Chapter IV: Part 4

BURRUS. What about? The dinner-party?

ÆMILIA. Dinner-party, indeed! I mean about Lucius not appearing at the Games again.

BURRUS. No, I haven’t. What is there to arrange?

ÆMILIA. You really are too helpless. You must get him banished, of course--just for a short time.

BURRUS. I didn’t like to--but I’ll write to Seneca.

ÆMILIA. Seneca’s no use. Write to Petronius. He’ll arrange it without any fuss.

BURRUS. I hardly like----

ÆMILIA. If Lucius appears once more in the circus as a gladiator I shall open my veins in my bath.

BURRUS. Oh, well, of course, if you insist----

ÆMILIA. Yes, I do insist.

_Enter a_ SLAVE

SLAVE. Lucius, Annæus Seneca, and Annæus Serenus wish to see you.

BURRUS. Show them in.

_Enter_ LUCIUS, A. SENECA, _and_ A. SERENUS

[_Exit_ SLAVE.

SENECA. I’ve only just heard the news, or else I would have come sooner.

SERENUS. And I had no idea until Seneca told me.

BURRUS. I suppose it’s all over Rome by now.

SENECA. You mustn’t take these things to heart.

ÆMILIA. It’s all very well for you to talk, Seneca; you haven’t got a son.

SENECA. I would esteem it a privilege to be visited by troubles of this nature. It is only the noblest souls that the gods plague with such disasters in order that, tempered by affliction, the true steel, emerging triumphant from the trial, may serve as an example to mankind.

SERENUS. Not being a stoic, Burrus, I take a different view of the incident. I consider that man is born to enjoy himself, and that the opportunities of enjoyment are rare and far between. Life is monotonous. If your son finds a relaxation from the tediousness of existence in fighting as a gladiator, by all means let him continue to do so. It is a profession which calls forth many of the noblest qualities of man.

ÆMILIA. But think of the family, Serenus. Think of us, of my sisters, my sisters-in-law, my cousins; think of my husband and the harm that it may do him professionally.

SENECA. Vain thoughts, I assure you, Æmilia. A man’s merit depends on the aspirations of his soul and not on the idle gossip of his relations.

SERENUS. All one’s relations are liars. It is much better that they should say your son is a gladiator who fights in public--which is true--than that they should say he is a drunkard who drinks in secret, which would be untrue. They would no doubt say that, had they no other food for gossip.

ÆMILIA. But Lucius never drinks. He had never given us a day’s anxiety until this.

BURRUS. He got all the prizes at school.

ÆMILIA. He was working so hard to become an officer.

SERENUS. Ah! Over-education, I see. I assure you the whole matter does not signify.

ÆMILIA. It is breaking his father’s heart.

BURRUS. I shall never hold up my head in public.

SENECA. Come, Burrus, think of Brutus, and what he had to endure from his son.

SERENUS. Yes, and think of the many Roman sons who have killed their fathers.

SENECA. In every evil, in every misfortune there is always a seed of consolation. You must, of course, deal kindly with him, but firmly, and I am convinced he will listen to reason.

ÆMILIA. He wouldn’t listen to us at all. We all tried our best to dissuade him--except his cousin Lesbia. Heartless woman! It was entirely her fault.

BURRUS. He shall never cross this threshold again as long as I live.

SENECA. Set a noble example of forgiveness, Burrus, and the world will be grateful to you.

BURRUS. I will never set eyes upon him again. He has disgraced himself and his family for ever. There are certain stains of dishonour which can never be effaced.

_Enter a_ SLAVE

SLAVE. Paulina, the wife of Seneca, is here. She wishes to speak to you.

SENECA. My wife! What can she want?

BURRUS. Show her in.

[_Exit_ SLAVE.

_Enter_ PAULINA

PAULINA. Forgive me, Burrus, for forcing my way in--they said you were not at home to any visitors--but it is a matter of life and death--and I must speak to Seneca. (_To_ SENECA) I have been hunting for you the whole morning, and it’s by the merest chance I found out you had come here.

SENECA. What is it?

PAULINA. A terrible catastrophe has befallen us.

SENECA. My Greek vases?

PAULINA. No, it’s nothing to do with your horrible collections.

SENECA. Then don’t you think we had better go home and discuss the matter in private?

PAULINA. No, I want Burrus’s help.

SENECA. What can have happened?

PAULINA. It’s Julia.

SENECA. I suppose she’s run away with some one.

PAULINA. Oh no; it’s far worse than that.

SENECA. You mean----

PAULINA. I don’t mean anything. I mean she has disgraced us all.

SERENUS. These little affairs blow over so quickly.

PAULINA. But you don’t understand--you will never believe it. The girl has become a Christian.

SENECA. A Christian!

BURRUS. No!

ÆMILIA. My poor Paulina!

SERENUS. Curious!

BURRUS. She must have been got hold of by the Jews.

ÆMILIA. They are terribly cunning; and people say they’re everywhere, and yet one doesn’t see them.

SERENUS. But surely there is nothing irretrievable about this. As long as nobody knows about it, what does it signify?

SENECA. You don’t understand. It’s a matter of principle; I could not possibly harbour a daughter under my roof whom I knew to be a traitor to the State.

SERENUS. It is annoying.

PAULINA. But you don’t know the worst: she has gone to prison.

SENECA (_very angry_). Well, I hope you will let her know that she shall never come back to our home as long as she lives. Her conduct is not only immoral, but it is immodest. It is inspired solely and simply by a passion for self-advertisement. It is this modern craze for publicity which is the ruin of our children; she is bitten by this same passion for notoriety which--you will excuse me saying so, Burrus--led your son to be a gladiator. I call it vulgar, tawdry, Byzantine, hysterical, and essentially un-Roman.

SERENUS. But surely, my dear Seneca, nobody can think it amusing to go to prison? Think of the risk.

SENECA. I beg your pardon. People of her class risk nothing. They have got a morbid craze for new sensations.

SERENUS. Rather disagreeable sensations, aren’t they? To be eaten by a tiger, for instance?

SENECA. There’s no question of that. It’s only the worst criminals who are treated like that. Am I not right, Burrus?

BURRUS. Perfectly. A purely religious offender is immediately released on making the mere outward sign of allegiance to the State. An oath is not even required.

