Plays / Being: An unhistorical pastoral: A romantic farce: Bruce, a chronicle play: Smith, a tragic farce: and Scaramouch in Naxos, a pantomime.

by Unknown

PERSONS

Smith.
Hallowes.
Graham.
Brown.
Jones.
Robinson.
Two Men-servants.
Magdalen.
Topsy.

Scene: London and Garth. Time: The Present.

SMITH

ACT I

SCENE.—A Room in a Public-House. Glasses on the table. Brown is discovered talking excitedly; Jones, attempting to interrupt him; and Robinson, in a corner with a newspaper.

Brown. Truth is an airy point between two cliffs
Of adamant opinion: safest he
Who foots it far from either beetling brink.
Hallowes, now: he goes hanging on the verge
His martyr-face and aspirations strung
With bent keys. If his starting eyes behold
Some tartan star, or other fire-flaught born
Of pallid brains ill-nourished on bleached blood,
It is the truth—truth absolute! And down,
Loosing his hold to clasp his fervid hands,
He'll crash, and spill his life on stones untrod.
Robinson. Fair—very fair, indeed!
Jones. So would not you!
The Bastille Column or St. Paul's at noon,
Where crowds may see your glossy frock-coat fly,
And wax pathetic o'er the exotic spray
That slips the button-hole in middle air,
And twinkling after, lights upon the mess
Of limbs and oozing blood that late was you.
Robinson. Come, let each other be! no answer, Brown;
Because I want to open up a point.
That fellow, Smith—the point is suicide—
He said the other day—why, it was here!—
He would have coffee; we had brandy: well—
You know he speaks to everybody; so,
He cries to Topsy, there, who brought the drink—
He spoils the barmaids with his high-flown talk:
I tried it, and they laughed at me; but he!
He talks philosophy, religion, books:
And they can talk it too, with him. Well, then——
Brown. Pure innocence: the man's a baby.
Jones. Yes.
Uncultured, too; he lacks the college stamp.
Robinson. Well, then, my point——
Brown. Oh, never mind your point!
You've hit it, Jones; "uncultured" is the word.
Give me a man who knows what language means:
No forging sudden bolts that gild the fact,
A bright enough reality before:
Who never says a thing a thousand ways,
Nibbling with slippery sleight-of-tongue, till chance
Expose the end to bite. Give me a man
Whose mind is ready as a lawyer's desk,
Each pigeon-hole accountable for this,
Each drawer containing that, and nothing else.
Jones. Whose thinking's done; whose automatic mind
Strikes the same absolute response each time.
Brown. A man who knows the best of everything;
Consummate, bland; whom novelty annoys,
Guessing what musty masquerade it is
Of some dispute of Lamech and his wives.
Jones. Smith's a mere savage, barbarous as a Lapp:
A handsome creature, but elliptical.
Brown. Something awanting to complete the sense!
Robinson. Fair, very fair! But here's a point: you men
Since you began to go about with Smith,
Have caught a little of his style of talk;
You can't deny his power.
Brown. Power?—seething blood.
Give Jones, or such a man, Smith's body—why,
You'd have the hero of the age! Power? stuff!
Jones. Admit the power—potential as a troop;
But where's the captain?
Brown. Ay; his brain's a mess
Of sodden sawdust; it ferments and fumes:
But, let me say, wood-spirit's not champagne,
In spite of fables to the contrary.
Jones. Labels, you mean.
Robinson. Fair—very fair, by Jove!
Do you go north this year?
Brown. I do, this week.
Robinson. So soon! Health and a happy holiday!
Jones. Your good health and a pleasant time in Garth!
Robinson. Here's a point, Brown. Hallowes—he talks of Garth:
I thought the place was only known to you.
Brown. Hallowes discovered it a year ago:
And there I met him.
Jones. So: I understand
How such an out-at-elbows man as he
Is known to you: there you had no one else.
Brown. Exactly: with his simple ecstasies
He made good sport when Maudlin took the dumps.
Jones. When do you wed your cousin?
Brown. In a month.
Jones. Is the day fixed?
Brown. I go to have it fixed.
Robinson. Your cousin, Magdalen … By Jove, here's Smith!

Enter Smith.

Smith. You here! Has Hallowes been?
Brown. No; not to-night.
Are you to meet him?
Smith. Yes.
Brown. He'll not appear:
He acts the people's notion of a poet.
He has a double memorandum-book—
Engagements to be broken—to be kept;
And most of those he makes are for the first:
"Sorry I failed you," when he sees you; "but"—
And you are left to gather that the Muse
Hugged him so close he couldn't get away.
Smith. He'll not fail me.
Jones. Don't be too sure of that.
I've known him break with me a dozen times.
Smith. Perhaps he's braver than your other friends.
Jones. The satire's deep.
Brown. A little underbred—
Hallowes, I mean.
Robinson. Still he's a graduate.
Jones. Finished apprentice; but he shuns the stress
Of competition with the journeymen,
Whereby alone dexterity is gained.
Brown. A fledgling knight who flies the eager fray
Where sword whets sword.
Robinson. He herds with nobody,
I've noticed that. But here's a point: I, you,
Smith—everybody wants to know the man;
He—won't be known: no one can equal him
In turning forth the dark slide when you think
Acquaintance burns to intimacy. Smith,
Only you see his lantern blazing bright;
How's that?
Brown. Speak for yourself, sir. This I know,
He rather courted me. His fitful wisp,
However, I assure you, Robinson,
Leads to a quaking bog of egotism.
Jones. Where I have floundered more than once. A month—
Three weeks ago when he gave up his post
In—Holofernes' School—the Cambridge man's—
That very day I met him here alone.
"I'm done with it," he cried. "These squalid years
Of mental boot-blacking are ended now—
The shameful pedagogy. Ah," he said,
With lips that shook and molten eyes, his voice
Hushing and sparkling as his passion tore
A ragged way through wordy wildernesses,
Or spread, where image failed, in shallows vague,
The margin lost in rushy verbiage,
"Shameful! a devil's compact! I, for food
Have made myself a grindstone, edging souls
Meant most for flying: I, in piteous mouths,
That yearned for sweetest manna, crammed rough stones
And loathsome scorpions: children, youths, the light
Of God brought newly down by love,
Straining to shine on all the flowers of earth,
Of heaven, of poetry, have I swathed up
In noisome fog of the dead letter—I,
Who dare aspire to be a child for ever.
Intolerance in religion never dreamt
Such fell machinery of Acts and Codes
As now we use for nipping thought in bud,
And turning children out like nine-pins, each
As doleful and as wooden. Never more
Shall I put hand to such inhuman work!"
To come with this to me, who teach, and mean
To start a boarding-school next year!
Brown. By Jove!
The net result of solitude. This world,
This oyster with its valves of toil and play,
Would round his corners for its own good ease,
And make a pearl of him if he'd plunge in.
Smith. Then you would change the diamonds into pearls,
The rubies and the opals?
Robinson. Very fair!
Brown. Better a pure pearl than a damaged diamond.
Jones. And in this matter we may all be pearls.
Smith. Be worldlings, truly. I would rather be
A shred of glass that sparkles in the sun,
And keeps a lowly rainbow of its own,
Than one of those so trim and patent pearls
With hearts of sand veneered, sewed up and down
The stiff brocade society affects.
Robinson. Fair, very fair!
Jones. Be quiet, parroquet!
Are we such pearls?
Smith. Pearls! This is what you are:
The commonest type of biped crawling here.
Take it thus crudely: you would not believe
A subtle phrase in full, but think I meant
Less than the words might bear, deeming me dull—
Barbarian you call me …
Brown. Who said that?
Smith. The friends of gossips gossip, little Brown.
Brown. The great Smith gossips too, then.
Smith. What! You fool!
You dare to bandy words with me! Begone!
Get out of here the three of you!
Jones. He's mad.
Smith. You sots, you maggots, shavings, asteroids!
A million of you wouldn't make a man!
Out, or I'll strike you, monkeys, mannikins!
[All go out; then re-enter Smith, followed by Topsy with salver, etc.
Smith. You're looking fresh: You've had a holiday?
Topsy. I've had my week.
Smith. Where were you?
Topsy. At the coast.
Smith. Now, tell me, what of all you saw, remains?
Topsy. Oh, well—there's many a thing! There's——
Ah! there's this! One morning early that I stood alone,
And saw the green sea from a windy cliff,
With small, white, curling waves, like shavings pinned
Upon a watered silk.
Smith. Oh! how was that?
Topsy. There was a great Scotch lady long ago—
I read it in a penny paper there;
That made me think of it; and she was poor,
And wore, instead of ribbons, shavings once,
And was the belle and made a match that night.
Here's Mr. Hallowes, sir.
Smith. The same for him.

Enter Hallowes. Topsy goes out, and returns as before, and goes out again.

