Bacchus gets the needful information at last, and sets out on his journey—not without some remonstrance from his slave as to the weight of the luggage he has to carry. Surely, Xanthias says, there must be some dead people going that way on their own account, in a conveyance, who would carry it for a trifle? His master gives him leave to make such an arrangement if he can—and as a bier is borne across the stage, Xanthias stops it, and tries to make a bargain with the occupant. The dead man asks eighteenpence; Xanthias offers him a shilling; the other replies that he “would rather come to life again,” and bids his bearers “move on.”
There must have been some kind of change of scene, to enable the travellers to arrive at the passage of the Styx, where Charon’s ferry-boat is in waiting. He plies his trade exactly after the fashion of a modern omnibus-conductor. “Any one for Lethe, Tænarus, the Dogs, or No-man’s-Land?” “You’re sure you’re going straight to Hell?” asks the cautious traveller. “Certainly—to oblige you.” So Bacchus steps into the boat, begging Charon to be very careful, for it seems very small and crank, as Hercules had warned him. But Charon carries no slaves—Xanthias must run round and meet them on the other side. The god takes his place at the oar, at the ferryman’s bidding (but in very awkward “form,” as a modern oarsman would term it), to work his passage across: and an invisible Chorus of Frogs, who give their name to the piece—the “Swans of the Marsh,” as Charon calls them—chant their discordant music, in which, nevertheless, occur some very graceful lines, to the time of the stroke. It must be remembered that the oldest temple of Bacchus—the Lenæan—was known as that “In the Marsh,” and it was there that the festival, was held at which this piece was brought forward.
The chant of the Frogs dies away in the distance, and the scene changes to the other side of the infernal lake, where Xanthias was to await the arrival of his master. It does not seem likely that any means could have been adopted for darkening a stage which was nearly five hundred feet broad, and open to the sky: but it is plain that much of the humour of the following scene depends upon its being supposed to take place more or less in the dark. Probably the darkness was conventional, and only by grace of the audience—as indeed must be the case to some extent even in a modern theatre.
[Enter Bacchus, on one side of the stage.]
B. Hoy! Xanthias!—Where’s Xanthias?—I say, Xanthias!
[Enter Xanthias, on the other side.]
X. Hallo!
B. Come here, sir,—quick!
X. Here I am, master!
B. What kind of a place is it, out yonder?
X. Dirt and darkness.
B. Did you see any of those perjurers and assassins
He told us of?
X. Aye,—lots. (Looking round at the audience.)
I see ’em now—don’t you?
B. (looking round). To be sure I do, by Neptune! now I see ’em!—
What shall we do?
X. Go forward, I should say;
This is the place where lie those evil beasts—
The monsters that he talked of.
B. Oh! confound him!
He was romancing—trying to frighten me,
Knowing how bold I was—jealous, that’s the fact:
Never was such a braggart as that Hercules!
I only wish I could fall in with something—
Some brave adventure, worthy of my visit.
X. Stop!—there!—by Jove, I heard a roar out yonder!
B. (nervously). Where, where?
X. Behind us.
B. (pushing himself in front of Xanthias). Go behind, sir, will you?
X. No—it’s in front.
B. (getting behind Xanthias again). Why don’t you go in front, then?
X. Great Jupiter! I see an awful beast!
B. What like?
X. Oh—horrible! like everything!
Now it’s a bull—and now a stag—and now
A beautiful woman!
B. (jumping from behind X., and pushing him back). Where?—Let me go first!
X. It’s not a woman now—it’s a great dog!
B. (in great terror, getting behind X. again). Oh!—it’s the Empusa![47]
X. (getting frightened). It’s got eyes like fire,
And its face all of a blaze!
B. And one brass leg?
X. Lawk-a-mercy, yes!—and a cloven foot on the other
—It has indeed!
B. (looking round in terror). “Where can I get to—tell me?
X. “Where can I go? (runs into a corner.)
B. (makes as if he would run into the arms of the Priest of Bacchus, who had a seat of honour in the front row.)
Good priest, protect me!—take me home to supper![48]
X. (from his corner). We’re lost—we’re lost! O Hercules, dear master!
B. (in a frightened whisper). Don’t call me by that name, you fool—don’t, don’t!
X. Well,—Bacchus, must I say?
B. No-o!—that’s worse still!
X. (to something in the distance). Avaunt, there! go thy ways! (Joyfully.) Here, master! here!
B. What is it?
X. Hurrah! take heart! we’ve had the greatest luck—
We can say now, in our great poet’s words,—
“After a storm there comes a calm.”—It’s gone!
