Chapter I: Part 1

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. All other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.

The titles have various decorative borders. These have not been shown.

POETICAL WORKS
of
ROBERT BRIDGES

Volume VI

[Publisher’s device]

London
Smith, Elder & Co.
15 Waterloo Place
1905

OXFORD: HORACE HART
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY

_POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BRIDGES_

_VOLUME THE SIXTH CONTAINING_

_THE FEAST OF BACCHUS_ _p._ 1

_SECOND PART OF THE HISTORY
OF NERO_ 123

_NOTES_ 275

LIST OF PREVIOUS EDITIONS

_FEAST OF BACCHUS._

1. _THE FEAST OF BACCHUS. By Robert Bridges. Privately printed by H. Daniel: Oxford, 1889. Small 4to

2. _THE F.O.B. A Comedy in the Latin manner and partly translated from Terence. By Robert Bridges. Published by Geo. Bell & Sons, Covent Garden, and J. & E. Bumpus, Lim., Holborn Bars. 4to. [1894.]_

_NERO._

1. _NERO. Part 2. From the death of Burrus to the death of Seneca, comprising the conspiracy of Piso. Published by Geo. Bell & Sons, and F. & E. Bumpus. [1894.]_

THE FEAST OF
BACCHUS

A COMEDY
IN THE LATIN MANNER

&

PARTLY TRANSLATED FROM
TERENCE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

_MENEDEMUS_ _an Athenian gentleman_.
_CHREMES_ _a retired Ionian sponge-merchant_.
_CLINIA_ _son to Menedemus_.
_PAMPHILUS_ _son to Chremes_.
_PHILOLACHES_ _an actor, friend to Pamphilus_.

_SOSTRATA_ _wife to Chremes_.
_ANTIPHILA_ _daughter of Chremes, beloved of Clinia_.
_GORGO_ _beloved of Pamphilus_.

_The scene is in a suburb of Athens, opposite the house of Chremes (L): on the other side is Menedemus’ garden (R): this occupies most of the back of the stage: a gate from the garden gives on the stage: between the garden and Chremes’ house a road runs down to the city._

_Duration of time—a few hours of one day. There is no pause in the action, and the whole may be played continuously with a formal break at the end of each act._

THE FEAST OF BACCHUS

ACT · I

_MENEDEMUS seen at work in his garden._

_CHREMES calling to him over the hedge._

_CHREMES._

GOOD morning, sir! good morning!

(_Aside._) He does not hear me.—Sir!
Good morning!

(_Aside._) No: he goes on digging away for his life—
Ho! Menedemus! Ho!

_MENEDEMUS._

Who is it calls?

_Chr._ ’Tis I.

_Men._ Chremes! why, what’s the matter?

_Chr._ I only said good morning.
I wish you the compliments of the day. ’Tis the feast of Bacchus.

_Men._ I thank you. The same to you.

_Chr._ I had something to say besides,
If you are at leisure.

_Men._ Now?

_Chr._ Yes, now.

_Men._ You see I am busy:
But if ’tis a matter of any importance—

_Chr._ Indeed it is.

_Men._ Pray step to the gate: I’ll open it for you.

_Chr._ You are very good.
(_Aside._) How fagged he looks!

_Men._ Come in. You will not think me rude,
If I ask you to tell your errand while I dig.

_Chr._ Excuse me, 11
My good friend; and your spade, pray you, awhile put down.
You must stop working.

_Men._ No: I cannot rest a minute.

_Chr._ I can’t allow it indeed. (_Taking the spade._)

_Men._ Now, sir, you wrong me.

_Chr._ Hey!
My word! what a weight it is!

_Men._ It’s not too heavy for me.

_Chr._ Come! what’s all this? well take it again, but don’t
refuse me
A moment’s attention.

_Men._ Well!

_Chr._ ’Tis a matter concerns you nearly:
So leave your work, and come outside, and sit on the bench,
Where we may talk.

_Men._ Whatever you have to say, Chremes,
May be said here.

_Chr._ No doubt; but better as I propose: 20
I will not detain you long.

_Men._ What is it?

_Chr._ Sit you down.

_Men._ You have something to say.