PAULINA. Well, that’s just what I’ve come about. The child is in prison, and it appears--it is very foolish and obstinate of her, but Julia always was an obstinate child--that she refuses to fulfil the necessary formality, sacrifice, or whatever it is. So I thought I would come to you, Burrus, and ask you just to say a word to the prison authorities, and then she could be let out--quite quietly, of course. Nobody need know about it.

BURRUS. My dear lady, you know how gladly I would do anything in the world to be of use to you. But in this case--and I am sure you will understand--I cannot see my way; indeed it is quite impossible for me to take any action. You see, Petronius’s cousin was released three weeks ago, and smuggled out of the country, and the demagogues got hold of it and complained to the Emperor, who--courting popularity as usual--said it was not to occur again. So you see in what an awkward position we are placed. We can’t make these distinctions simply between people of position and others----

PAULINA. But it’s always done.

BURRUS. That’s just why it can’t be done this time. The Emperor is extremely annoyed at people of good family having anything to do with those horrible Christians, and he’s determined to stamp this mania out. But all she has got to do is to sacrifice----

PAULINA. But you don’t realise how obstinate the girl is.

_Enter_ LESBIA, _a lovely gay woman, about 25_

LESBIA. Good morning, good morning. I’ve got some places for the Games, and Lucius comes on at three. You _must_ see him fight. He’s too wonderful. And it’s horrible of you not to go and see him, and then they’re going to throw _all_ the Christians to the lions directly afterwards, so you must come.

CURTAIN.

XVI

AFTER EURIPIDES’ “ELECTRA”

SCENE.--_A room in the house of_ CINYRAS, _at Athens_.

[_Reclining on couches round the tables are_ SOCRATES, ALCANDER
(_a man about Athens,_) DEMETRIUS (_a critic,_) XENOCLES (_a
playwright,_) ANTAGORAS (_an important official,_) NAUCYDES (_a
soldier,_) HELIODORE (_wife of_ CINYRAS), _and her friends,_
LYCORIS, TIMARETA, NICYLLA, _and_ HEGESO.

HELIODORE. Euripides has promised to come; but we won’t wait for him. I don’t know what you feel, but I’m very hungry.

NAUCYDES. So am I. Makes one hungry, don’t you know--that kind of thing. Splendid show.

LYCORIS. What I say is, it’s too long. It lasted nearly all day. If he had made it about half as long, it would be just as beautiful, and much more enjoyable for us. Of course, I don’t pretend to be a judge, but I do say it’s too long.

CINYRAS. Much the best thing is to do as I do and not go to the play at all.

LYCORIS. No, I like a _good_ play. But I don’t care for Diophantus’ acting. It’s just the same with Tityus. What I say is, Diophantus is always Diophantus and Tityus is always Tityus.

DEMETRIUS. But surely the business of the actor is never to let his personality change?

NICYLLA. What did you think of the play, Demetrius?

DEMETRIUS. I am afraid I must not tell you that until my opinions are published. It wouldn’t be fair on the author.

NICYLLA. And what did you think, Socrates?

SOCRATES. I admired it immensely.

HEGESO. I thought it wonderful. I loved the story. I loved Clytæmnestra’s clothes, that wonderful, dirty, wine-stained dress, and Electra’s pale, shivering, stone-cold mask; and Orestes was such a darling. So mad, and distraught, and rebellious.

HELIODORE. I thought it was marvellous.

NICYLLA. I think it’s so much better than Sophocles’ _Electra_.

ALCANDER. It’s very clever, of course; brilliantly clever; but it’s not a play. It’s really only a discussion.

HEGESO. But I was thrilled by the story and so frightened.

TIMARETA. You know, it’s not the story. It’s the acting. Apollodorus told me it’s the acting. It’s wonderful. It’s felt. I felt it.

LYCORIS. I must say, I don’t like that sort of play. I think it leaves a nasty taste in one’s mouth and one doesn’t quite know why. I know it’s very clever.

NICYLLA. Oh, Lycoris, how old-fashioned of you! Now don’t you think Electra was right, Socrates, to kill her mother?

SOCRATES. We’ll ask Euripides that when he comes. My business is to ask questions----

NAUCYDES (_aside to_ HELIODORE). And a great nuisance he is, too, with his questions.

SOCRATES. And not to answer them.

NAUCYDES (_aside to_ HELIODORE). I don’t believe he knows what the answers are.

NICYLLA. But don’t you think, Demetrius, that a girl is justified in taking the law into her hands in such very exceptional circumstances; or do you think a girl’s first duty is to her mother?

ANTAGORAS. I think she deserved a good whipping, if you ask me. However, it’s not the story I object to. I mean, we all know the story, and we’re quite ready to see a new play on the subject, as long as it’s treated reverently and decently; but one never knows with Euripides when he’s serious, or whether he’s laughing in his sleeve the whole time or not. Now I like Æschylus.

XENOCLES. Poor Euripides! He’s shot his bolt.

NICYLLA. Do you think he’s played out?

LYCORIS. What I say is this, that Clytæmnestra thoroughly deserved to die, but Electra wasn’t the person to kill her, and that as she did kill her mother she ought to have been punished.

TIMARETA. It was Fate, that’s what it was. Apollodorus told me it was all Fate.

HEGESO. Yes, and she was so sad, so miserable; she couldn’t bear doing it. She _loved_ her mother, although her mother had been so unkind, and turned her out of that beautiful house into a cold cruel hut, and only a herdsman to talk to. Don’t you agree, Naucydes, with me, that Electra was cruelly treated? She couldn’t help it, could she?

NAUCYDES. Rather an awkward case, don’t you know. Sort of fix when everything you do’s wrong. (_He laughs loudly._)

HEGESO. And wasn’t the music too heavenly?

ALCANDER. It’s like the play--clever; but it isn’t music, any more than the play’s a play.

ANTAGORAS. I couldn’t make head or tail of it--but then I’m not musical.

HEGESO. Didn’t you love those divine little screams, like a saw cutting ice, and the noise the cymbals made, like slippery sandals rushing down a marble mountain?

NICYLLA. What did you think of the music, Demetrius?

DEMETRIUS. There are no ideas in it, and it’s very thin; there’s no colour in it either, but a certain amount of clever arabesque work.

NICYLLA. Don’t you think music acts on one’s sub-conscious superself without one’s noticing it? When I hear certain kinds of music I go quite mad, and sometimes when I hear music I feel as if I could understand everything. I am sure you agree with me, Socrates. And now, _do_ tell me: Does music have an Apolline or a Dionysic effect on you? Sometimes it has a Dionysic effect on me and sometimes an Apolline.