Hallowes. Smith, I congratulate you. Come, your hand.
Smith. Thank you; I'm very pleased indeed. On what?
Hallowes. On the great gladness you're about to feel.
I've lost my post—dismissed—incompetence.
Smith. So soon! I said three months: it's just three weeks.
Business is worse than teaching, then.
Hallowes. Oh, worse!
Give me a week to coin its condemnation!
Business—the world's work—is the sale of lies:
Not goods, but trade-marks; and still more and more
In every branch becomes the sale of money:
Why, goods are now the means of bartering gold!
Smith. It fits these reeling times of tail-wagged dogs.
Hallowes. But wish me joy.
Smith. Joy, friend, till pain be ease!
Hallowes. Now will I tell you what I mean to do.
Garth's in the North, a hamlet like a cave,
Nestling unknown in tawny Merlin's side,
A mount, brindled with scars and waterways.
The windows, Argus-eyed with knotted panes
That under heavy brows of roses blink
Blind guard, have never wept with hailstones stung;
No antique, gnarled, and wrinkled, roundwood porch,
Whiskered with hollyhocks in this old thorpe
Has ever felt the razor of the East:
No rail, no coach, no tourist passes there:
But in the brooding evening from her seat,
A worn tree-trunk, the toothless beldame leaps
As lithe as superstition, says a saw,
And kills the toad that in the channel hops;
Far up the mountain children's voices ring;
The quoiters cry; and past the ivied inn
A chastened brook tells all its pebbled beads;
Between the bourtrie-bushes and the thorns
The commonest bird that sings is wonderful,
So empty are the spaces of the air
From any breath of modern weariness.
There will I live and walk the mountain-side,
Looking across the strath upon a stream,
A beakerful of water, spilt along
A winding strip of green and bosky spray,
That showers in silver when light-fingered winds
Turn up the leaves: a ridge, fire-reared and low,
Of coppice-covered hills, scalloped against
A loftier mass of purple, nobly borne,
Gives body to the sunset: night and day,
Asleep or waking, earth in heaven's lap lies.
Smith. And is this to be wholly holiday?
Hallowes. I shall make poetry—a line a day,
If nothing more. I'm twenty: I may count
On ten years yet. Three thousand lines, each line
A very mountain from whose sun-gilt crest
The stormy world a peaceful picture seems.
I shall upheave and range a chain like this:
Realms shall rejoice in it: my fame shall grow
For ever like the sward.
Smith. Let fame alone.
Hallowes. You misconceive: fame is the breath of power:
What valid work was ever for itself
Wrought solely, be it war, art, statesmanship?
Nothing can be its own reward and hold
Rank above patience, or whatever game,
Angling or avarice, is selfisher.
O watering palates! and, O skyey grapes!
O purple path above the milky way!
Give me to dream dreams all would love to dream;
To tell the world's truth; hear the world tramp time
With satin slippers and with hob-nailed shoes
To my true singing: fame is worth its cost,
Blood-sweats, and tears, and haggard, homeless lives.
How dare a man, appealing to the world,
Content himself with ten! How dare a man
Appeal to ten when all the world should hear!
How dare a man conceive himself as else
Than his own fool without the world's hurrah
To echo him!
Smith. But if the world won't shout
Till he be dead?
Hallowes. Let him address the street:
No subtle essences, ethereal tones
For senses sick, bed-ridden in the down
Of culture and its stifling curtains. Gusts
From bean-fields and the pine-woods, thought and deed
Of the young world bursting its swaddling bands
Before the upturned eyes and warning palms
Of fangless Use and Wont, his nurses hoar—
These find an echo everywhere.
Smith. The world
Still follows culture, though.
Hallowes. Maybe. But it
Follows itself, and shall, Narcissus-like,
Perish of self-love.
Smith. Echo, what of her?
Hallowes. She shall be re-incarnate by the word
That she shall hear.
Smith. What word?
Hallowes. It is not said.
Smith. Who shall pronounce it?
Hallowes. Who knows?—You, or I?
Smith. Well said! We'll go together to the North.
Hallowes. What! are you free?
Smith. I am. You want to write:
I want to think. When shall we start?
Hallowes. To-morrow.
Smith. So soon! But you are right: one must become
Fanatic—be a wedge—a thunder-bolt,
To smite a passage through the close-grained world.
[They go out.

ACT II

SCENE.—An arbour in Graham's orchard. Enter Smith, Hallowes, and Graham.

Graham. Now, rest you here; I've business in the house:
And when I come I'll bring my daughter. Ha!
[To Hallowes.] She lives on poetry; you'll soon be friends;
[To Smith.] While you and I and Brown will talk again
Of London. What!—you called it—let me see—
The running sore, the ringworm of the earth.
Good, very good.
[Goes out.
Hallowes. You'll make excuse for me.
Smith. Why are you so reluctant to remain?
Hallowes. You do not see the meaning of the knight.
We trespass in his wood: he meets us; storms,
And plays his gamekeeper. Our witty talk
Changes his character, and—we are here:
But mark, on trial; else, not his arbour,
But his drawing-room.
Smith. He brings his daughter, though.
Hallowes. True; but you see our humour was so broad.
Smith. Therefore he does not take us to his house?
Suppose it so, is he the less a man?
Why, it's a powerful thing to do.
Hallowes. Indeed!
Snobbish, say I.
Smith. Away, man! Use that word!
A poet, too! Oh, I could rail at it! Snob!
It's a modern word; and so is cad:
None use them but deservers of them. Faugh;
So bitterly I hate them, into sense
My spleen spins slovenly. We all are men.
Doomsday of nicknames! I behold it dawn.
An inky cloud, with thick corrosive stench,
Blots out the heavens, and like a palimpsest
Shows name on name in smoking characters,
A leprous scroll, too filthy to o'er-read:
Beneath them, branded deep athwart the cloud
In letters huge from which the light scales off,
The most inhuman, most ungodly word,
Sinner. But lo! the rotten-fuming signs
Smoulder and writhe, and run like mercury,
Flooding the cloud, which belches into flame
And shrivels up beyond the bounds of space!
A rose-dipped pencil washes suddenly
A blush along the east, whereon appears
In molten gold, Man, Woman; and I know
That we are all one race, and these nicknames,
Phantasmal charnel-lights of self-contempt.
Hallowes. You know I have not always strength of wing
To soar like you right to God's point of view.
Pardon the word. Now, you must let me go.
Smith. You give no cause: poetic mood won't do.
I see a mental sickness in your eye:
What is it, Hallowes?
Hallowes. Why, my money's done:
And day by day from London packets come—
Dramas and poems, essays and reviews,
Returned with thanks, returned with thanks.
Smith. Just so.
Ten pounds I have: take half: when this is spent
Then we return with thanks to London town.
You have your ticket?
Hallowes. Oh, yes!
Smith. Cheer up, then!
We have a fortnight yet. Sit down and talk
Of comfortable things. We'll meditate
Upon return-tickets for a while:
How beautifully suited to our need,
Spendthrifts like us! Devise some praise for them.
Hallowes. O let me go! I have my note-book here.
I'll climb to Merlin-top and write all night
Under the moon or till you follow me.
Smith. Away then, since you must! Good luck, good rhymes!

Hallowes goes out. Enter Magdalen without seeing Smith.

[Aside.] These plaited coils of hair, the golden lid
Of the rich casket where her live thoughts lie:
Her cheek is tinged with sunset? Has she eyes?
Her body sways: the crimson-blazoned west
Like organ-music surges through her blood.
My seeming aimless visit to the North—
The time—the circumstance!—I yield myself!
This is the woman whom my soul will love.
She moves this way, backward, to sit. I'll speak.
Lady.
[Magdalen wheels round.
Her eyes are living sapphires!
Magdalen. What!
Smith. I love you.
Magdalen. Sir!
Smith. I love you, lady.
Magdalen [about to go]. Sir!
Smith. Lady, stay.
My body and my soul assembled here,
At war till now, are wedded by your glance:
You make that man which chaos was before:
And this is love. I dreaded love: I knew
It should with such a pang lay hold of me.
I am not mad although I tremble thus:
It is the inspiration of my love.
Fly not, repulse me not, and do not fear:
I would tear up my body with my hands,
And hide you in my heart did evil threat:
I am as tame to you as wild things are
To those that cherish them. Be confident,
For I shall guard my dreams from harming you
As faithfully as time his vigil keeps.
Magdalen. I do not fear.
Smith. Speak louder, speak again.
Like rose-leaves that enrich the greedy earth
The tremulous whispering bedews my heart.
Speak, speak!
Magdalen. Who are you, sir?
Smith. A mellow voice,
Falling like thistledown, melting like snow,
Golden and searching as a sunny wine.
It bore a question: Who am I? A man.
Magdalen [aside]. I think so too.—What do you want with me?
Smith. Our language is too worn, too much abused,
Jaded and over-spurred, wind-broken, lame,—
The hackneyed roadster every bagman mounts.
I cannot tell you what I want with you,
Unless you understand the depth of this:
I want for you heroic happiness.
Magdalen. How might I win this happiness?
Smith. Be mine:
I am the enemy of all the world:
Dare it with me: be mine.
Magdalen. I know you not.
I am engaged to one I do not love;
My father swears that I must marry him:
It is a common misery, so stale
That I contemned it: and I know you not:
But I have courage. Let me think a while.
Smith. Think my thought; be impatient as I am;
Obey your nature, not authority:
Because the world, enchanted by the sun,
The moon, the stars, with charms of time and space,
Of seasons, tides, of darkness and of light,
Weaves new enchantment everlastingly,
Whirled in a double spell of day and year,
A self-deluded sorcerer, winding round,
Close to its smothered heart, coil after coil
Of magic zones, invisible as air—
Some, Cytherean belts; some, chains; and some,
Noisome and terrible as hooded snakes.
Magdalen. What do you mean? what spells? what sorcery?
Smith. The hydra-headed creeds; the sciences,
That deem the thing is known when it is named;
And literature, thought's palace-prison fair;
Philosophy, the grand inquisitor
That racks ideas and is fooled with lies;
Society, the mud wherein we stand
Up to the eyes, whence if I drag you forth,
Saving your soul and mine, there shall ascend
A poisonous blast that may o'ertake our lives.
Magdalen. I feel a meaning in your eloquence;
I see my poor thoughts made celestial
Like faded women Jove hung in the sky.
Obey my nature, sir? How shall I know
The voice of nature from the thousand cries,
That clamour in my head like piteous birds,
Filling the air about a lonely isle
With ringing terror when the hunter comes.
Smith. Shut out the storm and heed the still, small voice.
Magdalen. Have pity. Yet I think the woman's dream
Is given me—the strong deliverer
To pluck her from the dragon's jaws unharmed.
What can I say? Rest still your eyes on mine,
And I shall dare to speak. I love you, sir;
And I have loved you since I was a girl—
You, only you. Good-bye. Oh, in my life—
A miracle, I think, as this world goes—
I met the living image of my dream,
And was found worthy to be loved! Good-bye.
I seem to see my daughter at my knees,
Listening with violet eyes of heaven-wide awe,
The virgin story I shall utter once
To her, only to her.
Smith. And so, you go
To hell.
Magdalen. Ay, even so: my father's word
Is plighted to this man, and so is mine.
Perhaps, that I may know this is no dream—
Sir, will you kiss me?
[He folds her in his arms and kisses her.
Smith. You are faint, my love.
Magdalen. Oh, have pity, sir!
Smith. I will have pity.
[Goes out carrying her. Then enter Brown. He goes out after them, and
re-enters running as the curtain falls.

ACT III

SCENE.—The top of Mount Merlin: a precipice on one side: rocks on the other. Hallowes is discovered lying with a note-book by his side.