_Chr._ Not while you stand.

_Men._ (_sitting_). Well, as you will.
And now in as few words as may be ... I am at your service.—
Explain.

_Chr._ Menedemus, although our acquaintance has been but short,
And only dates from the day you bought this piece of land.
And came to live close by me: for little or nought but that
Occasioned it, as you know: yet my respect for you,
Or else your being a neighbour, for that itself, I take it,
Counts in some sort as friendship, makes me bold and free
To give you a piece of advice: the fact is, you seem to me 30
To be working here in a manner, which both to your time of life
And station, is most unsuitable. What, in Heaven’s name,
Can be your object? what do you drive at? To guess your age
You are sixty years at least. There’s no one hereabouts
Can shew a better farm, nor more servants upon it:
And yet you do the work yourself, as tho’ you had none.
Never do I go out, however early in the morning,
Never come home again, however late at night,
But here I see you digging, hoeing, or at all events
Toiling at something or other. You are never a moment idle, 40
Nor shew regard for yourself. Now all this can’t be done
For pleasure, that I am sure of, and as for any profit,
Why, if you only applied half the energy
To stirring up your servants, both you and your farm
Would do much better.

_Men._ Have you so much spare time then, Chremes,
Left from your own affairs to meddle with other people’s?
The which moreover do not concern you.

_Chr._ I am a man.
Nought which concerns mankind concerns not me, I think.
Ere I advise, I’d first enquire what ’tis you do; 49
If well, to learn by example; if ill, then to dissuade.

_Men._ My duty is this: do you as best may suit yourself.

_Chr._ What man can say ’tis right for him to torment himself?

_Men._ I can.

_Chr._ If it is any sorrow or trouble that has driven you to this,
I am very sorry. But ... what is it? Tell me, I pray.
Whatever can you have done, that calls for such a penance?

_Men._ Ay me!

_Chr._ Come! don’t give way: confide to me this affair.
Trust me: keep nothing back, I entreat you: have no fear.
Surely I may either help, or advise, or at least console you.

_Men._ You really wish to know?

_Chr._ Yes, for the reason I gave.

_Men._ I’ll tell you.

_Chr._ What is it?

_Men._ I have an only son, Chremes—
Alas what say I? have? had I should rather say;
For whether now I have or not, I cannot tell. 62

_Chr._ How so?

_Men._ You shall hear: attend. There came to live in the city
A poor old widow woman from Corinth. She had a daughter,
With whom my son, who is just of age, fell madly in love,
Was even at the point to marry: and all without my knowledge.
However it came to my ears; and then I began to treat him
Unkindly, and not in the way to deal with a love-sick lad;
But after the usual dictatorial manner of fathers. 69
I never left him in peace. _Don’t think, my fine fellow_,
I’d say, _that you’ll be allowed to continue behaving thus,
While I am alive to prevent it; running after a girl
And talking of marrying too: you are very much mistaken,
Clinia, if you think that. You don’t know me. I am glad
To have you called my son, while you respect your honour;
But if you once forget it, I shall find a means,
And one you will not like, of asserting my own. All this
I see very plainly_, I said, _has come from idle habits.
You have not enough to do. When I was your age
I did not fritter away my time in making love;_ 80
_But finding my pockets empty, set out for Asia,
And won myself distinction and fortune in foreign service._
At last, Chremes, it came to this: the poor young fellow,
Continually hearing the same thing put so strongly to him,
Gave in: he thought my age and due regard for his welfare
Were likely to shew him a wiser and more prudent course
Than his own feelings;—he left the country, and went to fight
Under the king of Persia.

_Chr._ Indeed?

_Men._ He started off
One day without a word. He has now been gone six months.

_Chr._ Both were to blame; however I think the step that he took 90
Was the act of a modest and not unmanly disposition.