SOCRATES. What is music, Nicylla? If you can answer me that, I will tell you the nature of its effect on me.

NICYLLA. Music is the language of the soul. It is to man what the perfume is to the flower.

ANTAGORAS. Music’s a nuisance.

DEMETRIUS. Not necessarily; but it is often an interruption.

ALCANDER. And sometimes an accompaniment.

LYCORIS. Yes, as in the play to-day. What I say is, all this new music isn’t music, but noise.

ANTAGORAS. I agree with you; it oughtn’t to be allowed.

DEMETRIUS. But isn’t all music noise?

HEGESO. Yes: delicious, heavenly noises, all caught like tame mice and put in chains and made to be obedient.

HELIODORE. Don’t let’s discuss the music till we’ve finished talking about the play. Now, Xenocles thinks that Euripides is played out.

XENOCLES. Euripides has talent, but he is essentially mediocre; his verses are vulgar and facile. However, I’ve no doubt the sausage-sellers enjoy his plays. It is the kind of thing which would appeal to them. And they say the Barbarians find them extraordinarily profound.

NICYLLA. Now, that’s one of your paradoxes, Xenocles. How brilliant he is, isn’t he?

TIMARETA. Apollodorus says his characters are too natural. They are just what one sees every day.

ANTAGORAS. Good gracious, I hope not.

NICYLLA. Now, Socrates, I know you admire Euripides, and I always have admired him. I always said from the first that he was far the greatest playwright we’d ever had. I want to know what Xenocles admires.

XENOCLES. Well, there’s Agathon, but no one else.

NICYLLA. And I’m sure you don’t admire Sophocles?

XENOCLES. The gods forbid.

DEMETRIUS. His work is quite dead. I believe his plays are still admired in Thrace.

NAUCYDES. I saw one the other day, and I’m afraid I liked it.

NICYLLA. Oh, Naucydes, how can you say such a thing? They’re so empty. There’s no soul in them. No world-sympathy. No atmospheric intuition. Nothing cosmic. And then they say his verses are all wrong. Aren’t they, Xenocles?

XENOCLES. Sophocles undoubtedly wrote some good lines, but his philosophy is childish. It is essentially Mid-Athenian.

HEGESO. Oh, I adore Mid-Athenian things. I’ve had a room furnished in the Mid-Athenian style with archaic busts; you can’t think how quaint and charming it looks.

HELIODORE. Won’t you have a little more partridge, Hegeso?

HEGESO. No, thank you, dear. I never touch food at this time in the evening. I can only eat a little parsley and mint in the morning.

HELIODORE. I’m sure you must be hungry after all we’ve gone through. I confess I cried like a child.

TIMARETA. That’s what it is--Euripides is so pathetic. He’s not great and he’s not mystic, but he’s pathetic. He touches one just here. (_She points to her throat._) Apollodorus told me he’s pathetic. He’s got bathos.

HEGESO. I felt so sorry for Clytæmnestra. I was miserable when she screamed. I jumped up in my seat and cried: “I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it; they’re killing Clytæmnestra.” And Callias, who was sitting next to me, was so cross. (_She helps herself to a quail._) It has been a wonderful day.

HELIODORE. Wonderful! I’ve never been through anything like it before.

NICYLLA. I felt as if my soul had escaped and was just floating in mid-ether between one world and another; between the two gates, don’t you know.

TIMARETA. I was moved, that’s what it was--moved. I felt like--as if I were at a funeral--a State funeral, with music and torches.

ALCANDER. Yes, it was certainly a fine performance.

NAUCYDES. By Zeus, yes!

DEMETRIUS. I don’t mind saying that I was interested.

HEGESO. I shall never get over it, never. I feel as if it had all happened to me. (_She helps herself to another quail._)

_Enter a_ SLAVE

THE SLAVE. Euripides has sent to say he is very sorry he can’t come to supper. He is too tired.

SOCRATES. I am afraid I must leave you. I have some pupils waiting for me at home.

HELIODORE. Oh, don’t go, Socrates. I haven’t spoken to you at all, and I have got so many things to say to you.

SOCRATES. I’m afraid I must go. Farewell, and a thousand thanks for your kind hospitality.

DEMETRIUS. And I’m afraid I must go. I’ve got to write about the play.

[_Exeunt_ SOCRATES _and_ DEMETRIUS.

HELIODORE. I must say I do think it’s rather thoughtless of Euripides to throw me over at the last minute. I do think he might have let me know. You see, Socrates only came because of Euripides. And you see what happens the moment he hears he’s not coming--he goes.

XENOCLES. He always does that. He’s spoilt. I told you he was overrated.

HELIODORE. I don’t mind personally a bit. I don’t happen to care for him; but I have asked thirty people to come in afterwards to meet him, and I do think it’s selfish.

LYCORIS. I could tell from his play he was selfish.

TIMARETA. He’s no heart, that’s what it is. He’s heartless. Just like Electra--heartless.

HELIODORE. But I do think Socrates might have stayed.

XENOCLES. Don’t you understand why he’s gone? He didn’t want to tell Euripides how bad he thought the play was!

NICYLLA. Do you mean he really thinks it bad?

XENOCLES. I’m convinced of it.

ANTAGORAS. It’s much worse than bad; it’s undermining.

DEMETRIUS. I don’t mind telling you now what I think--it’s a poor affair.

ALCANDER. Yes, I’m afraid it’s a failure.

HEGESO. Oh no, don’t say that, because I did so love it.

HELIODORE. I never liked Euripides.

NICYLLA. I told you he was finished. I’m never wrong. I knew it was all a mistake.

XENOCLES. He means well.

ANTAGORAS. No, he doesn’t; that’s just it.

LYCORIS. What I say is, that those kinds of plays do harm.

ANTAGORAS. The man’s an atheist.

LYCORIS. He’s a scoffer.

ANTAGORAS. But Socrates is far worse than he is.

NICYLLA. Oh, he’s such a bore.

HEGESO. I love his little snub nose.

HELIODORE. I shall never ask them again.

ALCANDER. Tiresome people.

LYCORIS. What I say is, people like Socrates and Euripides ought to be put in prison.

NICYLLA. Especially Socrates.

ANTAGORAS. So he will be, or else my name’s not Antagoras. He only deserves one thing, and that’s capital punishment.