Hallowes. O noblest hour in my ignoble life!
Hunger and squalor, and delirious rhymes;
No past, no future; one unending now
Of meanest misery, most miserable
When fairest dreams gilded the starless night,
And words in choirs flew singing through my brain
Melodious thunder, for then most I knew
The yawning wants and gnawing cares of life.
To sink to that inanity abhorred,
The wretch whose early fervour, burnt away,
Leaves him, for lack of ease to smite his thought
To white-heat—since the brazier of youth,
That needs no sweat, is cold—incapable
Of any meaning, but with loathsome itch
That still essays, and still produces nought,
Or horribly emits untempered scraps—
Toads, cinders, snakes, nameless aborted things,—
The hideous castings witchcraft vomited;
Maybe to live on grudging charity
Of friends estranged; sneered at by smug success;
Called poetaster: such had been my life;
But I have chosen death. Death—and the moon
Hangs low and broad upon the eastern verge
Above a mist that floods the orient,
Filling the deep ravines and shallow vales,
Lake-like and wan, embossed with crested isles
Of pine and birch. Death—and the drops of day
Still stain the west a faintest tinge of rose
The stars cannot o'erwash with innocence.
Death—and the mountain-tops, peak after peak,
Lie close and dark beneath Orion's sword.
Death—and the houses nestle at my feet,
With ruddy human windows here and there
Piercing the velvet shade—deep in the world,
Old hedge-rows and sweet by-paths through the corn!
The river like a sleepless eye looks up.
Pale shafts of smoke ascend from homely hearths,
And fade in middle air like happy sighs.
Death—and the wind blows chill across my face:
The thin, long, hoary grass waves at my side
With muffled tinkling…. Not yet! No; my life
Has not ebbed all away: I want to live
A little while…. Is the moon gone so soon?
They've put the shutters to, down there…. The wind
Is warm…. Death—is it death? … I had no chance….
Perhaps I'll have another where I go….
Another chance…. How black!…
[Dies.

Enter Smith carrying Magdalen.

Magdalen. I think now I can walk again.
Smith. No need;
We've reached the summit: see, the circling world!
Does this seem madness still?
Magdalen. Mad happiness:
I know we should be here. Ah! there's a man!
Smith. My friend, the poet. He has chosen well:
The cream-white moon, this high peak of the earth—
The earth, itself the one Parnassus-mount.
Magdalen. And have you climbed the hill only for him
Bearing me half the way? But answer not:
I only wish to feel that I am yours;
And that this knowledge may be fully mine,
Call me my name. You do not know my name?
Smith. And wish not: you are woman; I am man.
Why should we limit all the thought of this,
Shrouding the Infinite with names? Our life
Is haunted by these ghosts ourselves have raised.
O lady, we shall never know the truth,
What man, what love, what God is, till we cease
To talk of them—which all do in the grave.
Magdalen. How strange it seems to me and yet not strange:
Death, life, I care not which, so I am yours.
Smith. And I yours, now, for ever.—Hallowes!—What!—
Asleep?—pale … dead! … This was a man too slight,
Too sweet to live. I think he has done well:
For had he stayed strung naked on life's wheel,
Broken by every circumstance of woe,
He had gone mad. This sight would pierce my heart,
But that yours bucklers mine. A girl-like boy!
He used to talk of euthanasia:
How has he killed himself? Here's blood! He said
That should he ever need to take his life
Thus gently would he ope a sluice and die.
I loved him. I shall weep some other time.
What has he written here?

While Smith examines the note-book enter Graham, Brown, and two
Men-servants.

Scored and re-scored,—
Illegible.
Magdalen. Oh!—my father!
Graham. So, sir!
What Jupiter are you that walk away
With ladies over mountains in the night!
What radiant devil rather! With an art,
Seven times refining the seducer's dross,
You brand the reputation curelessly.
And leave the spotless sufferer to pine,
The guiltless-guilty in a hell of woe.
Or are you but a thundering, blundering fool,
Mad, not malignant? Do you understand?
to-morrow all the county shall declare,
And shortly London echo how Graham's girl—
Graham, the old fool, who never stirred from Garth,
And out of harm's way kept his daughter snug,
Filtering her reading, her acquaintanceship—
Never a man but Brown, her lord to be—
How she, when he, too confident because
She just had named the day, brought home that night—
The first time since his daughter turned fifteen—
Two men, wild London fellows—hark, away,
With both among the heather, o'er the moor!
For there's your friend, I see, sir. Do you see?
What's to do? Who is to suffer? Speak, sir!
Maudlin, he stares at you; you, at the ground—
But that is well, Brown, speak to him—to them.
Brown. Love holds my tongue, sir.
Graham. What! do you love him?
Why, now, as we came panting up the hill,
You swore he was a mean adventurer,
Poor as a rat, and friendless as a toad:
A scribbling, bibbling, fribbling, poet, he
Who takes it all so coolly there.
Smith. He's dead.
Graham. Dead!—O my God!—my head—my heart is split:
No hiding now. O man, man, you have done
Worse than you think! In every ha'penny rag,
Cried in the streets, the talk of billiard-rooms—
My daughter Magdalen!—my happiness,
My poem, picture, my divinity!
I haven't fired a gun, or touched a card,
Donned buckskin, made a bet, for five long years.
I've led a dog's life; done dog's duty too;
And been as happy as a faithful dog:
And all to save my daughter from the taint
That taints me, taints the world, and taints the best:
I've no fine names for it; I know it's there.
I've taught her everything—professors, books:
Made her a—what's the word?—a paragon:
And now I've got my nephew here, young Brown,
Who had a grandfather, who had one too—
An Oxford man, a wholesome, handsome boy,
Rich, well-disposed, to marry her: and here,
Safe in my pocket, is their honeymoon—
A map, I mean, where I will follow them—
I've marked in red the route they'll take, you see—
Before I go to bed. I'll have my fling
After they're married—do you understand?
My poem out, my picture on the line,
I'll dance, and sing, and dine, and wine, and shine!
My God, Magdalen, don't stand staring there!
The moon can't help you, bouncing as it is.
I'm going mad. Brown, take my daughter home.
Magdalen. Father I cannot, now, go home to-night,
Unless he comes with us.
Graham. He! whom? What! him?
Magdalen. Father, for him you sacrificed yourself,
Not knowing how you wrought on fate's behalf.
Most loving and most noble father, thanks:
My heart is aching with deep thankfulness.
Never had daughter such a holy time
Of preparation: any other life
Would not have made me meet for him.
Graham. Girl! girl!
Be quiet, now!—Brown, tell us what to do!
Brown. Keep cool, as I am. Smith, I know your power:
You are the kind of man that healthy girls
Yield to at once, you know.
Graham. What's this? What's this?
You've lost your head, I think.
Magdalen. O father, look!
See with my eyes. He's worth a million Browns.—
[To Brown.] Sir, pardon me. You are a worthy man,
And much above the common stamp, I know.
Father, this man—I do not know his name—
Is all the world to me.
Graham. You little fool!
[He hands Magdalen over to Brown and the servants.
Now, sir, I'll pay you down a thousand pounds
To keep this quiet…. Oh, the murdered man!
Ay; he's been murdered: here's the murderer:
That's the way out of it! Ha, ha! my buck,
We'll have you clapped in jail.
Brown. That wouldn't do.
I'll add another thousand. Keep our names …
Smith. Magdalen!
Magdalen. Yours, only yours.
Graham. Be quiet!
What's to be done? See you here, ravisher—
But stop a bit: we're all assuming. Brown,
Perhaps there is some satisfactory—
Some explanation, plausible at least.
Sir, have you anything to say?
Smith. Much. First:
You are my enemy, and I am yours.
Rancorous debates, and wars, and martyrdoms
Give tolerance the most forlorn of hopes;
But with the impartial moon for ensign, here
I dare assay to make my foe my friend.
Even one who overlooked the world with me,
And saw it, as I see it, a flying shuttle,
Weaving a useless web of mystery
That shrouds itself—even he, whose piteous blood
Stains this green mountain-brow the soft clouds kiss,
And sweet wild winds freshen continually,
Had not discerned the reason of our deed:
How much less you, who never think at all!
But you must listen: you must try to think.
And see how simple is our presence here:
The way to town is five miles by the road,
And two across the hill; so this I chose,
Being shorter, and because my friend had said
He would await my coming. She and I
Are on our way to London.
Graham. You are mad:
You've made her mad. Good-night.
[He is about to lead Magdalen away but Smith holds him.
Smith. Not so: We are not mad, but you—the world is mad.
You and the world would make her such a thing
As poets still cry out on. Mine she is,
Mine by the love that, as we had been gods
Meeting in golden Tempe, dawned and shone
Full-beamed at once. What is more sane than love?
The universe is chaos without love….
Graham. Hold off!
Smith. Be still!—Women are made by men:
The nations fade that hold their women slaves:
The souls of men that pave their hell-ward path
With women's souls lose immortality.
What station in our heart's economy—
The hidden household where our naked thoughts
Stand at the windows innocent as babes,
Or crouch in corners shamefaced and undone,
Though none may pass but he whose thoughts they are:
What home, or what foul den we keep them in,
These complements of us, these plastic things
Our fancy fashions to the shape we please—
That is the test of sanity. Behold,
Your daughter, being throned within my heart,
Has straight become a queen!
Graham. What noise is that?
Smith. A cry within the wind. Have you ne'er heard
Prophetic voices muffled in the blast?
Old man, you've done a high thing for your child;
But all is naught if you constrain her now.
Give me the woman whom my soul has chosen,
Give me the woman who has chosen me.
Graham. Poor fool! no frantic whim will change my plan.
[Graham and Brown lead Magdalen out. Smith attempts to take her from them
but the servants interfere. He hurls them both to the ground: they rise
and run out. Smith goes out, and re-enters backward with Magdalen on one
arm, keeping Graham and Brown off with the other. He stops at the edge of
the cliff.
Smith. Back, or we plunge together.
Graham. Hold! [Aside.] That sound!
How could they know? But yet, they saw us go.
It is the village coming up the hill!
They'll rescue us. Brown, we must seem to yield.
This is a madman, no idealist.
Brown. Stark, staring mad.
Graham. Of course. We might have known.
Why, I could laugh. Come on, we'll humour him.—
Conclusions reached with salience, sir, are oft
Wiser than those we plod to; for the mind
Tires on the dusty round-about; and so
I think you have deserved my daughter.
Smith. Ha!
Then you are but a worldling after all:
I know your thought: I've met it face to face
A hundred times; and though it owns it not,
It means that all it cannot understand
Is madness, and that highest God is mad.
Is it because the moon is in a cloud
You speak this folly now?—a human voice!
Some people on the hill! I see your drift.—
Magdalen Graham …
Magdalen. Yours, always, only yours.
Brown. I warn you, monstrous rogue, abduction earns
A lengthy term of penal servitude.
Smith. Inept fool!—Lady, life, the shooting star,
Is no more worth than is the miser's gold,
The cultured man's impressions, lust's delight;
It is a prison innocence may break;
A moment mere of immortality.
Magdalen. Watch for the moon: she slips her sable shawl,
And silver lace. Behold!
Smith. The happy night
Heaves a deep long-drawn sigh of sweet content.
Magdalen. Oh, if the world would look on us like that!
Smith. The world for you and me is one blank stare—
A basilisk would shrivel up our souls.
Magdalen. O these hoarse shouts and fiendish empty shrieks!
How near the people are! Can we not go?
Smith. Yes, we can go where none will follow us.
We two could never love each other more
Than now we do; never our souls could mount
Higher on passion's fire-plumed wings; nor yet
Could laughter of our children's children pierce
With keener pangs of happiness our hearts.
I have a million things to tell my love,
But I will keep them for eternity.
Good earth, good mother earth, my mate and me—
Take us.
[He leaps with her over the precipice. Graham rushes forward, but falls
fainting. Enter villagers, shouting and laughing.

SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS: A PANTOMIME
(Crieff, 1888)

PERSONS
Bacchus.
Silenus.
Sarmion.
Glaucus.
Scaramouch, a Showman.
Harlequin, in the employment of Scaramouch.
Ariadne.
Ione, daughter to Glaucus.
Columbine, in the employment of Scaramouch.
Satyrs.
Bacchantes.
Sailors.

Scene: Naxos.

PROLOGUE.

Silenus. Gentle readers—I would fain say, hearers, but I am afraid I shall never fool it on the stage—I am very fond of Pantomimes. I don't know whether I like this one so well as I liked those which I witnessed when I was a boy. It is too pretentious, I think; too anxious to be more than a Pantomime—this play in which I am about to perform. True Pantomime is a good-natured nightmare. Our sense of humour is titillated and strummed, and kicked and oiled, and fustigated and stroked, and exalted and bedevilled, and, on the whole, severely handled by this self-same harmless incubus; and our intellects are scoffed at. The audience, in fact, is, intellectually, a pantaloon, on whom the Harlequin-pantomime has no mercy. It is frivolity whipping its schoolmaster, common-sense; the drama on its apex; art, unsexed, and without a conscience; the reflection of the world in a green, knotted glass. Now, I talked to the author, and showed him that there was a certain absence from his work of this kind of thing; but he put his thumbs in his arm-pits, and replied with some disdain, "Which of the various dramatic forms of the time may one conceive as likeliest to shoot up in the fabulous manner of the beanstalk, bearing on its branches things of earth and heaven undreamt of in philosophy? The sensational dramas? Perhaps from them some new development of tragic art; but Pantomime seems to be of best hope. It contains in crude forms, humour, poetry, and romance. It is the childhood of a new poetical comedy." Then I saw where he was, and said, "God be with you," and washed my hands of him. But I'll do my best with my part.

SCENE I.—A Wood.

Silenus, sitting. Harlequin and Columbine posturing about him. Satyrs and
Bacchantes dancing round the group.

Song.
Sing of dancing, sing of wine,
Satyrs and Bacchantes, sing.
Harlequin and Columbine,
Leap within our frantic ring.

Dance, the skies are violet;
Dance, our lips with wine are wet;
Sing, heigh-ho, the shade is mellow!
Twist and twine from dusk till dawn;
Feet and hoofs beat bare the lawn.
Bacchus is a noble fellow!

From our garlands grapes are flung,
And we tread them in the grass;
Ivy, in our tresses strung,
Streams behind us as we pass.

Dance, the skies are violet;
Dance, our lips with foam are wet;
Sing, the beechen shade is mellow!
Bend and bound with one accord;
Foot it firm, and trench the sward.
Bacchus is a splendid fellow!

Round we spin; our starry eyes
Glimmer through our tossing manes.
Time is ending; wisdom dies;
We are drunk; and Bacchus reigns.

Dance, the skies are violet;
The dust with juice of grapes is wet;
Sing, the deepening shade is mellow!
Dance the night into the day;
Dance into eternity.
Bacchus is the only fellow!

Harlequin. Now, you may tell them; now, that they think of Bacchus but as one of themselves—a wine-bibber, and the inventor of wine-bibbing. Silenus. Do you disparage wine-bibbing? Harlequin. May my mask grow to my face, and my sword to my arm, if I do not think it a most intellectual pursuit! Columbine. For what do you take us? Silenus. No enigmas: I am not good at riddles in the evening; for the tedious parched hours of this torrid July, and the labour of moistening them make me sweat brains; but if I have not enough left to say what I take you for I would be glad to mount spontaneously to heaven in a chariot of fire—I mean by combustion. You, my good Harlequin, I take to be the son of Mercury and one of the furies. Harlequin. Which one? Silenus. Know you not your own mother? She whom Hermes mistook for Aphrodite: it's an old story now, as your joints might tell you, for you are a most degenerate Harlequin. Now do I remember Bathylus and Pylades, sweet youths both. Harlequin. Were they Harlequins? Silenus. Harlequins! They were anything. Their very hands were garrulous as beldames, and their fingers more exclamatory than Marsyas under the knife of Apollo. You are a mere grasshopper and a magpie—a very signboard. You are like your father in nothing but the lightness of your heels, and the nimbleness of your pilfering. Harlequin. In what am I like my mother? Silenus. In greed, and in that you are appointed to be my torment. But you serve me, too, or I would discard you. Moreover, you amuse me. You are a walking firmament: your spangles are the milky way, and your belt the zodiac. Sometimes you are Orion, and swagger out with sword on thigh to ogle the Pleiades. You are the bad angel of pleasantry, because you are, as it were, humour run to seed, and become a science: you are a mere name, and the thing which you once were is in limbo; wherefore you suit these times, and are well matched with my sweet Columbine. Columbine. What am I? Silenus. What short flounces and limelight have made you. What do these woods know of fleshings? Doff them for shame, and go naked. Columbine [aside]. Swell till you burst, old pumpkin! We'll make a pantaloon of you before we've done. Silenus. What are you muttering? Do you hear? You must go naked with a tiger's skin. Harlequin. She shall. But see, they are ripe for your address. Silenus. I say, wine-bibbing is noble, and drunkenness a virtue. Give me a drink, and let me go to sleep. Harlequin. Have you forgotten? Silenus. I thank Jove I have. To forget is Elysium; regret is hell. I would put it better if I weren't so sleepy. Harlequin. This will rouse you. [Gives him wine. Silenus [drinks]. Aurora is in this wine: already I feel her chariot prancing through my veins. I have drunken of the sun. Children——[Aside.] What was I to say? There was some plot. Harlequin [aside]. You are Bacchus. Silenus. I am the new Bacchus—— Harlequin [aside]. No, no; you are the old Bacchus! Silenus. —and the old Bacchus, and Bacchus altogether; and that maiden-faced Bacchus, who these many generations has roamed about the world striking men with fury and madness, is not the son of Semele, but a pampered and audacious old mountain-rover, none other than my ancient, Silenus, disguised. And this is the meaning of the fable that says I was dead and buried for a time. What greater burial could there be than the eclipse of Bacchus by Silenus! Well then, I am Bacchus: Proserpina nursed me. Harlequin. The true Bacchus is come again! All. Long live the true Bacchus! Silenus. There shall be no more rations, but all shall drink as much as they please; for ever since I stepped out of Jove's thigh I have been a hard drinker. [Aside.] Do I not do it well? Observe how I throw in these back-handers about my parentage—casually—before I am aware; and I blush and hem, for I would not be thought proud.—Children, rumour has confounded me with my father, Jupiter. Think it not: I am plain Bacchus, whose only claims on the world are that he invented wine, and is a good fellow, and a hard drinker. Fear me not, for I am harmless. All. Long live Bacchus! Silenus. Columbine, where is Ariadne? Columbine. I do not know, but we must find her. Silenus. We must.—I have no chariot. Harlequin. You shall have one. Silenus. And tigers? Harlequin. I fear you can't have tigers: there are none on the island. Silenus. Then you must get me some cats instead. And now I bethink me, cats will please me better. They were dangerous reptiles, those tigers, and I am growing old: my charms have not the power they once had. Harness me some half-dozen tabbies: they shall serve well enough. I have somewhat more to say, and I will say it seriously. [Rises. Drinkers and drunkards, gentle profligates, In praise of drinking to be curious Would task Apollo and his morning lyre, With fresh and dulcet brains and strings new-strung, So often has the art been sung and said: And yet good reasons for it scarce are known: One that consoles me I will offer you. We are immortals—all of us, divine; But people of inferior intellect. Wherein consists our chief capacity? In drinking deep: and some have sprightly toes. Well, here's my reason. What is genius? This: Perception of our bent and tireless zeal To track it out against the wind of fate. Have we not followed with a quenchless thirst Deep drinking? All. We have, most noble Bacchus. Silenus. Are we not plagued with headaches in the morning? All. We are, we are. Silenus. Some of our noses, too, are rubicund. All. Most true. Silenus. Our eyes are bulging, blazing amethysts. 1st Satyr. Grapes, bursting grapes. Silenus. The women's hair is dank as Panope's, Uncrisped and colourless, as limp as hay. Bacchantes. Alas! alas! Silenus. Their cheeks are hollow, and their arms are thin. Bacchantes. Alack-a-day! Silenus. We all are rebels. 1st Satyr. Outcasts. 1st Bacchante. Unsexed. 2nd Bacchante. Lost. Silenus. Then are we geniuses. Now, hear my reason. 1st Satyr. Your reason! 2nd Satyr. Why, we thought we had it now! Silenus. Erroneous conclusion; for to say That we have geniuses for drinking deep, And drink accordingly, is but to say We drink because we're dry: that's not enough. Reason there is for genius evermore, Could we discover it. 1st Satyr. Then tell us ours. Silenus. Patience and drink a little. [All drink. Mine alderliefest prodigals, the truth Is simply this, that we're inferior. 1st Bacchante. We know it. Silenus. Well said! That's it! We know it! Inferior, and we know it. Consider, then, What dreadful thought is this—what dire dismay— Inferior, yet immortal! We tried, we failed; Failure was our familiar: so we chose, Rather than miss our aim eternally, To aim to miss, making success secure: That is the reason of our geniuses. Were we of those to whom death ministers, We might strain struggling, staggering—but no! What is the highest life that mortals live? A finger-length—time, fame, oblivion— A slate, a pencil, and a sponge! Then drink.