_Men._ I enquired of some of his friends, and when I learnt
the truth,
I returned home to my house miserable, my mind
Unhinged—distracted with grief. I sat me down; my servants
Came running to know my pleasure; some drew off my shoes,
Others were hastening to and fro to prepare my dinner,
Each anxious by doing his best to lessen the pain
Of my great misfortune: in vain: the sight of them made me think,
‘What! is it then for me alone that all these persons
So busily are engaged? all for my comfort? 100
For me is it that so many women are spinning; for me
This great household expense & luxury are maintained?
And my only son, who in all should equally share with me—
Nay, should have the larger share, since at his age he is able
Better to use such things & enjoy them—him, poor boy,
I have driven out of the house by my unkindness. No,
I had rather die than do it. While he leads a life
Of poverty & of hardship, exiled from home & country
By my severe treatment, so long will I visit 109
His punishment on myself, labouring, fasting, saving,
Serving and slaving for him.’ I began there and then;
I stripped the house for a sale, left nothing in it, not a dish
To eat off, not a coat to put on. I collected everything:
And as for the men and maids, excepting such as were able
To work the cost of their living out on my fields, I sent them
To market and sold them, I put up a notice, THIS HOUSE TO LET;
And setting the price of all, some fifty talents, together,
I bought this farm, and am well convinced at heart, Chremes,
That in making myself miserable I act more justly
Towards him, my absent son; and that ’twere crime to indulge 120
In any comfort, till he return home safe again
To share it with me.

_Chr._ I see that you are a kind father;
And he, I think, had been a dutiful son, if treated
With moderation and judgment: but look, you did not know
Each other well enough: a common fault to observe
In family life, and one destructive of happiness.
You never let him perceive how dear he was to you,
So he dared not confide in you, when it was his duty:
To have done the one or other had spared you this misfortune.

_Men._ ’Tis as you say, I admit; but I was the more to blame. 130

_Chr._ True. And to lose a child is deplorable. I had myself
The same misfortune without my fault. A daughter it was,
Stolen from me I know not how: my second child, a babe.
That’s fifteen years ago. I was living at Ephesus,
Where such events are regarded as commonish accidents.
I know not where she was taken, have never heard of her since;
And tho’ I have not forgot it, my own experience is,
One does entirely get over the sort of thing—I assure you.

_Men._ ’Tis kind of you thus to recall your sorrow to comfort mine.
My condolence can make a distinction: the child you lost 140
Was a daughter, a babe, you say. Clinia was my only son,
Grown up. Besides you admit you were not at all to blame:
I brought this on myself. See, friend, the difference!

_Chr._ However I see no reason yet to despair, Menedemus.
You will have him safe at home again, and soon, I am sure.

_Men._ The gods grant it.

_Chr._ They will. And now, ’tis the feast of Bacchus;
We keep a birthday too. I hope, if it is agreeable,
That you will come and dine at my house.

_Men._ I can’t.

_Chr._ Why not?
Do pray now, after all you have done, allow yourself
This little relaxation. Think your absent son 150
Is asking you through me.

_Men._ It is not right that I,
Who have driven him into hardships, should spend my time
in pleasures.

_Chr._ You will not change your mind?

_Men._ No.

_Chr._ Then I’ll say good-bye.

_Men._ Good-bye. [_Exit._

_Chr._ A tear, I do believe; I am sorry for him.
’Tis lamentable to see goodness punished thus
For lack of a little wisdom. Folly brings remorse,
And again remorse folly: they tread the circle; and he
Would mend one fault by another, and on himself revenge
The wrong he has done his son. And that wrong too was not 159
A real unkindness: no: mere want of common sense;
It’s what I am always saying,—that is evil. To quote
From the very profoundest of authors, my favourite Sophocles,
_Wisdom is far away the chiefest of happiness._
Of course a man may be happy, although he has lost his son,
If it cannot be charged to his fault. In spite of the
best intentions
Menedemus is much to blame. Poor fellow, but I may assist him.
And if I can, I will. I love to help a neighbour;
’Tis pleasure as well as duty: because it is a pleasure
To be wiser than others, and even a friend’s predicament
Increases the satisfaction I feel, when I think how well 170
My own household is managed. But stay, ’tis time I went
To see that all’s in order for the feast we hold to-night.
There are one or two old friends, who’d take it much amiss
Did I not ask them. Now at once I’ll go and find them. [_Exit._

_Enter Pamphilus and Clinia._

_PAMPHILUS._

That queer old boy’s my father: didn’t you know him?