HEGESO. Poor little Socrates! But I hope you’ll let Euripides off.

ANTAGORAS. He doesn’t count; he’s only a playwright.

CURTAIN.

XVII

JASON AND MEDEA

SCENE.--_A room in the house of_ JASON, _looking on to garden, at
Corinth. Discovered:_ JASON _and_ GLAUCE.

JASON. I think you really had better go. She may be in any minute now.

GLAUCE. Very well; but you promise to tell her to-day?

JASON. I swear.

GLAUCE. It’s all very well, but you said that yesterday.

JASON. Yes, and I would have told her yesterday, only I was interrupted----

GLAUCE. I know; the only thing I say is, you must tell her to-day and do it nicely, because I shouldn’t like poor little Medea to be hurt.

JASON. No, of course not. Good-bye.

GLAUCE. Good-bye. Then to-morrow at eleven, at the Creon Institute.

JASON. Very well, at eleven.

GLAUCE. And then we might--no.

JASON. What?

GLAUCE. Nothing. I was only thinking we might have some food at the “Golden Fleece,” _downstairs_.

JASON. The whole of Corinth would see us.

GLAUCE. There is never a soul downstairs, and I don’t see now that it much matters.

JASON. It’s a pity to make oneself conspicuous; your father----

GLAUCE. You know best, but I should have thought----

JASON. That’s Medea coming through the garden.

GLAUCE. To-morrow, at eleven.

JASON. Yes--yes--to-morrow. (GLAUCE _goes out L._)

_Enter_ MEDEA _from the garden_

MEDEA. I can’t get any one for dinner to-morrow night. We want somebody amusing.

JASON (_wearily_). Would Orpheus do?

MEDEA. We’ve got too many heroes as it is. And then, if Orpheus comes, we shall be obliged to ask him to play.

JASON. What about Castor and Pollux?

MEDEA. Heroes again--and I think it’s a mistake to ask brothers together.

JASON. Heracles is staying at Corinth.

MEDEA. He would do beautifully.

JASON. I’m not sure he would do. He doesn’t get on with Admetus.

MEDEA. Why not? Admetus ought to be very grateful.

JASON. For bringing back his wife from the grave?

MEDEA. Yes, of course.

JASON. Of course. (JASON _looks pensive._)

MEDEA. Then we shall want another woman.

JASON. How would Ariadne do?

MEDEA. What are you thinking of? Theseus is coming.

JASON. I thought all that had entirely blown over.

MEDEA. We want an unmarried woman, if possible.

JASON. I don’t know any one.

MEDEA. Do you think we could get King Creon’s daughter by herself? She’s so pretty. I mean Glauce.

JASON (_blushing scarlet_). I don’t think--er--no--you see--we can’t very well.

MEDEA. Why not?

JASON. She’s a girl.

MEDEA. She goes everywhere. She doesn’t count as a girl.

JASON. Then we should have to ask King Creon.

MEDEA. No, Alcestis will bring her. That will do beautifully. I’ll send a message at once.

JASON. For the sake of the gods, do nothing of the kind.

MEDEA. But she’ll do beautifully.

JASON. You don’t understand. You see, King Creon has--he’s--well, I don’t quite know how to say it.

MEDEA. What _do_ you mean?

JASON. Well, it’s very awkward. The fact is, King Creon has approached me politically--about something----

MEDEA. What has that got to do with asking Glauce?

JASON. No, nothing, of course, except that we should have to ask him.

MEDEA. I’ve already told you that it’s unnecessary.

JASON (_firmly_). I shouldn’t dream of asking her without her father, and we can’t ask him.

MEDEA. Why not?

JASON. Oh, because he never does dine out.

MEDEA. I’m sure he would come here.

JASON. It’s impossible. You see, to tell you the truth--I’ve been meaning to tell you this for some time, only I’ve never had the opportunity--the King is rather severe about you.

MEDEA. Severe! How?

JASON. Well, you see, he’s old-fashioned, and he doesn’t consider our marriage as a marriage.

MEDEA. We were married in the temple of Aphrodite. What more does he want?

JASON. He doesn’t consider that a girl’s marriage is valid when it is made without the consent of her parents; and your poor dear father, you know, was most unreasonable.

MEDEA. Papa being silly has got nothing to do with it. When a man and a woman are married in a temple, with the proper rites, they are man and wife. Nothing can ever alter the fact.

JASON. Yes, but it’s not only that. Creon goes much farther than that. He made me certain revelations concerning some family business which, I must say, surprised me immensely.

MEDEA. What family business?

JASON. Well, it appears that soon after I started for Colchis my father entered into secret negotiations with King Creon, and signed an offensive and defensive alliance with him, the object of which was to safeguard themselves against Pelias. The word-alliance remained secret. But at a State banquet Creon laid great stress on the friendship between himself and the Æolidæ, and brought in the words “friendly understanding” several times. Now in the treaty, which was drawn up and published, to mask the alliance, there were several secret clauses, one of which concerned the Sardine Fisheries in the Isthmus of Corinth, and the other--well--er, my marriage.

MEDEA. Your marriage.

JASON. Yes, it is extraordinary, isn’t it? It appears that during my absence, and without my being consulted in any way whatsoever, I was formally married, by proxy, of course, to Creon’s daughter Glauce--who was at that time a mere child. It was further settled that as soon as she was grown up, the marriage would be announced and the King would publicly adopt me as his heir.

MEDEA. No wonder he was annoyed at your having married me.

JASON. Well, you see, he isn’t annoyed at that, because he says our marriage wasn’t valid.

MEDEA. Not in the eyes of the law, perhaps; but I am sure Aphrodite would not only be pained, but extremely angry if we cancelled vows which were made in her temple.

JASON. No, that’s just it. It appears he consulted all the oracles and the priestesses, and the Pythonesses, and they all say that our marriage is not only illegal, but positively criminal, and that my lawful wife, both in the eyes of man and of the gods, is Glauce.

MEDEA. And my children?

JASON. Well, about the children, opinion was slightly divided; but they inclined to think that, if I adopted them, they would be considered legitimate.

MEDEA. Legitimate! I should hope so. But what did you say to Creon? I suppose you told him you were very sorry, but that it couldn’t be helped. (_She laughs._) Poor Glauce! It’s a shame to make a girl so ridiculous.