Song and dance, in which Silenus joins.
Dance and sing, we are eternal;
Let us still be mad with drinking:
'Tis a madness less infernal
Than the madness caused by thinking.

Death, cease whetting missiles for us;
Lurk not in the grave's dark portal;
Bring your dead, and join the chorus;
Drink, for we are all immortal.

Drink, my gallants; reel and rhyme
Though our souls are second-rate
We are none the less sublime:
Drink, and give the lie to fate!

Silenus. I know another song like that; but if drunkenness is no excuse for plagiarism, what is? [Silenus, Satyrs, and Bacchantes go out.

Enter Scaramouch.

Harlequin. Welcome, great chief! Columbine. Hail, noble champion! Scaramouch. How d'ye do? How d'ye do? Have you secured our venerable Bacchanalian friend? Harlequin. We have. Scaramouch. Where is he? Now, don't tell me he's in your pocket. I'm not yet better of that fairy you caught me. Harlequin. Was she not a success? Scaramouch. O Harlequin! O Columbine! I had her advertised on posters as big as mainsails. I paid municipalities fortunes to permit policemen to be my sandwich-men. Harlequin. And a very good use to put them to. Scaramouch. Now don't: I can't stand it. Listen: I offered a prize of a thousand guineas to whoever would make a new joke about policemen, introducing my fairy. Twenty-one thousand jokes were sent in: I read these jokes. Harlequin. Heroic soul! Scaramouch. Nay, I am better. Do not flatter me.—Well, I published an hourly bulletin of the fairy's progress to the capital, with gratis supplements of original novels by the chief living writers. I hired and shut up six theatres, and bought the Crystal Palace to exhibit her in. Age of glass and iron! there came a thing about the size of a small tadpole! Harlequin. Well, I never said she was a giantess. Scaramouch. No; but my bills had her as big as a ballet-girl. The crowd—there was a crowd the first and only night—couldn't see it; so they wrecked the Palace and went off in a body to the performing fleas, and a stray cat ate the fairy. Now, how big is Bacchus? Harlequin. Too big for a cat to eat: in fact, I don't believe any cat in Christendom, even Whittington's, which bearded a king, would dare to look at him. I only saw him once, and I've no desire to see him again. He withered me, sir, with a look: I am limp still. Scaramouch. Paper, pens, and ink! I thought you said you had him? Harlequin. No, sir; we have only got his venerable Bacchanalian friend. Scaramouch. People and pantomimes! what am I to do! Harlequin. Ship Silenus instead. Why, even supposing we could get hold of Bacchus, he would be of no use for our purpose. Columbine. He would be a worse bargain than the fairy, unless you passed him off for Ariadne. Scaramouch. In the name of the living tinker, how? Harlequin. Because not a soul would believe that the big beardless boy which Bacchus looks was he. Now, this old wine-skin, Silenus, is just the idea your worthy patrons have of what Bacchus must be after a supposed debauch extending from end to end of the Christian era. Scaramouch. And is he willing to play Bacchus? Harlequin. As willing as a grub is in May to be a butterfly. Bacchus has placed him and some other drouths of his crew under guard, and limited them to so many drinks a day, for they were as dissipated as porters. I helped them to escape on condition that they should sail with us; which was a bargain. But they were more difficult to manage than a crew ashore after a three months' voyage. Imagine, now: they have gone off in search of Ariadne. By good chance they took the way to the beach. Scaramouch. Is Ariadne in the wood? Harlequin. Not at all: but they have all shipped such a sea of liquor that they would believe anything. Silenus told them to go and find Ariadne, and they straightway comprehended that she was in the vicinity. Scaramouch. I suppose we couldn't lay hands on her? Columbine. On Ariadne? you might as well try to lay hands upon a star. Scaramouch. Stripes and stirrups! a glorious idea! To have a well-preserved planet or a three-tailed comet on exhibition! Naxos and night! but that would be stupendous.

For a caravan is the only plan;
Hurry my toms and trulls!
Ho-ye-ho, and a rumble-low! Pay your penny, and see the show:
This is the age of gulls.
[ They go out dancing.

SCENE II.—The Sea-shore.

Enter Ione.

Ione. O wind, and do you wander all the night,
Moving the broad, black clouds, heavy and high,
And lifting, there and yonder, with a kiss,
The wet plumes of the sea? O sweet west wind,
Stay here and tell me secrets for a while!
Whence do you come and whither are you bound?
What music are you singing to yourself,
Sometimes with muffled syllables that fall,
And break their meaning on the hearts they touch?
Is this the wind that turned against her mouth
Forsaken Ariadne's wrathful sighs?
I see her leaning on her clenched right hand,
As she awakes and knows the flying sail,
And thinks that even to her has man been false,
Hatred and scorn—no sorrow, love, nor dread—
Starting in tears from both her angry orbs.—
My foot is wet! The tide is thronging up
With jocund whispers, and the press of waves
Scatters in pearly laughter on the sand.
Surely the moon is arming for the night:
O, now, I see her silver harness gleam
Behind the dusky curtains of her tent!
While the wind, swelling, sounds a trumpet-note,
She showers her bounteous shadow on the sea,
A largesse to the waves that toss their caps:
And now she leaps into the lists of heaven.—
What creature in her shadow floats this way?
It is a boat, and one sits at the helm!
[Hides behind a rock.
The sail is silken, and the hull, pearl-clad;
It leaps from wave to wave: the sweet, salt spray,
Like odoured tresses loosened in the dance,
Streams from the prow. This is some god: he lands.—
If he be man, the men that I have known
Are of a lower order. How the moon
Shines on him! and his eyes drink in her light.
He cannot know our world. Now on the sea,
Now on the shore, he flings his looks about;
And yet again, the moon. What if he be
Endymion! O, would I were the moon!
What! has he seen me?
[Sarmion enters and leads her from her hiding-place.
Are you man or god?
[He makes a sign.
Can you not speak? Poor mariner, he's dumb!
What shall I do with him? Be not afraid;
No one shall harm you, for my father owns
The land here and the shore. I left our house
Without his knowledge and against his will
That I might see the sea alone at night:
I never felt such ecstasy before:
I will frequent the strand, and with the moon
Keep company. You love the moon, I think?
[Within.] Ione, Ione!
My father's voice!

Enter Glaucus.

Glaucus. Well, why don't you introduce me? Ione. Are you angry? Glaucus. O no! I have run a mile through thorns and bents and sand, but I am not angry. I may be hot and out of breath, and my head may steam like a punch-bowl, but I am not angry. I fell ten or twelve times and harrowed the soil with my countenance, but I am not angry. My daughter, sir—this is my daughter, the sauciest madcap in Naxos—runs out of the house when she should be asleep, to meet you in this unwholesome moonlight, and she asks me if I am angry! Why, sir, a man who could be angry in these circumstances would be a man of an infinitesimal mind. My body may be one bruise; my heart may be broken into cat's meat; but I am not angry: do not think it. [Ione and Glaucus talk apart. Ione. This is a god. Glaucus. A what? Ione. One of the minor gods. Glaucus. I wouldn't have thought it. What's his name? Ione. I do not know. He slid down a moonbeam in that boat you see, and sailed ashore five minutes ago. He has not spoken yet, nor will he speak. I think he has done something for which Jove is punishing him with dumbness. Glaucus. Poor fellow! I'd sooner be blind. Ione. I believe you, father. I think you should ask him to the house. Glaucus. Do you? Are they not rather ticklish customers, these gods? Ione. No; they are charming company. Glaucus. Oh!—But this is an anonymous god. People would laugh at us, and call him an impostor. Ione. We can give him a name. Endymion will do. Glaucus. What god is he? Ione. God of the moon. Glaucus. Endymion, god of the moon. Well, I'll invite him.—Good sir—I mean, good …. Ione, how shall I address him? Ione. Address him by his name. Glaucus. Endymion, will your godship be pleased so far to favour my humble abode as to take up your quarters there for the night. [Sarmion passes his hand through Ione's hair. [Aside.] Thus do the gods turn the insolence of men into courtesy. He seems smitten with Ione. Suppose, now, my daughter were to marry a god: she would become a goddess; and I, the father of a goddess and the father-in-law of a god, would, perforce, be made a god also—a minor god. I would have been contented to be a baronet; in my dreams I have sometimes beheld myself a lord; but to be a god!—Ha! you are getting on together. I wonder, now, Endymion, for what you were made dumb. Do you know the dumby alphabet? No; well; you can write it down when we go home. Ione, I want to speak to you. [Glaucus and Ione talk apart. Would you like your father to be a god,—a minor god? Ione. No. Glaucus. But I would develop godlike qualities, of which the chief is tolerance. I begin to feel more dignified and wiser already. Then, as these qualities, by friction with other gods, and a rational indulgence in ambrosia and nectar, become brighter and solider, my minority may end, and they may give me a seat at Jove's table on Olympus, Ione, think; a little intrigue has brought about a greater matter than a divorce: Juno must be old! her successor—you do not listen: give your eyes to him and your ears to me. Ione. I will. You were saying that you would like to be a god. Glaucus. After all, I am a well-made man; and Endymion looks no more. Ione. But he is disguised. Glaucus. It may be that I am disguised too. Ione. I doubt it: no god could be disguised so completely as not to know his own identity. Glaucus. Still, here is a god punished with dumbness: Jupiter may have punished me with oblivion of a brilliant past. Ione. What god could you possibly be? Glaucus. Probably just a god. Doubtless there are gods of nothing in particular, merely decorative. Ione. Doubtless. Glaucus. Well, I would rather be that than no god at all. Ione. I fear it. Glaucus. Endymion, you must tell me in writing when we go home, if one of the chief minor gods was punished some fifty years ago by the loss of all knowledge of his own identity. Ione. Father, he does not know a word you say: He understands no language I can speak— [Aside.] Except that of my eyes. If I can read The fire of his they tell me priceless tales.

Enter Silenus, Satyrs, and Bacchantes.

