you can't keep it from your wife any longer. Now what she is bound to learn from others it will be much better for her to hear from your own lips. And then we will have the whip hand of this dirty fellow. Pho. [overhearing these words, aside]. Tut! tut! Unless I look out, I'll be in a hole. They're coming at me hard. Chr. But I am afraid that she will never forgive me. Dem. O, cheer up, man. I'll make you solid with her again, more especially since the mother of this girl is dead and gone. Pho. Is that your game? I tell you, Demipho, it's not a bit to your brother's advantage that you are stirring me up. [To Chremes]. Look here, you! When you have followed your own devices abroad, and haven't thought enough of your own wife to keep you from sinning most outrageously against her, do you expect to come home and make it all up with a few tears? I tell you, I'll make her so hot against you that you can't put out her wrath, not if you dissolve in tears. Dem. Confound the fellow! Was ever a man treated so outrageously? Chr. [all in a tremble]. I'm so rattled that I don't know what to do with the fellow. Dem. [grasping Phormio's collar]. Well I do. We'll go straight to court. Pho. To court, is it? [Dragging off toward Chremes' house]. This way, if you please. Dem. [hurrying toward his own house]. Chremes, you catch him and hold him, while I call my slaves out. Chr. [holding off]. I can't do it alone; you come here and help.
Demipho comes back and lays hold of Phormio, and all engage in a violent struggle mingled with angry words and blows. Phormio is getting the worst of it, when he says:
Now I'll have to use my voice. Nausistrata! Come out here! Chr. Stop his mouth. Dem. [trying to do so, without success]. See how strong the rascal is. Pho. I say, Nausistrata! Chr. Won't you keep still? Pho. Not much.
Nausistrata now appears at the door of her house; Phormio, seeing her, says, panting but gleeful:
Here's where my revenge comes in. Naus. Who's calling me? [Seeing the disordered and excited condition of the men]. Why, what's all this row about, husband? Who is this man? [Chremes remains tongue-tied]. Won't you answer me? Pho. How can he answer you, when, by George, he doesn't know where he is? Chr. [trembling with fear]. Don't you believe a word he says. Pho. Go, touch him; if he isn't frozen stiff, you may strike me dead. Chr. It isn't so. Naus. What is this man talking about, then? Pho. You shall hear; just listen. Chr. You aren't going to believe him? Naus. Good gracious, how can I believe one who hasn't said anything yet? Pho. The poor fellow is crazy with fear. Naus. Surely it's not for nothing that you are so afraid. Chr. [with chattering teeth]. Wh-wh-who's afraid? Pho. Well then, since you're not afraid, and what I say is nothing, you tell the story yourself. Dem. Scoundrel! Shall he speak at your bidding? Pho. [contemptuously]. O you! you've done a fine thing for your brother. Naus. Husband, won't you speak to me? Chr. Well—Naus. Well? Chr. There's no need of my talking. Pho. You're right; but there's need of her knowing. In Lemnos— Chr. O don't! Pho. unbeknown to you— Chr. O me! Pho. he took another wife. Naus.[screaming]. My husband! Heaven forbid. Pho. But it's so, just the same. Naus. O wretched me! Pho. And by her he had a daughter—also unbeknown to you. Naus. By all the gods, a shameful and evil deed! Pho. But it's so, just the same. Naus. It's the most outrageous thing I ever heard of. [Turning her back on Chremes]. Demipho, I appeal to you; for I am too disgusted to speak to him again. Was this the meaning of those frequent journeys and long stays at Lemnos? Was this why my rents ran down so? Dem. Nausistrata, I don't deny that he has been very much to blame in this matter; but is that any reason why you should not forgive him? Pho. He's talking for the dead. Dem. For it wasn't through any scorn or dislike of you that he did it. And besides, the other woman is dead who was the cause of all this trouble. So I beg you to bear this with equanimity as you do other things. Naus. Why should I bear it with equanimity? I wish this were the end of the wretched business; but why should I hope it will be? Am I to think that he will be better now he's old? But he was old before, if that makes any difference. Or am I any more beautiful and attractive now than I was, Demipho? What assurance can you give me that this won't happen again?