JASON. I don’t think you quite realise how seriously Creon regards the matter.

MEDEA. I don’t care an obol what he thinks. What I want to be told is how you told him what you think.

JASON. Of course, I said that I felt highly flattered.

MEDEA. But that you were married already.

JASON. No, it was no use saying that, because--as I’ve already said twice--he does not think our marriage counts.

MEDEA. Then what did you say?

JASON. Oh, I said I would lay the matter before you, and trust to your great good sense.

MEDEA. Do you mean to say that you did not give him to understand that the whole thing was altogether mad, absurd, and utterly preposterous?

JASON. How could I? After all, he is the King; and, moreover, he is backed up by all the legal and hieratic authorities. I could do nothing. I was quite helpless, quite defenceless. I simply had to incline myself before his higher authority.

MEDEA. Oh, I see; you accepted, in fact.

[_She reflects a moment._

JASON. I didn’t exactly accept. But what else could I do?

MEDEA. No, of course, it’s quite simple. You said that our marriage didn’t count; you would be delighted to marry Glauce.

JASON. I didn’t use the word “delighted.”

MEDEA. “Highly honoured,” perhaps?

JASON. Something like that.

MEDEA. So you are engaged to be married? (_Without any irony in her voice_) Well, I congratulate you.

JASON. Not engaged. You see, the King----

MEDEA (_cheerfully_). I know. You mean you are married to Glauce theoretically, and now you are going to make the marriage a reality.

JASON (_intensely relieved at there not being a scene_). How clearly you put things!

MEDEA. I’m delighted for your sake. She’s a charming girl, and I am sure she will make you very happy.

JASON. But, Medea, what about you? You quite understand that I am ready to give up the whole thing unless you are quite sure you don’t mind?

MEDEA. My dear Jason, why should I mind? My only wish is that you should be happy.

JASON. I’m afraid that’s impossible. I need hardly say I am not in the least in love with Glauce.

MEDEA. Of course not. But what about my children?

JASON. Ah, there’s the difficulty. The King says they will have to remain with me. But you will be able to come and see them whenever you like.

MEDEA. Oh, I see.

JASON. The King is very particular about children being brought up by their father. He thinks women make them into mollycoddles.

MEDEA. Yes, of course. I suppose, since the marriage ceremony has already been performed, you won’t have to go through it again.

JASON. It’s unnecessary; but I’m sorry to say the King wishes it.

MEDEA. Then I suppose it will be soon. I shall leave Corinth as soon as my things can be packed.

JASON. The King wants the ceremony to be this week; but you mustn’t inconvenience yourself in any way.

MEDEA (_smiling_). No, I won’t. Good-bye for the moment. I am going out to buy Glauce a present.

[_She goes out._

JASON _sits down at a table and writes_: LOVELIEST AND DEAREST GLAUCE--It is all over. I have told her at last. She has taken it too wonderfully well. We must ask her to stay with us--later--etc.

CURTAIN.

XVIII

KING ALFRED AND THE
NEAT-HERD

SCENE.--_Interior of a_ NEAT-HERD’S _hut, near the river Parret,
in Somersetshire._

_Enter a_ NEAT-HERD, _followed by_ KING ALFRED, _who is miserably
clad and shivering from cold; he carries a bow and a few broken
arrows. A log fire is burning smokily in a corner of the hut._

THE NEAT-HERD (_scratching the back of his head_). Reckon t’ old ’ooman ’ull be baäck zoon.

KING ALFRED. We are very hungry.

THE NEAT-HERD. Reckon t’ old ’ooman ’ull be baäck zoon. She be a baäking.

[_The_ KING _sits down by the fire and warms himself. Enter the_
NEAT-HERD’S WIFE _with much noise and bustle; she carries a batch
of newly-kneaded loaves on a tray, which she puts down in front of
the fire. The_ NEAT-HERD _says something to her in an undertone;
she mutters something in answer about “strange folk.” Then she
goes up to the_ KING.

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE. If ye be a-staying here ye must make yournself useful.

THE KING (_rising and bowing politely_). We should be delighted to do anything in our power.

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE (_looking at the_ KING _with distrust, and talking very quickly_). I’ze warrant ye be strange in these parts. (_To her husband_) I reckon we’ve no time to see after strange folk. We all be hungry, and it’s a mercy we’ve still got a morsel of bread in the house to keep the children from ztark ztarving, and that’s zo. But if he’ll look to t’ baätch whiles I zee to t’ cows, maybe ee’ll get a morsel for his pains. (_To the_ KING) Now do ee be zure, stranger, ye turn the baätch when they’re done a one side.

KING ALFRED (_who has only partially understood what she has said_). We shall be delighted. (_He bows._)

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE (_to her husband_). I reckon he do be daäft.

THE NEAT-HERD. He’s no daäft; he be strange.

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE. See ee turn the baätch.

THE NEAT-HERD. Oö! AR!

[_The_ NEAT-HERD’S WIFE _goes out and slams the door._

[_The_ KING _sits again by the fire and begins to mend his broken
arrows; after a pause:_

KING ALFRED. Do you care for verse?--poetry?

[_The_ NEAT-HERD _scratches the back of his head, and after
reflecting for some time:_

THE NEAT-HERD. Oö! AR!

KING ALFRED. Then we will repeat to you a few little things--mere trifles--we composed in the marshes during our leisure hours. (_He looks pensively upwards._)

There are clouds in the sky,
I’m afraid it will rain.
I cannot think why
There are clouds in the sky.
Had I wings, I would fly
To the deserts of Spain.
There are clouds in the sky,
I’m afraid it will rain.

THE KING. That is a triolet.

THE NEAT-HERD. Oö! AR!

THE KING. Here is another. It was written in dejection.

I’ve had nothing to eat
For nearly two days.
It’s beginning to sleet,
I’ve had nothing to eat;
Neither oatmeal nor wheat,
Nor millet nor maize.
I’ve had nothing to eat
For nearly two days.

That is also a triolet--perhaps not quite so successful. (_He looks at the_ NEAT-HERD _inquiringly._)

THE NEAT-HERD. Oö! AR!

THE KING. We will now repeat to you a sonnet. It is adapted from Boëthius. It is called “Suspiria.”

[_He passes his hand through his hair and looks
upward towards the right._

I used to sit upon an ivory chair,
And wear a jewelled crown upon my head;
Fine linen draped in folds my carven bed,
With myrrh I used to smooth and scent my hair.