Silenus. Ha! Ariadne!—Theseus, not yet fled!
Or who are you? But you are Ariadne.
[He is about to take her hand when Sarmion interferes.
Bacchantes, bind him!
[After a short struggle Sarmion is bound.
Glaucus. I declare! Take care what you are about, my good women; and
you, old man, conduct yourself more respectfully in the presence of
immortals. This is Endymion, and I am a nameless god.
Silenus. Nameless and noteless, you! Endymion, this?
Never! I saw Endymion long ago
Before the stars were tarnished: with his crook
Sloped in his hand he wandered down a hill;
The night shone round him: this youth is not he.
Men are not made so now, though this is one
Who may remind me of the elder time.
But you, most lovely lady, seem to me
The very image of the golden age.
Glaucus. My daughter!
Silenus. She is Ariadne now,
For I am Bacchus. Fill my cup again;
If I cease drinking I grow melancholy.
[A Bacchante fills his cup and he drinks.
Glaucus. Pardon, most potent god!

Enter Scaramouch, Harlequin, and Columbine.

Silenus. Ha! Harlequin!
Scaramouch. Is that Bacchus?
Harlequin. Yes.
Scaramouch. Capital!—How d'ye do? how d'ye do?
Silenus. What irrepressible person is this?
Harlequin. Scaramouch.
Silenus. I do not know the name.
Scaramouch. Lamps and limpets, no! It is not in Lemprière, but it is
a good name.
Silenus. It is well you think so. What are you?
Scaramouch. I am the gentleman Harlequin told you of—he who has the
honour to be your majesty's most obedient servant and impresario.
Silenus. The showman! Well, I suppose there must be showmen.
Scaramouch. Shawms and psalteries, I should think so! I can
demonstrate to you that there is nothing pays but showmanship.
Glaucus [aside]. This is a wise fellow.
Silenus. You shall demonstrate nothing to me; but get us all on board
your vessel as soon as possible.
Scaramouch. As practical as a man! I thought all you gods were a kind
of moon-struck, plaster-of-Paris, posturing, and, to say the truth,
frequently indecent parcel of patriarchs. It shall appear in your
advertisement, sir, 'As practical as a man.' May I be dipped in wax if it
don't. The terms, sir: do you accept the offer Harlequin made?
Silenus. You must be the son of a puppet.
Scaramouch. Puppies and patchwork, why?
Silenus. From your habit of unexpected, disjointed, and inept
gesticulation, which has its exact counterpart in your pattering speeches
and preposterous preludes.
Scaramouch. What am I to do? The world is old; it has been satiated
with originality, and in its dotage cries bitterly for entertainment. A
public man must therefore be extravagant in order to distinguish
himself. My felicitous alliteration and prompt non-blasphemous oaths
constitute my note, which is the literary term for trade-mark—a species
of catch-word, in fact. Sweetness and light! do you understand me?
Silenus. Showman and sharper, you speak shrewdly, and I accept your
terms. Come, where are your boats?
Scaramouch. Oakum and orchids, there is only one!
Silenus. One! you need a fleet.
Scaramouch. Break me and splice me, if I understand!
Silenus. How else will you ship the company before morning?
Scaramouch. Company!—Harlequin, explain.
Harlequin. It is true I only bargained for Bacchus, but he seems to
think I meant the whole crowd.
Silenus. All, or none.
Scaramouch. Never! there was a bargain. Business!—O sacred word! Now
you attack me on my weak point, which is also my strong one.
[Blows a whistle. Enter two Sailors.
With reverential firmness remove our Bacchanalian friend.
[Silenus mesmerises the Sailors as they advance.
Mesmers and mystogogues! none of that! Secure the god; although he nod he
cannot shake the spheres.
Sailors. Ay, ay, sir.
1st Sailor. Our timbers are rooted.
2nd Sailor. Our flippers are frozen to our sides.
Scaramouch. Good, my men. I shall find you an engagement as supers
when we go home; but this is not the stage.
Sailors. Ay, ay, sir.
1st Sailor. I'm in as good form as calf's-foot jelly, and as frisky
as a pyramid.
2nd Sailor. And I'm as strong as water, and stiffer a deal than grog.
Scaramouch. Ha! ha! very fine indeed. Now, truss him up and away. Do
you hear? stop that acting.
Sailors. Ay, ay, sir.
1st Sailor. Acting? I call it doing nothing.
2nd Sailor. I can't even scratch my head.
Scaramouch [draws his sword]. Death, distinctly, if you do not leap
your own height when I count three. One, two——
[Silenus makes passes and they leap.
Scaramouch [sheathes his sword]. Back to thy bed, bright babe of
Birmingham! Arrest the god.
[The Sailors advance, but are again mesmerised by Silenus.
Sea lubbers, dare you rouse me further?
Sailors. Ay, ay, sir.
Scaramouch [draws his sword]. Homer and homicide, then die!
[Silenus mesmerises Scaramouch just as his sword pricks 1st Sailor.
1st Sailor. Do not prolong my agony: run me through at once: the
point pricks me, sir: in or out, one or other.
Scaramouch. Magic and mastodons, I can do neither! Great Bacchus, is
this a trick or no?
Silenus. That depends on you, good Scarabee. If you consent to ship
all my friends, it is a trick; but if you do not, you will find it a
serious matter to stand there till you rot.
Scaramouch. Every mother's son and daughter of them—the whole
island, anything you like. This power of yours is worth a kingdom.
[Silenus releases them.
Silenus. Embark Ariadne in the boat you have, and send back others
for the rest. Tow this egg-shell shallop with you: it is precious: its
workmanship is divine.
Scaramouch. Ariadne!
Silenus. Yes; that is she.
Scaramouch. Shiver my timbers! this will be the greatest combination
on record.
Silenus. Columbine, attend your mistress.
Columbine. Mistress Ariadne, I am to be your waiting-maid.
Ione. I am not Ariadne.
Glaucus [aside to Ione]. You are! you must be! Don't you see this is
Bacchus, and the dumb fellow an impostor. Bacchus says he's not Endymion.
Ione [aside to Glaucus]. It was I called him Endymion. He's no
impostor.
Glaucus [aside to Ione]. Don't argue.—Great Bacchus, Ariadne is a
little bashful as becomes a maiden honoured with the attention of your
godship.
Silenus. What are you?
Glaucus. Her father—at least I have been so for eighteen years. I
begin to doubt whether she be my child or no, since your godship perceives
that she is Ariadne—a fact which I recognised the moment you mentioned
it; and since certain quakings have overcome my being, revealing to me
that this lodgment of clay is, as it were, a long-slumbering volcano,
about to waken into full and luminous godhood.
Silenus. Know then, that she is not your child; she is a king's
daughter.
Glaucus. Princess Ariadne, I beseech you humbly to pardon any trouble
I may have given you as a father. I here formally renounce, what was never
mine, all control over your royal highness. And now, Bacchus, let us sift
to the bottom this mythological mystery. First of all, what god am I? Of
course I know I am only a minor one in the meantime, so do not scruple to
tell me, however insignificant my rank may be.
Silenus. We will discuss it, friend, over a bottle.—Harlequin,
remove Ariadne and this youth. Good people, accompany them with singing
to the shore.
Ione. Adventures throng upon me.

Song.
The boat is chafing at our long delay,
And we must leave too soon
The spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray,
The tawny sands, the moon.

Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight!
Watch from thy pearly throne
Our vessel, plunging deeper into night
To reach a land unknown.

[Harlequin, Columbine, Ariadne, Sarmion, go out.]

SCENE III.—The same.

Silenus, Scaramouch, and Glaucus sitting round a rock. Bacchantes set bottles of wine and go out.