_CLINIA._

No.
How should I? but his name I know—Chremes.

_Pam._ You have it.
Take care he hear not your name.

_Clin._ Why so, Pamphilus?
What can he know of me? and if he knew ...

_Pam._ See, Clinia,
That is our house, & here the hedge & paling bounds
Your father’s.

_Clin._ Here?

_Pam._ You see what a stroke of luck it was
To meet me when you did. You must have betrayed yourself 181
By making enquiries, but I at the merest hint have led you
Straight to the place: besides, if you wish to be near your father
Without his knowing that you are returned, my governor
Can put you up.

_Clin._ Is it here?

_Pam._ Yes, there.

_Clin._ For heaven’s sake
Be careful; may he not see me?

_Pam._ If he looked over the myrtles
No doubt he might.

_Clin._ Hush! hush! He’ll hear you.

_Pam._ All serene.
He’s not this side: stand there: I’ll go & spy around.
Keep out of sight.

_Clin._ Stay, Pamphilus; are you really sure
This is my father’s?

_Pam._ This is the place they told me, and here
A Menedemus lives, and has for the last six months.
We’re right enough.

_Clin._ I fear he’ll see us: pray come back.

_Pam._ I thought you wished to see him.

_Clin._ Ay, and so I do;
But nothing less in the world, if it should be the occasion 194
Of his seeing me.

_Pam._ Trust me: he won’t. I’ll speer about.
He’s sure to be digging somewhere near.

_Clin._ Digging?

_Pam._ If not,
It is not old Menedemus. (_Goes round peering._)

_Clin._ Oh what can it mean,
My father’s sudden change of home and manner of life?
He that so loved the town: himself the very centre
Of all good company, the best invited man, 200
And most besought in Athens. Nothing but great disgust
Could thus have turned his temper. I am the cause, and one
Of two things it must be; either he is more offended with me
Than I supposed; or else, and this I hope and think,
My flight, breaking the bond that surely was the nearest
And dearest to him, has wrought upon him, and now he turns
And will consent: if that, ’tis well I am here: if not,
He must not come to know I am back in Athens: nay,
’Twould only vex him more: I must hide from him still:
For though there is nothing in the extremest scope of duty 210
In which I would not obey him but one thing, ’tis this thing
I am pledged to. Love absolves me. Nay, ’tis not for him
I am now returned. I have chosen; I am not ashamed: I made
One dutiful effort—oh intolerable! I am come,
Sweetest Antiphila, to marry thee, and I will marry thee;
Without consent, if must be, against my father’s will—
Yet now I have hope; and whether rightly or wrongly I hope
I must discover.

(_Pamphilus returns to Clinia._)

_Pam._ It’s very funny: he’s not to be seen.

_Clin._ What shall I do?

_Pam._ To-day’s my birthday, Clinia:
We have asked some friends to come: if you will be my guest, 220
Our house is very handy. No one shall hear your name.
My father will not suspect you.

_Clin._ I thank you. There’s no need.

_Pam._ I’ll call you Clitipho.

_Clin._ No, no, I am ill-disposed
For company. Pray excuse me. Besides I am sure your father
Must be acquainted with mine.

_Pam._ I doubt it. He often says
He wonders who in the world his eccentric neighbour is.
But whether he knows or not we’ll soon find out: for look,
He is coming down the road. Stand back where you can hear;
And if he has any knowledge that can be of use to you,
I’ll worm it out.

_Re-enter Chremes._

_Chr._ What are you doing, Pamphilus, 230
Looking over the hedge into our neighbour’s garden?
Do you not know how vulgar curiosity is?
Spying and prying thus into other folk’s affairs.
I am quite ashamed of you, sir!

_Pam._ I was only looking to see
If I could catch a glimpse of old Menedemus, father.
I’ve found out something about him.

_Chr._ Eh! and what is that?

_Pam._ Have you ever heard of Clinia?

_Chr._ Clinia, Clinia? Yes—
Of course, why he’s Menedemus’ son, who is now in Persia.
I know about him.

_Pam._ Well, he’s an old school-friend of mine.

_Chr._ Is he?