I used to play upon a golden harp,
And every one agreed I played it well;
The servants bounded when I rang the bell;
I used to feed on immemorial carp.

But now I wander in a pathless fen,
Unkinged, forsook, discredited, discrowned;
I who was born to be the King of Men,
I who made armies tremble when I frowned,

I--in a neat-herd’s damp and draughty hut--
Perform the menial duties of a slut.

Do you think the last rhyme weak? (_The_ NEAT-HERD _does not answer._) We have also written a ballade, but we cannot remember all of it. It is addressed to Guthrum, King of the Danes. The _Envoi_, however, runs like this:

Prince, you are having the time of your life,
From the Straits of Dover to Glaston Tor,
And writing it home to your Danish wife;--
But where are the bones and the hammer of Thor?

If we had a harp with us we would sing you the music, but we are sorry to say we lost it in the marsh yesterday.

THE NEAT-HERD. Oö! AR!

_Enter the_ NEAT-HERD’S WIFE

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE. Be the baätch ready?

KING ALFRED. Oh yes, of course. We shall be delighted.

[_He hurriedly lifts the tray with the loaves from the hearth and
places it on the table._

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE. Drat th’ man! If they bain’t all burnt! Ye take strange folk to house, and aäsk un to mind the baätch and turn’t, and draät un if they doan’t forget to turn when they be burning. Ize warrant ye be ready enough to eat un when they be done! Drat the man if I haven’t half a mind to give un a beäting with th’ rolling-pin! Not a morsel shall ee get; good-for-nothing, idle vagabond, wastrel, ramscullion, thief, robber.

THE NEAT-HERD. Easy, old woman, ee be th’ _King_!

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE. Well, and if that bain’t like a man, to let me tongue run on not knowing nothing neither! (_Curtsying._) I’m zure I beg your Majesty’s humble pardon, and I’m zure I knew nothing and meänt no harm; and my man be that foolish not to tell a body that the King’s self be here, so homelike and all, taking pity on us poor folk. I’m zure as I meant no harm, and I do for to beg your Majesty’s pardon, and that I do, an’ right humbly.

THE KING. Do not mention it. We assure you it is not of the slightest consequence. It was exceedingly careless of us to burn your loaves--your admirably kneaded loaves. And we most humbly and sincerely apologise. We are, we are afraid, given to these fits, these sudden and unwarrantable fits of absent-mindedness.

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE. And me always a-wanting to see a real Dane, too! Only yesterday I zaid t’ Mary, “Mary,” I do zay, “the Danes be all over the country.” “Lord a-mercy,” she zay, “who be they?” “I bain’t zet eyes on one on un yet,” zay I, “but folks do zay as they be mighty pleasant folk,” zay I; and now to have the King of the Danes himself in my hut.... Well, who’d a thought as zuch a thing would coom to me an’ mine!

THE NEAT-HERD. Ye be mistaken, ye be. He bain’t the Danish King, he be t’other, he that wur th’ King of England--bor! Alfred as was--

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE. What?

THE NEAT-HERD. Th’ King o’ England as was till th’ Danes coom ower! Alfred they called ’un!

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE. He as be driven away, like?

THE NEAT-HERD. Oö! AR!

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE (_to the_ KING). Oh, you be he, be you? Then ye ought to be ashamed of yoursel’, that ye ought, coming into strange folk’s houses at this time o’ day, and begging for bread; and then when they’ve pity on ye for your misery, and give ye the chance of turning an honest penny by a piece of work as mony a man’d be glad to get, and any child could ha’ done better, forgetting to turn th’ loaves and spoiling th’ whole baätch; an’ ye know well enow I can’t baäke again this week--not that I mind th’ baätch; but I can’t have ye here, nohow! Ye’d best be a-going, and that quick! Bor!

THE KING. But cannot you possibly let us remain here until to-morrow? We are in need of shelter for the night.

THE NEAT-HERD. Don’t be too ’ard on him, old ’ooman.

THE NEAT-HERD’S WIFE. Be ye daäft? We’d ha’ the Danish soldiers, th’ archers, and th’ whole Danish army here in no time for a-sheltering a traitor like, and a rubbul. I reckon we’re honest folk, and loyal servants of the King, and we bain’t be going to shelter any gurt rubbul here. I’ze brought up to be loyal; I’ze warrant I’m a loyal servant till I do die. No rubbuls here. Out ye go, ye scurvy traitor, and that quick, ye knave, or else I’ll bring my rolling-pin to ye! Not that I grudge ye a morsel. There, ye may take one of them burnt cakes with ye, that ye may, and enjoy it, too. And now out with ye, avoor one o’ th’ neighbours caätch a sight on ye. Out, do ye ’ear me! out!

THE KING (_sighing_). Very well, we are going. (_To himself_) Nothing fails like failure, but perhaps a time will come. (_He goes out peevishly, biting his nails._)

CURTAIN.

XIX

ROSAMUND AND ELEANOR

SCENE.--_A room in_ ROSAMUND’S _house, “The Labyrinth,”
Woodstock. Discovered:_ ROSAMUND _(playing a harp) and_ MARGERY.
_It is night._

MARGERY. There’s a lady wishes to see you, milady.

ROSAMUND. A lady! How can she have found her way through the Labyrinth? You know that I’m not at home to any visitors. (_She throws down her harp._)

MARGERY. She said she wished to see your ladyship very particular.

ROSAMUND. Who is she?

MARGERY. She didn’t give any name, but she said that it was something about fortune-telling.

ROSAMUND. Oh! she’s the fortune-teller I heard about--the gipsy.

MARGERY. She’s not that sort, milady.

ROSAMUND. Do you mean she’s a lady?

MARGERY. She’s dressed poor--but----

ROSAMUND. What?

MARGERY. Well, milady, I thought she had come to beg, what with her poor clothes; but when I said as you were not at home to visitors, she ordered me about like, so rough, that I saw at once she was a real lady; and then her shoes are beautiful, I’m sure, the best red velvet.

ROSAMUND (_pensively_). I promised Henry not to see any one--but then once can’t matter--and I do so want to have my fortune told. (_Abruptly_) Show her in. (_Exit_ MARGERY.) After all, Henry never need know. And I don’t see why I should never see a soul. I am becoming quite rusty for want of human society. Besides, Henry promised to let me have my fortune told.

