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?