Silenus. Taste this, good Scarab. My little godling, drink. [All drink. Scaramouch. Body and bouquet! what is this? Silenus. Wine, sir, crushed from grapes the sun never ripened. Glaucus. Is this to be bought? Silenus. What! are you still buying and selling here? Come, drink again. [All drink.] Does it not search into the dark corners and irrigate the waste places of the brain? This will make you gods, truly. And you still buy and sell below the moon? Scaramouch. The old story, sir— East and west, and north and south, Under the crescent, or under the cross, One song you hear in every mouth, "Profit and loss, profit and loss." Silenus. Is it so? I should have expected some change. Glaucus. Where have you been not to know that the divine institution of buying and selling is as vigorous as ever? Silenus. I did not know it was divine, and I have been with Bacchus among the stars. Scaramouch. Roads and railways! what does he mean? Silenus. And is money still the cure for all the ills of life? Is it still the talisman, eh!—my brand-new demigod? And the great and glorious institution of rich and poor, good spick-and-span divinity—is the world not tired of that gift of the gods yet? Glaucus. This is empty railing: there must always be rich and poor. Silenus. Let the rich hope so. But drink: these thoughts unnerve me. [All drink. Scaramouch. Good Bacchus, great Bacchus, you must be careful. Such a slip in public as you made just now would ruin us. Silenus. What slip did I make? Scaramouch. You talked of being with Bacchus; now, you are Bacchus. Silenus. So I am. Well, it was a slip. Scaramouch. Tell us about the stars. Silenus. Aha! good Scarab, we travelled about from planet to planet, from orb to orb, and each fresh sphere grew an original wine. As pebbles to grapes, are grapes to the fruits they crush there. Damsels, Hebes all, gather and tread them, and their ankles are stained with purple all the year round: the wine-presses and the vats are made of scented wood: the season never changes: there is no night, no death, no rich and poor. Glaucus. Glorious, Bacchus, glorious! But it seems to me that we three may now fitly discuss my mythological rank. Silenus. We may, good codling. Let us see. There was a god some five decades ago who lost caste abominably—no, it is longer; because during the last score centuries we Bacchanalians have been out of hearing of the faintest mundane murmur, beyond cry of Olympus, conquering the realms of space, and now visit the earth solely for Ariadne's pleasure: she had a desire to see once more her bower in Naxos. Glaucus. To whom might I appeal, then? Is there no register of gods? Scaramouch. None but Lemprière. Silenus. It matters not: if you feel confident that you are a god you must be one. Glaucus. But any one might be a god at that rate. Silenus. Surely, surely; confidence makes gods and goddesses of the merest mortality. Scaramouch. Mars and martyrdom! I shall be a god too. Silenus. Do, good Scrub, do: be a god: be the god of gulls.—I have it! Drink again. [All drink.] By-the-bye, what has your name been hitherto? Glaucus. Glaucus. Silenus. Then, Glaucus, know that thou art not Glaucus, but my squire, Silenus. I am right glad to see thee, old one. Thou hast been a wanderer long. Glaucus. I thank thee, Bacchus. But I have no memory of my name or character. If thou—— Silenus. Nay, thou must not 'thee' and 'thou' me. I am thy superior, and in my familiarity and my cups so address thee, showing my pleasure in thy return. Use respectable pronouns, Silenus. I am not angry with thee: in coming to thyself thou wilt doubtless make many mistakes, which I without resentment shall promptly correct. Glaucus. Ah! great Bacchus, I seem, now, to remember with what reverence I regarded your godliness: it is the first hint my consciousness supplies of my identity. Will your great highness tell me more of myself? Silenus. I will, Silenus. Thou art one of those whom the bulk of gods and men pity: but thou art not truly pitiable. It is certain that thou art not a respectable immortal, for thou keepest late hours, and dost allow thy company to choose itself. I hear that thou art, or would'st be, perennially drunk: thou seemest to have as many stomachs as a cow, and art as bald as a vulture; and after thy godliness thy most indubitable attribute is certainly not thy cleanliness. No; thou art not respectable, therefore art thou pitied; but thou dost not pity thyself, wherefore I love thee. I respect the unsubduable temper of thy soul, which, in the perdition of all that mortality and immortality consider barely necessary for the mere toleration of existence, still retains its diamond edge, flashing from the worn-out scabbard, keen and serviceable for offence or defence. Glaucus. But, my lord Bacchus, I shall reform. Silenus. Never, by Styx, thou fool! I tell thee, wert thou to change one thought of thy brain, or could'st thou obliterate one dream of thy youth, or cancel an action of thy prime, thou would'st endanger the stability of the universe. Go to: if thou reformest thou losest immortality and mortality, and shalt cease to be. Glaucus. With all due respect for your godship, I do not like my character. Silenus. Dost thou think I like mine? Glaucus. But when I was Glaucus—— Silenus. Thou wert a fool and respectable, and did'st admire thyself. Go to. Scaramouch. Gall and wormwood! what sound is that? Silenus. I hear no sound. Scaramouch. A sort of tinkling. Silenus. O Hecate! it is the silver cymbals. Scaramouch. What cymbals? Silenus. Listen. Glaucus [aside]. The old wine-skin's going to faint. Silenus. He comes! he comes! great Bacchus comes! My heart! Now, foolish creatures, will you see a god. But me, alas! what punishment for me? Some wine! [Drinks.] I'll dull my sense and show no shame. [Empties his bottle. This wine has lost its virtue.—Do you hear? These cymbal-players all were ladies once, Matrons and maids, close-robed from head to heel: Wild panthers' skins, zoned slackly, vest them now; Their milk-white limbs like moonbeams softly glance From tree to tree: and through the night they come. Scaramouch. Would I could hear them! But I tremble. Glaucus. What does all this mean? [Rises, drunk.] Bacchus is here, and Bacchus is there, and I'm a god, and can't understand it. I have a crude suspicion that I have taken too much wine, which a man may do once or twice in his life. My opinions about drunkenness are strong, but I will keep them to myself. Suffice it to say that I have never been drunk without good reason, and I'm not drunk now. I know the difference—any man knows the difference between exhilaration and drunkenness. I'm exhilarated now; I'm not drunk. I seem to remember another man some time or other—several men, in fact, at various times—saying that they were only exhilarated. It's a common thing to say in certain circumstances: it's a platitude. I'm not drunk. Do you think I'm drunk? Scaramouch. Drams and drachmas! as drunk's a fiddler! Glaucus. Liar! liar, definitely! Put me to the test. Bacchus—give me a back! [Runs at Silenus, and falls. Silenus. These are the satyrs playing pandean pipes, These rippling flames of sound: the muffled notes Are tabors. How the music dwindles! Hark! From some far isle it seems to reach our ears, To reach our ears and faint: the tide-mark there Is out of hearing. I should say they pass A knoll that lies between us, or the road Winds backward, and the forest is more dense. Scaramouch. They may be going back. Silenus. No, Bacchus comes for me. Scaramouch. Perhaps they've lost the way. Silenus. Ha! ha! when Bacchus loses himself in a wood Silenus will drink the sea. Scaramouch. The sound again! It is as you say: one would think it journeyed over sea. It grows and gathers, and now it travels from its own quarter: it is very near. Silenus. He comes in all his state: the chariot-wheels Like silent billows roll; from side to side The tigers' heads between their velvet paws, Like lilies eyed with flame, sway noiselessly, Or, poised on high, breathe odours to the moon. Taller than Ariadne by a head He stands with her upon the chariot-floor: They have been lovers since he found her here: His arm is round her neck; one loyal hand Droops on her shoulder, and the other holds A careless rein: her face lifts up to his The deep, sweet melancholy of desire; And he looks down, high mystery in his eyes— The passionate love of these sweet centuries; Unstaunched, uncloyed. Scaramouch. But, where?—where? Silenus. In the wood. I know how Bacchus travels. Here they come. Scaramouch. But the tigers: we shall be eaten alive. Silenus. My good Scrub, the tigers of Bacchus know of daintier food than such marrowless bones and savourless flesh as you and I. The best thing you can do is to stretch yourself there beside Glaucus, and pretend that you are drunk. Bacchus may be angry at those who have carried me off, and his immediate punishment might be severe: he will do nothing to one who is in the power of wine, and by the time you can be reasonably sober his ire will have gone like the beads from a goblet. Scaramouch. I would not do so for a man, but gods may be encountered by such sleights. Honestly, I have soused my brains a little. You do not lie comfortably, Glaucus. Come—why, he is sound asleep! I'll make a pillow of him. [Lies down with his head on Glaucus.

Enter Satyrs and Bacchantes, followed by Bacchus and Ariadne in a chariot drawn by tigers. They descend.

Bacchus. Well, runagate, who are your friends?
Silenus. My foes:
They fell at the first bottle: I have won.
Scaramouch [aside]. I could drink him out in brandy; but these
planetary wines are not for this world.
Bacchus. How often have you run away?
Silenus. Seven times.
Bacchus. Seven times you've risked disaster. You are old,
Feeble and foolish——
Silenus. Oh! not foolish, Bacchus!
Bacchus. Hare-brained at least——
Ariadne. But chide him not, dear lord.
Bacchus. Well, then, I will not: he is found. Be wise,
My ancient friend, and know your happiness.
[Bacchantes surround Silenus and bind him with ivy.
Scaramouch [aside]. These are gentle divinities.
Ariadne. Here, by this sea, I waked, how long ago!
Here, by this sea, you found me.
Bacchus. Would you be
My bride again?
Ariadne. O no! each day, each hour
I am your bride; and as the days and years
Gather behind us, every happiness—
And that is every minute of my life—
Doubles the joy of that which went before:
And yet the past is as a galaxy
Wherein no star excels the radiant throng.
Bacchus. Not that fair hour when first you loved me?
Ariadne. No:
I have no memory. I am striving now
To summon up the time when here you came,
And made me an immortal and your bride.
I might as well compel my thoughts to search
For some unnoted dream that I forgot
The moment after I had told you, love,
New wakened from the sleep I dreamed it in.
Bacchus. But memory goes afoot—invalid here:
Love has a high-commanding minister,
Imagination; and it serves alone
Beings who yield their moods and bow their minds
To its obedient masterdom: stout thought,
That trudges, blind and lame, the dusty way,
And memory, that casts its broken net
In Lethe's waves, keep not among your train—
Fit servants these for mortals.
Ariadne. So I do—
I banish them: but still there clings to me
Something of earth.
Bacchus. I love you best for that.
A goddess born is tame, secure of heaven,
And there is nothing to endow her with;
But you derive divinity from me,
Yet keep the passionate heart that mortals have.—
Now, I am at the morn I found you here:
Come, Ariadne, leap into the past.
Ariadne. I cannot.
Bacchus. See, the flying traitor's sail!
Ariadne. No, no! This night—this hour is in my blood.
The brine, the sea-pinks, and the soaring moon
Seem thoughts of mine which now I body forth;
And these, and all the beauties of the world
Breathe of my love for you.
Bacchus. I found you here
With crimson cheeks and nostrils wide, asleep;
Your hair dishevelled, and your mantle torn.
Ariadne. No, no!
You cannot drive me back. I see, indeed,
A picture of our meeting; but not mine.
My fancy like a wayward messenger
Despatched to gather roses, on its wings
Bearing their scent, flies empty-handed home.
Bacchus. What picture, Ariadne?
Ariadne. That we saw
In Athens, when we last alighted there.
Do you remember how it made us smile
Until we felt that love had painted it;
And then we found it true and beautiful?
Bacchus. Yes: and the poet.
Ariadne. Oh! some mortals still
Love us, and deem us worthy of a song.
But for the subject of their art, I vow
They needs must know it better than myself
Who am the heroine: their feigning hangs
A veil before my fancy.—Come away:
Back where the water gurgles through the fern,
Dewing the feathery fronds, and hyacinths
Spread like a purple smoke far up the bank.
[Steps into the chariot.

Enter Harlequin and Columbine. Scaramouch rises.

Harlequin. Bacchus!
[Is running out.
Bacchus. Stay.
Harlequin. Pardon, great Bacchus!
Scaramouch. Pardon!
Bacchus. What men are you, infesters of this isle?
Scaramouch. From England come we, Bacchus—England. Ha! Know you
not England, land of shams and shows?
Bacchus. Is patriotism dead in England, then,
That travellers thus traduce their native land?
What make you here?
Scaramouch. We came to hire you, sir:
I am a showman: but we took instead
Silenus here, who, pardon me, agrees
More closely with the popular idea
Of what you're like than you yourself do. Now,
What must I do? I most distinctly see
That you would be a more attractive show;
But I have made a contract with Silenus.
Then, here's the Ariadne I suppose,
And I have just returned from shipping one!
What's to be done? Stalactites, storms, and strums,
Will you come, too? Name your own price: look here:
You'll be yourself; Silenus himself, too;
And Ariadne will be Ariadne.
For her I've shipped—why, ladies have their starts,
Their turns, their maggots, and their fantasies,
Their hypochondrias, their aches, their pains,
Their dreams by day and night, their whims, their nothings;
And should her ladyship lie in the clutch,
The grip, the throes, or, to be more precise,
The mood, or mode, or manner of a qualm,
The madam I have shipped could take her place,
And be her under-study as it were.
Yea, by the very doom of destiny,
I have a substitute for you, my lord—
Endymion, they call him—in the ship!
So, Bacchus, if it happened, as it might—
And who has better reason?—that you sipped,
Or tippled, or indulged, or——Heaven forgive me!
[Falls on his knees.
Take off your eyes: they scorch me through and through!
Bacchus [to Harlequin].
You, with the wooden sword, I know your trade:
You shall do feats with that untempered blade.
[To Ariadne.] Should you not like to see these substitutes?
Ariadne. Rarely.
Bacchus [to Harlequin]. Strike, knave; and deeper than the roots
Of aged oaks, as deep as is the sea,
Wide as the Aegean, and as Olympus high,
Your striking shall be felt. Come nearer me;
Now strike, until your sword in splinters fly.
[Harlequin strikes the earth with his sword.