_Pam._ You know when first I came to school at Athens, 240
He was kind to me, and afterwards, when we all came here to live,
I met him again. I never dreamed that ’twas his father,
Who took this place next door. I used to hear he was quite
A different sort of person.

_Chr._ Ay, no doubt he was.
The trouble his son has brought upon him has broke him down.

_Pam._ Why, Clinia had no debts.

_Chr._ Perhaps he had no debts:
But I could tell you more about him than you imagine.
I have never been able to take any pleasure, Pamphilus,
In any one of your friendships; and now I am grieved to find
You are intimate with this foolish, dissolute young man. 250
Evil communications corrupt good manners.

_Pam._ Clinia is not that sort at all.

_Chr._ You do not know.

_Pam._ I know he fell in love with a girl that lives in the town,
And wanted to marry her, only his father would not hear of it,
And sent him off to Asia, and now—

_Chr._ He ran away.

_Pam._ And if he did, no wonder, considering his father’s
treatment.

_Chr._ He should not have done so.

_Pam._ I take it his father’s sorry now.

_Chr._ Of course all parents are always sorry for their sons’
misconduct.

_Pam._ But he has far more cause to be sorry now for his own.

_Chr._ You think so?

_Pam._ Yes, I do.

_Chr._ (_aside_). I must not let my son 260
Know how this old man dotes. If he should think all fathers
As soft as poor Menedemus, pretty pranks he’d play me!

_Pam._ What were you saying?

_Chr._ Ha! I’ll tell you what I was saying;
That in any case his duty was to have stayed at home.
’Tis possible that his father was somewhat more severe
Than he found pleasant; but still he should have put up with it.
For whom sh^d a lad submit to, if not to his own father?
Ought his father, tell me, to have fallen in with him,
Or he with his father? And then what he is pleased to call
A hardship, was nothing of the kind: the so-called severities 270
Of fathers are much of a piece: the least strict do not like
To see their sons continually in bad company,
Continually drinking: and so they are sparing in what they allow them;
For such restrictions, remember, promote good morals.
But when a man’s mind has once become the slave
Of evil passions, he is driven of necessity from bad to worse.
There’s wisdom, Pamphilus, in the saying, _By others’ faults
Wise men correct their own._

_Pam._ I think so too.

_Chr._ Very well.
Then I need say no more.

_Pam._ Would not the old man, sir,
Be glad to see him back?

_Chr._ He would be glad to see him
Return from his evil ways to a dutiful course of conduct. 281

_Pam._ I guess he’d let him marry the girl.

_Chr._ (_aside_). What shall I say?

_Pam._ He would.

_Chr._ Nay, Pamphilus: attend to me. No father
Would ever give in to his son in a matter of this kind.
Learn this lesson: see what shame your friend has brought
On his poor old father. No, ’twould never do to yield.
I can promise you too that he will not. I should not advise it myself.

_Pam._ You don’t know Clinia, sir; and have never seen the girl.
You go entirely by what this old Menedemus says.
He never saw her himself.

_Chr._ (_aside_). That’s true.—And you have seen her?

_Pam._ I have.

_Chr._ And what is she like?

_Pam._ I never saw anything like her.

_Chr._ Come, what d’ye mean?

_Pam._ I tell you, I know now what she’s like—
The statue that stands in the hall: the third on the left.

_Chr._ The Grace?
An elegant taste.

_Pam._ If you were to see her, you’d say the same.

_Chr._ Should I? Then just attend. I wish to help my neighbour.
If all were ready to lend their neighbours a helping hand,
We should not hear the complaints we do against ill fortune.
I am always ready myself; am now: in point of fact
I have promised to do what I can: but since, before I act, 299
Or even judge, I am willing to know all sides of a case,
’Tis part of my duty to see this girl. Could you procure
That I should speak with her?

_Pam._ (_aside_). This is the very thing we want.
If now I could get him to ask Antiphila here to-day,
Clinia of course would come: I’ll try and work it.

_Chr._ Well?
Answer me. Could you do this?

_Pam._ Yes, father.

_Chr._ When?

_Pam._ To-day.

_Chr._ I did not mean to-day.