_Enter_ MARGERY _and_ QUEEN ELEANOR. QUEEN
ELEANOR _is a commanding-looking woman,
shabbily dressed._ MARGERY _withdraws_

ROSAMUND (_rising shyly_). How do you do?

ELEANOR. Please sit down. I will sit down too. (_They both sit down._) You have got a beautiful house.

ROSAMUND. Yes, isn’t it nice? Mavis built it.

ELEANOR. Mavis! Really? I’ve always considered him too extravagant for me.

ROSAMUND. You ought to come in the daytime and see the garden. The roses are beautiful this year. I beg your pardon, but I didn’t quite catch your name.

ELEANOR. Never mind about my name. I’ve come to talk business. How long have you been living here?

ROSAMUND. Let me see, we--I mean I--got in on Lady Day. But aren’t you going to tell my fortune?

ELEANOR. So you do wish your fortune told?

ROSAMUND. Oh yes, please tell it me if you can.

ELEANOR. All in good time.

ROSAMUND. But before you do, you won’t be offended, I’m sure, if I ask you how you found your way through the Labyrinth?

ELEANOR. Fortune-tellers know that kind of thing by instinct.

ROSAMUND (_greatly interested_). Really? Then you must tell me who is going to be champion at the Winchester Tournament, and whether (_she hesitates_)----

ELEANOR. What?

ROSAMUND--Oh! Nothing. How do you tell one’s fortune? By looking at the hand or in a crystal?

ELEANOR. I will look in your hand first. Show it me. No; the left hand first, please. (ROSAMUND _gives her her left hand_.) Yours is a most interesting hand. The Mountain of the Moon is strongly developed.

ROSAMUND. Oh! How interesting! What does that mean?

ELEANOR. It means that you have a warm, affectionate nature.

ROSAMUND. That’s true.

ELEANOR. You had several illnesses when you were a child.

ROSAMUND. Yes; I had whooping-cough when I was four, measles when I was seven, and scarlatina when I was nine.

ELEANOR. Exactly. You have more intuition than judgment; your first instincts are true, but you are inclined to let them be overruled by your second thoughts.

ROSAMUND. That’s perfectly true.

ELEANOR. You are very generous, but inclined to be extravagant in dress. You are fond of luxury, devoted to flowers, and you like soft stuffs. You are fond of music, but you have more taste than actual skill. You are quick-tempered, but not resentful; you are gentle, modest, and unassuming, but inclined to be obstinate, if you are driven beyond a certain point.

ROSAMUND. It’s too wonderful!

ELEANOR. The Mountain of Jupiter is highly developed; Saturn fair, and Mercury almost imperceptible. That means you are ambitious but easy-going, rather lazy, and most careless about money matters.

ROSAMUND. It’s like second sight.

ELEANOR. You have had one great love affair in your life. (_She pauses._)

ROSAMUND. Do go on.

ELEANOR. The man you love is tall; he has red hair, almost the colour of a ruby, and a violent temper. He is impulsive, and often does things on the spur of the moment which he regrets bitterly afterwards.

ROSAMUND. Yes, yes.

ELEANOR. He is a powerful man. He holds a position of great importance in the State.

ROSAMUND. And will he love me for ever and ever?

ELEANOR. You have a double line of life, and it is marked with a star.

ROSAMUND. What does that mean?

ELEANOR. It means that the man you love is threatened with a great disaster.

ROSAMUND. Oh! How dreadful! Is there no means by which it can be averted?

ELEANOR. There is one way.

ROSAMUND. What is it? Tell me quickly.

ELEANOR (_solemnly_). By an act of willing self-sacrifice on your part. That is to say, by your death--self-inflicted, of course. If you give up your life you will save your lover’s.

ROSAMUND. Oh!

ELEANOR. And you will go down to posterity as a devoted woman--a heroine.

ROSAMUND. Oh!

ELEANOR. But unless you perform this act of self-sacrifice at once, it will be too late. The danger is imminent.

ROSAMUND. What kind of danger is it?

ELEANOR. On that point the stars are reticent.

ROSAMUND. But tell me more about the--about him.

ELEANOR. About whom?

ROSAMUND. The man with ruby hair. Is he married?

ELEANOR. Yes, and hence the trouble. He is married to a high-born, noble, unselfish, generous, gifted, and beautiful woman--a paragon. But I am sorry to say, he has for a brief moment proved faithless to her in thought--it is only a temporary whim, of course; but even a passing infidelity--even though it be only an infidelity in thought--is at once visited by a just retribution. It is because of the infidelity that he is now meditating, that the vengeance of the stars pursues him, and that danger threatens.

ROSAMUND. It’s not true! His wife is horrible. She has driven him away by her cold, callous conduct. She’s a scold. She bullies him. She nags at him from morning till night. Besides which she’s very, very ugly, and dresses like a scarecrow.

ELEANOR. How dare you talk like that to me! On your knees, wretched minx!

ROSAMUND. I don’t believe you’re a fortune-teller at all. I don’t believe you know anything about it.

ELEANOR. You are right. I am no fortune-teller. I am the Queen. My name is Eleanor.

ROSAMUND. Oh dear! You’ve no business to come here. This is my house.

ELEANOR. Your house, indeed! However, I have not come here to waste my time. I have come, as I said before, on business. Here is a dagger, and here in this vial is an effective but entirely painless poison. I give you two minutes to choose which way you will take.

[_She places the vial and the dagger on a small table._

ROSAMUND (_crying_). Oh! Go! You frighten me.

ELEANOR. Now, do you hear what I say? Two minutes.

ROSAMUND (_kneeling and sobbing_). I can’t. Oh, please spare me! I will do anything; I will go away--anywhere--to a nunnery; but please spare me.

ELEANOR (_with tragic grimness_). One minute and a half.

ROSAMUND. Oh, I’m so young! I’m sure I never meant any harm. Spare my life. Have mercy!

ELEANOR. One minute.

ROSAMUND. Oh, you are cruel! I’m so young. Think what it is to be young.

ELEANOR. The time has elapsed. Now, which is it to be?

ROSAMUND (_rising and drying her eyes_). After all, why should I? (_She takes the dagger and the vial and throws them on to the floor._) I won’t take either. So there! You can do your worst. (_She calls_) Here, Margery! Rosalie! Topaz! Anselm! Richard! Thomas! Quick! Help! Murder! (_Margery and a bevy of servants rush into the room with torches and staves._) This fortune-teller has insulted me! Turn her out of the house at once!