SCENE IV.—Transformation from the Sea-shore to the Bower of Ariadne.

Song.
Through the air, through the air,
We are borne; from our hair
A spicy odour is shaken:
We sing as we sail;
The strong trees quail,
And the dreaming doves awaken.
The pale screech-owl
That, cheek by jowl,
Goes ravening with night,
Thinks day has come,
And hurries home
Half-starved, to shun the light.
An eagle above us screams;
But a star blows a silver horn,
And a faint far echo floats
From the depths of the lakes, and the streams
Warble the shadowy notes.
A young lark thinks it morn,
And sings through our flying crowd,
That seems to his eager soul
Like a low-hung dawning cloud.
The bells of midnight toll;
The night-flowers tell the hour;
And the stately planets roll,
As we fly to our lady's bower.

SCENE V.—The Bower of Ariadne.

Enter Bacchus and Ariadne, Sarmion and Ione, Harlequin and Columbine,
Glaucus, Scaramouch, Satyrs, and Bacchantes.

Song.
Here are brackens, green and gold,
Fit for plumes of Titans old;
And we see them by the light
That immortals shed at night:
Bosky rooms where to and fro
Shadowy dryads come and go;
Bubbling springs where naiads peep,
Mossy couches where they sleep.
Here beneath this tree-topped hill
Pan oft comes to pipe his fill,
Making all the valley ring;
Here the Muses sometimes sing:
And here upon this midnight hour
We visit Ariadne's bower.
Ariadne [to Sarmion]. Who may you be?
Ione. He cannot speak.
Ariadne. Not speak!
Bacchus. Silenus knows a remedy for that.
Silenus. None better.
[Gives Sarmion wine in a goblet.
This would loosen dead men's tongues.
Sarmion. My name is Sarmion. Whence I come I know not:
I know I live; and now I have command
Of speech and of my thoughts, thanks to this wine.
I first remember being on the sea:
My shallop leapt from wave to wave: I thought
For ever to go sailing through the night:
My molten life welled from my heart and streamed
In murmuring flame through all its channels, fanned
By cooling winds: I watched the wanton waves
That melted in each other till I slept.
When I awoke the moon shone overhead,
And made along the sea a path of light,
Wherein I sailed: the beauty of it all
Blanched me with rapture; but before I knew
My shallop grounded, and I sprang on shore.
I looked about me for a silver stair
To mount up to the moon, and seeing none
Began to be dismayed, when suddenly
I came upon this lady, whom I love.
[To Ione.] Lady, I love you. How I longed to say
"I love you!"—We were carried to a ship,
And thence arrived here borne upon a cloud.
Bacchus. I know you now, and what and whence you are.
I think this lady loves you in return: ask her and see.
[Sarmion and Ione talk apart.
[To Scaramouch.] So, you are he would make of me a show.
Scaramouch. It is my vocation. It may be an inferior calling, but
there are worse. It is not so honourable as being a god, doubtless, but it
is a decent kind of beggary.
Bacchus. I understand you have been prosperous.
Scaramouch. On the whole I have. I am not yet a millionaire, but I
have capital. I—don't look at me like that!
Bacchus. Prosperity has spoiled you, sir, I see:
You need to view the world with other eyes.
Come, Harlequin, that splinter of your sword
Shall work an old-world metamorphosis.
Strike him between the shoulders.
[Harlequin strikes Scaramouch.
To an ape
Be changed: and in that form you shall be caught,
And pass on exhibition for a year
From John-o'-Groat's to Land's End, up and down:
Thereafter you shall be a man again.
Scaramouch. Monkeys, menageries and misery! Bacchus, Bacchus, think
what you do! Do I merit such a fate? Make me a toad, a rat, a cockroach!
Heavens! a monkey in a cage! Straw, stench, and filth; and little boys
to tickle me with sticks, and throw me nuts! A blinking bleared baboon! A
chattering, gibbering, jabbering——
[Scaramouch rushes out transformed to an ape.
Bacchus [to Glaucus]. Come hither.
Glaucus [aside]. Now shall I grow young again, and be the god I
am—and yet I tremble.
Bacchus. You look like one who thinks himself of note.
Glaucus. Surely, sir, surely. I am Silenus, your high godship's
faithful old servant. I wish I could see myself. Have I undergone a change
similar to your godship's? When I last saw you—I remember nothing since I
fell asleep by the sea-shore—you were an old blown blue-bottle; now you
are as I see you. Am I now a god? Have I cast my slough?
Silenus. Oho! I have a word to say. You must know that I played
Bacchus in my wanderings. This vain old coxcomb took it into his head that
he must be a god, whereupon I persuaded him that he was myself, though all
Olympus knows there's not much of the god about me.
Glaucus. What! have I been played upon like a kettledrum? Is this all a
drean?
Bacchus. Well, are you still an immortal?
Glaucus. No—no; I am a foolish old man.
Bacchus. I'm glad you think so: you can now go home.
Glaucus. My daughter, sir?
Bacchus. Is safe. Farewell.
[Glaucus goes out.
[To Harlequin and Columbine.] Come here.
Harlequin and Columbine. Mercy! mercy!
Bacchus. Will you return, or will you follow me?
Harlequin and Columbine. O send us back!
Bacchus. A wretched choice: but go.
[Harlequin and Columbine go out.
Sarmion, what says the lady to your love?
Sarmion. O words of wonder, of enchantment—sweet,
And yet so strong, so tender and so bold,
That any ears save mine would miss the sense,
The savour, the aroma that they bear.
Ariadne. You love him, then?
Ione. Yes.
Ariadne. And you told him so?
Ione. I did.
Ariadne. What wondrous language could you use
That he should be so frenzied?
Ione. I but spoke
The language of my heart.
Bacchus. Well answered, girl.—
Our time is brief, for we have far to go
Before this side of earth can roll again
Out of its shadow. Listen, lovers.
Silenus. Peace.
Bacchus. Sarmion, you are descended from a race
Inhabiting a star above the moon.
Spirits they are, and by a subtle thought
Spirits are born to them. Those sultry clouds
That surge in slumbrous ranks like golden waves,
Or on the skyline of the earth build up,
Agleam with topaz and with sardonyx,
Towards evening, high pavilions and towers,
That change to lofty crests and gorges deep
The fancy cannot fathom, are more dense,
More gross than the ethereal continents
Of yonder orb, washed by a sinuous sea
Guiltless of storm, thinner and lovelier
Than the divided azure. In a dream
You had a vision of an earthly maid;
And, still asleep, your life, on fire for her,
Shaped to itself the body that you have—
The first to be incarnate of your race:
And then the secret limbec of your love
Distilled the wing'd and airy boat of pearl
That bore you to the earth. Here you awoke,
The past, forgot—the present, wonder all.
Ariadne. But shall we visit soon this star of his?
Bacchus. Sometime we shall.—Sarmion, this choice is yours:
Either to give Ione up, and be
Again a free thought in your natal sphere,
Whose whole dimensions, tense and rare, are pierced
By dwellers there, and give as easy way
As summer air to swallows, as the deep
To sporting dolphins; or to have your love
And with her the imprisonment of earth,
Where spirit must be draped in mortal flesh,
Where motion's shackled, and where ways are hewn,
Where life is conscious, and where death ends all.
Sarmion. I choose Ione. What with her must come
I scarcely understand; but there can fall
No present woe so bitter as would be
Her absence from my life.
Ione. O love, think well!
Here are disease and care; I shall grow old;
And poverty may catch us in its net.
Sarmion. Your voice is music, but you speak of things
Unknown to me.
Ione. Then, though my heart must break,
Return, return! This world is not for you!
A thousand daily pitfalls mesh the path
Of those who here are native: faults in friends,
Denials, tarryings, storm, and heat and cold,
Things loathsome, incomplete; falsehood, and wrath:
O I am ill at saying what I mean!
Think; if these pitiful disquietings
Have power to kill the joy in us, who come
Of blood that never beat in other veins
Than those of men and women, still abused
By buffetings of chance on every side,
What misery, what terror will there be
For you, whose life has known no bolts, no bars,
No stumbling-blocks, no weariness, no care!
And, chief of all, when you begin to find,
How weak, how foolish, and how fond I am!
Sarmion. Have you to suffer daily miseries?
Then here I stay. Gaunt wretchedness, advance:
If I may have this maiden for my mate,
No sting, no stroke of yours can make me quail;
And while I live I cannot be so bruised
But some sound part of me shall have the strength
To bear the blows intended for my love.
Ione. Now, God forbid! 'Tis I shall be your shield.
Ariadne. Come here and kiss me.
[Ariadne embraces Ione.
Bacchus. This is well, indeed.—
We must, ere dawn, away to India:
You two shall be transported through the air
To Glaucus' house.
Ione. How far are we from home?
Bacchus. Three miles, I think.
Ione. O, pray you, let us walk!
Sarmion, three miles together through the wood
Shimmering with moonlight, full of smothered sound,
And ghostly shadow, and the mingled scent
Of flowers and spices, and the cooling earth!
It is a very lifetime of delight!
Bacchus. Good-night then, and farewell.
Ariadne. Farewell.
Ione. Farewell.
Sarmion. All happiness go with you into Ind.
[Sarmion and Ione go out.
Ariadne. This star, my love—I burn to see this star.
Bacchus. You shall upon your birthday.
Ariadne. Two weeks hence,
As mortals count! Well, I can wait.
Bacchus. Lead on.