B. Upon your oath?
X. Upon my oath.
B. You swear it?
X. I swear it.
B. Swear again.
X. I swear—by Jupiter.
But now the sound of flutes is heard in the distance, and with music and torches, a festive procession enters the orchestra. A parody of the great Eleusinian mysteries (for even these were lawful game to the comedy-writer) introduces the true Chorus of this play, consisting of the ‘Initiated,’ who chant an ode, half serious half burlesque, in honour of Bacchus and Ceres. They direct the travellers to the gates of Pluto’s palace, which are close at hand. Bacchus eyes the awful portal for some time before he ventures to lift the knocker, and is very anxious to announce himself in the most polite fashion. “How do people knock at doors in these parts, I wonder?”
“Æac. (from within, with the voice of a royal and infernal porter). Who’s there?
Bac. (with a forced voice). ’Tis I,—the valiant Hercules.
Æac. (coming out). Thou brutal, abominable, detestable,
Vile, villanous, infamous, nefarious scoundrel!
How durst thou, villain as thou wert, to seize
Our watchdog Cerberus, whom I kept and tended,
Hurrying him off half-strangled in your grasp?
But now, be sure, we have you safe and fast,
Miscreant and villain! Thee the Stygian cliffs
With stern adamantine durance, and the rocks
Of inaccessible Acheron, red with gore,
Environ and beleaguer, and the watch
And swift pursuit of the hideous hounds of hell,
And the horrible Hydra with her hundred heads,
“Whose furious ravening fangs shall rend and tear thee.”—(F.)
Before the terrible porter has ended his threats, Bacchus has dropped to the ground from sheer terror. “Hallo!” says Xanthias, “what’s the matter?” “I’ve had an accident,” says his master, recovering himself when he sees that Æacus is gone. But finding that the rôle of Hercules has so many unforeseen responsibilities, he begs Xanthias to change dresses and characters,—to relieve him of the club and lion’s skin, while he takes his turn with the bundles. No sooner has the change been effected, than a waiting-woman of Queen Proserpine makes her appearance—she has been sent to invite Hercules to supper. She addresses herself, of course, to Xanthias:—
“Dear Hercules! so you’re come at last! come in!
For the goddess, as soon as she heard of it, set to work
Baking peck-loaves, and frying stacks of pancakes,
And making messes of frumenty: there’s an ox,
Besides, she has roasted whole, with a relishing stuffing.”—(F.)
There is the best of wine, besides, awaiting him—and such lovely singers and dancers!
Xanthias, after some modest refusals, allows himself to be persuaded, and prepares to follow his fair guide, bidding his master look after the luggage. But Bacchus prefers on this occasion to play the part of Hercules himself, and insists on each resuming their original characters,—the slave warning him that he may come to rue it yet. The warning soon comes true. Before he can get to the palace, he is seized upon by a brace of infernal landladies, at whose establishments Hercules, on his previous visit, has left some little bills unpaid. “Hallo!” says one lady, “here’s the fellow that ate me up sixteen loaves!” “And me a score of fried cutlets at three-halfpence apiece,” says the other, “And all my garlic!” “And my pickled fish, and the new cream-cheeses, which he swallowed rush-baskets and all! and then, when I asked for payment, he only grinned and roared at me like a bull, and threatened me with his sword.” “Just like him!” says Xanthias. After abusing poor Bacchus, and shaking their fists in his face, they go off to fetch some of the infernal lawyers; and Bacchus once more begs Xanthias to stand his friend, and play Hercules again,—he shall really be Hercules for the future,—the part suits him infinitely better. The slave consents, and again they change dresses, when Æacus comes in with the Plutonian police. He points out to them the representative of Hercules—“Handcuff me this fellow that stole the dog!” But Xanthias is not easily handcuffed; he stands on his defence; protests that “he wishes he may die if he was ever that way before;”—he “never touched a hair of the dog’s tail.” If Æacus won’t believe him, there stands his slave—he may take and torture him, after the usual fashion, and see whether he can extract any evidence of guilt. This seems so fair a proposal that Æacus at once agrees to it.