_Pam._ There’s no time like the present.

_Chr._ For inconvenience?

_Pam._ No; for opportunity.

_Chr._ How so?

_Pam._ Invite her here to spend the feast with us,
And bring a friend.

_Chr._ But would she come?

_Pam._ Yes, she would come.

_Chr._ Whom have you asked besides?

_Pam._ Only Philolaches.

_Chr._ It happens, Pamphilus, we are short of guests; I find 311
My old friend Phanias has gone from home to-day.
Archonides’ wife is ill; they cannot come: and now
Just the last thing Daniel has disappointed me.
The two young ladies would help us out: besides I am sure
’Twould please your mother to ask them.

_Pam._ I cannot agree with you there.

_Chr._ Allow me to judge of that; and since you said you were able
To bring them—bring them.

_Pam._ Oh, if you wish it, I’m ready enough;
I’ll see they come: but I had forgotten; there is one more
Besides Philolaches.

_Chr._ Who then? I beg you’ll bring 320
None of your Clinias here.

_Pam._ He that is with me now.

_Chr._ He is it? That’s quite another thing: A gentleman
At first sight, Pamphilus; I wish that all your friends
Were such as he. By all means bring him. Present him now.
His name?

_Pam._ Clitipho.

_Chr._ (_aside_). I like his appearance much:
When I came up he went respectfully aside—
Excellent manners. (_To Clin._) Ha, good Clitipho, how d’ye do?
’Tis time that we were acquainted. I understand my son
Has invited you to our house. There’s not much I can offer, 329
But _My little pot is soon hot_. I am very glad
And proud to have you my guest.

_Clin._ I thank you, sir; I am sorry—

_Chr._ No thanks, I pray. At present excuse me; for I must go
And prepare my wife to receive her guests. You’re sure
they’ll come?

_Pam._ Sure.

_Chr._ And I hope they may. ’Twill make our numbers up:
We’ll have a merry feast.

_Pam._ Ay, sir.... [_Exit Chremes within._
And so we shall,
Clinia.

_Clin._ What have you done?

_Pam._ Why pretty well, I think.

_Clin._ I did not look for this, nor wish it, and do not like it.

_Pam._ Not like it! Is it not perfect? If all the gods in heaven
Had put their heads together to assist in your affairs,
They could not have done it better than I. My father bids 340
You and Antiphila both to spend the day; and he,
Charmed with her grace and beauty, will use his influence
To bring your father round.

_Clin._ I would not risk so much
On the fancy of any man: and though I have a hope
Antiphila’s charms will plead not vainly, that must be
When she’s my wife, not now: and they must urge themselves;
Another cannot paint them.

_Pam._ I do beseech you, Clinia,
Don’t leave a friend in the lurch. Hark you; to tell the truth,
My scheme suits me to a T as well as you. My father
Expects Antiphila to bring a companion with her:
Now I have a lady friend, with whom I am circumstanced 351
Much as you are with yours. My father, just as yours,
Would never hear of my asking her home; but if she comes
To-day as Antiphila’s friend, he’ll not guess who she is;
So you may have your love to yourself, & I have mine.
And see, here comes Philolaches, our other guest:
I’ll tell him what is arranged: he’ll be a strong ally.

_Clin._ Indeed, I can’t consent: and who is Philolaches,
That you sh^d wish to tell him all my private affairs?

_Pam._ Ah, he can smell a rat; but don’t be afraid of him; 360
He’s my sworn friend: & sure no less to keep a secret,
Than he is to find out anything in the mortal world
That you seek to withhold.

_Clin._ I pray, say nothing to him of me.

_Pam._ Trust us; we won’t betray you.

(_Runs back to meet Phil._)

_Clin._ Pamphilus! why he’s gone.
Now save me from my friends! Indeed this Pamphilus
Will be my ruin: I wish to heaven I had never met him.
He’ll tell his father next, this old Ionian huckster,
Sponge-mongering Chremes; the gods defend me from him,
And his family feast, and his prosy wisdom! I thought to spend
This day of my return with sweet Antiphila: 370
And here I am, caught by the ears. And yet my troublesome friend
Means well: I would not hurt his feelings; but at any cost
I must get clear, and in one matter I cannot yield:
I will not have Antiphila brought to the judgment-seat
Of this suburban oracle. What has he to do
With me & mine, my father or her—to push his nose
Into our affairs?