ELEANOR. How dare you! I’m the----

ROSAMUND. Quick! Quick! Turn her out. She’s tried to poison me! If you don’t turn her out at once I’ll tell the King----

[_The servants turn out_ QUEEN ELEANOR, _who struggles violently._

ROSAMUND. Mind, Margery, if there should be any other visitors, I’m not at home.

CURTAIN.

XX

ARIADNE IN NAXOS

SCENE.--_A room in Ariadne’s house at Naxos. Discovered_: ARIADNE
_and_ ŒNONE, _her attendant._

ARIADNE. When Theseus comes, show him in here directly. I am expecting Dionysus in half an hour. If he comes sooner, which he probably will do, don’t announce him, but show him into the dining-room, and then come in here and make up the fire so that I may know he’s there. You quite understand?

ŒNONE. Yes, perfectly.

ARIADNE. There is Theseus walking up the drive. Go and let him in quickly.

[ŒNONE _goes out._

[ARIADNE _arranges herself by a spinning-wheel, near a fire where
myrtle-twigs are burning, in an attitude of simple, brave, and
unaffected dejection. She rubs her eyes with a silken scarf to
make them appear red._

_Enter_ THESEUS

ARIADNE (_smiling bravely_). It’s wonderful of you to be so punctual.

THESEUS. Yes, I----

ARIADNE. Sit down here. Or do you mind the fire?

THESEUS. No, I assure you.

ARIADNE. Are you quite sure you don’t mind the fire?

THESEUS. I like it, really.

ARIADNE. Perhaps you would like a screen?

THESEUS. No, I promise you.

[ARIADNE _rings a small silver hand-bell._

No, please don’t ring.

_Enter_ ŒNONE

ARIADNE. You may just as well have the screen. It’s there. Œnone, will you please bring a screen for the Duke? The fire’s so hot.

[ŒNONE _goes out._

ARIADNE. Would you like a little wine?

THESEUS. No, thank you, really; I never drink wine in the morning.

ARIADNE. There’s some in the next room, if you would like to have some.

_Enter_ ŒNONE, _bringing a screen, which she puts in
front of_ THESEUS

THESEUS. Oh, thank you so much!

[ŒNONE _goes out._

ARIADNE. Is that right for you?

THESEUS. That’s perfect! (_With nervous decision_) I’ve come to tell you that I’m so sorry I was rude yesterday, and that of course I didn’t mean----

ARIADNE. When you get to Athens I want you to do something for me. Do you think you will have time? Do you think you could possibly remember it? It would be too heroic of you if you would.

THESEUS. Of course I would; but----

ARIADNE. It’s the most tiresome commission ... I want you to send me two pounds of Hymettus honey.

THESEUS. But I really wasn’t thinking of----

ARIADNE. Will you have it sent by the next messenger, care of the King, to Crete, and then I shan’t have to pay the duty?

THESEUS. But really, Ariadne----

ARIADNE. And you won’t forget to give your father a hundred messages from me, will you? I hope they’ve packed the Minotaur’s head properly. It would be a terrible tragedy if the horns were broken.

THESEUS. I haven’t had anything packed yet. I really----

ARIADNE. Œnone will help to pack for you. She’s a wonderful packer. (_She rings the bell._) She packs like an angel.

THESEUS. But my slave can do it; besides, I really want----

_Enter_ ŒNONE

ARIADNE. Oh, Œnone, I want you to go round to the Duke’s house later--when the doctor comes--and help to pack the Duke’s things; and at the same time you might see that the slaves pack the Minotaur’s head properly.

ŒNONE. Yes.

[_She goes out._

THESEUS. Ariadne, I must really tell you.

ARIADNE. Let me think: you will get to Athens the day after to-morrow. You won’t forget to let me hear what kind of a crossing you have. And you must take warm enough things with you. It’s always quite bitter on board that ship. But of course you’re a good sailor, aren’t you?

THESEUS. I don’t mind a long voyage, but sometimes just crossing the isthmus upsets me.

ARIADNE. I have got some wonderful stuff Æsculapius gave me. It’s quite harmless. You take one dose two hours before starting and one dose when you get on board; then you lie down; but you must eat nothing. It’s wonderful. It’s called _Asphodol_. I like the name so much, don’t you? You had better have the Minotaur registered straight through to the Piræus. Then you won’t have any bother at the other ports with the Customs. If you do have any tiresome bother, you can use my father’s name; I will give you the passport he had made out for us. I have scratched my name out, but that will not matter. I have always found them very civil in Greece. They let me bring in bushels of silk from Tyre. You must give my love to Hippolyta, if you see her. She’s not been well lately.

THESEUS. Really?

ARIADNE. No, poor darling! I’ve been rather worried and anxious about her. She’s been having that horrible neuritis again. I had a letter yesterday from Athens, saying that she had lost her buoyancy and had had to give up riding altogether! Isn’t it too terrible? She was such an inspired rider, wasn’t she? with those hands and that unerring judgment. I can’t imagine anything more ironical and more tragic; and they say she’s so brave about it. She would be, of course. Don’t you think people like that always surprise one by being a little better than their best in an emergency?

THESEUS. Yes.

ARIADNE. Don’t you think Hippolyta is the most straight and true character we have ever known?

THESEUS (_uncomfortable_). Yes, yes----

ARIADNE. And almost more beautiful than anybody?

THESEUS. Yes, she is beautiful.

ARIADNE. I love her straightness of line, and her strong capable hands, and that _magic_ cast in her left eye, which gives a kind of strangeness to her face, doesn’t it?

THESEUS. She is very good-looking.

ARIADNE. But don’t you think much more than that? Don’t you put her almost higher than anybody for charm?

THESEUS. I’d never thought about her like that.

ARIADNE. And then isn’t she quite unlike any one else? Doesn’t one feel absolutely certain with her, like one does with a perfect chariot-driver?

THESEUS. Yes, she has a very fine character.

ARIADNE. Almost more than fine, isn’t it? Something rare.

THESEUS. But, Ariadne, I really must----

ARIADNE. You needn’t go yet. You’ve lots of time to pack. Œnone will help with the packing. You don’t sail till sunset, do you? Because of the tide. I hope you’ve got the right pilot. The old man with one eye. He’s too charming. He’s my greatest friend.

THESEUS. Ariadne----