Phormio now comes to the front of the stage and announces in a loud official voice to the audience:
All who want to view the remains of Chremes, now come forward! The time has come.—That's the way I do them up. Come along now, if any one else wants to stir up Phormio. I'll fix him just like this poor wretch here.—But there! he may come back to favor now. I've had revenge enough. She has something to nag him with as long as he lives. Naus. But I suppose I have deserved it. Why should I recount to you, Demipho, all that I have been to this man? Dem. I know it all, Nausistrata, as well as you. Naus. Well, have I deserved this treatment? Dem. By no means! but, since what's been done can't be undone by blaming him, pardon him. He confesses his sin, he prays for pardon, he promises never to do so again: what more do you want? Pho. [aside]. Hold on here; before she pardons him, I must look out for myself and Phædria. Say, Nausistrata, wait a minute before you answer him. Naus. Well? Pho. I tricked Chremes out of six hundred dollars; I gave the money to your son, and he has used it to buy his wife with. Chr. [angrily]. How? What do you say? Naus. [to Chremes]. How now? Does it seem to you a shameful thing for your son, a young man, to have one wife, when you, an old man, have had two? Shame on you! With what face will you rebuke him? Answer me that? [Chremes slinks back without a word]. Dem. He will do as you say. Naus. Well, then, here is my decision: I'll neither pardon him, nor promise anything, nor give you any answer at all, until I have seen my son. And I shall do entirely as he says. Pho. You are a wise woman, Nausistrata. Naus. [to Chremes]. Does that suit you? Chr. Does it? Indeed and truly I'm getting off well—[aside] and better than I expected. Naus. [to Phormio] Come, tell me your name. What is it? Pho. Mine? It's Phormio; I'm a great friend to your family, and especially to Phædria. Naus. Phormio, I vow to you I am at your service after this, to do and to say, so far as I can, just what you want. Pho. I thank you kindly, lady. Naus. No, upon my word, you've earned it. Pho. Do you want to begin right off, Nausistrata, and do something that will both make me happy and bring tears to your husband's eyes? Naus. That I do. Pho. Well, then, invite me to dinner. Naus. With all my heart, I do. Dem. Come then, let's go inside. Chr. Agreed; but where is Phædria, my judge? Pho. I'll soon have him here.
And so ends this merry play, as the whole party moves toward Chremes' house, where, let us hope, all family differences were forgotten in the good dinner awaiting them.
Meanwhile the man before the curtain reminds us that we still have a duty to perform:
Fare you well, my friends, and give us your applause.
SUMMARY AND QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW
The Roman Drama, as illustrated by the works of the early tragedians, from 240 to the first century B. C.: Andronicus Nævius, Ennius, Pacuvius, Accius. The later tragedians to the close of the first century A. D.: Pollio, Varius, Ovid, Maternus, Secundus, Lucan, and Seneca. The writers of comedy, second century B. C.: Plautus and Terence.
1. How did the civilization of Rome in 454 B. C. compare with that of Greece? 2. How did Rome's conquest of the Greek colonies in Italy help the development of Italian literature? 3. How did the First Punic War affect this development? 4. Who was the "first professor of Latin on record"? 5. From what sources were the subjects of the old Roman tragedies taken? 6. How did the Roman spirit differ from that of the Greek? 7. Why did the Romans fail to develop a truly national tragedy? 8. What four names besides that of Andronicus are representative of the old Roman tragedy? 9. What qualities of Accius do we find in the fragments of his writings which remain? 10. What is true of the writers of tragedy after Accius? 11. Why have the tragedies of Seneca special interest? 12. What are their defects? 13. What their strong qualities? 14. Why did the plays of Seneca have such an influence in England? 15. What is the outline of the story of Medea? 16. How does it illustrate Seneca's defects of style? 17. Quote passages which illustrate his skill in epigram. 18. In graphic description. 19. In pathos and passion. 20. In subtile analysis of character and motive. 21. Describe the three great types of Greek comedy. 22. What result followed the attempts of Nævius to write in the spirit of Old Comedy? 23. What two writers alone of comedy are known to us from their works? 24. What are the chief characteristics of Phormio of Terence?