_Re-enter Pamphilus with Philolaches._

_Pam._ Allow me, Clinia, here’s my friend
Philolaches, the actor. Philolaches, my friend
Clinia: who is, as I told you, in Persia, you understand.
He looks for some assurance of your discretion.

_PHILOLACHES._

Sir, 380
You have it. Take this hand. And by the dog I swear
Not to divulge a tittle; in friendship’s secrecy
Rather to aid—

_Clin._ No need, sir: I take the will for the deed.
My business is my own, and not of such a kind
As another can help in.

_Pam._ Oh, but he can.

_Ph._ A family quarrel—
Meddling of course resented. But while your father, sir,
Treats you so ill, expels you his house, denies his ear
To the pitiful plea—

_Clin._ Excuse me again. I do not know
That my father is ill-disposed.

_Ph._ (_to Pam._). You told me.

_Pam._ I said he _was_;
But Clinia hopes he may now be changed.

_Ph._ If that’s the case, 390
I see that your wish must be, that I sh^d discover at once
Your father’s temper towards you.

_Clin._ Indeed, sir, I do not wish it.

_Ph._ I die to serve you.

_Clin._ I thank you.

_Ph._ I promise to find it out
In half an hour.

_Clin._ How would you?

_Ph._ I am an actor, sir;
Never so much myself as when I seem another.
Would you employ my talent—

_Clin._ Why, what would you do?

_Ph._ Disguise myself as a Persian, late arrived in Athens:
Go to your father’s house & bring him tidings of you.
How the old man took what I should tell him would teach you all.
Nay, I can promise more; that, if there’s left in him
The last wandering spark of affection, I’ll blow it to flame, 401
And you shall twist him round your thumb.

_Pam._ Bravo!

_Clin._ But, sir,
What tidings would you feign?

_Ph._ That is as I should find him:
If soft, I’d handle him kindly: if hard, I’d say I’d seen you
Sick of a fever, enslaved, imprisoned, or, if required,
Dead and buried.

_Clin._ And so you would give him needless pain.

_Pam._ That is the question, Clinia; if you were sure of that,
You would not be hiding.

_Clin._ Nay, but the doubt will not excuse me
In doing the thing, which I still must hope would pain him most.

_Ph._ What matter, when all the time you are just behind
the hedge? 410
No reason I see to wound him: I shall feel my way.
An hour will settle all. If he be kindly bent,
Or I can move him towards you, you must stand prepared
To strike while the iron is hot. The lady, I understand,
Will be with you here: be ready, and when I give the word,
You step across the road and kneel for the old man’s blessing.

_Clin._ I have told you, Pamphilus, Antiphila must not come.
Your father’s interference is most unfortunate:
He is not my judge for good or ill. It shall not be.

_Pam._ I have promised.

_Clin._ I am determined.

_Ph._ A very delicate point. 420
And yet ’tis a pity they should not come.

_Pam._ O Clinia,
Your obstinacy will ruin all.

_Ph._ (_to Pam._). I understand.
Your friend objects to the lady coming, because he thinks
Your father will know her?

_Pam._ And so he will.

_Ph._ Nay, not at all.
Chremes need never know her.

_Pam._ How can you manage that?

_Ph._ The thing’s as easy as lying. Let the ladies change
Their names; or if so be Chremes knows not their names,
Let them but change their parts. Gorgo—for that’s the lady, 428
Whom you would bring, I guess—let Gorgo pass to-day
For Clinia’s mistress; let Antiphila play the maid;
W^h hinders not that when they come, each take his own.
You have your Gorgo; you, sir, your Antiphila:
And none will be any the wiser.

_Pam._ Good. What say you now?

_Clin._ ’Twould make all kinds of complications, Pamphilus:
And all to no manner of purpose.

_Pam._ Why, I should keep my promise,
And spend the day with Gorgo.

_Clin._ I’ll play no part in this.
You quite forget besides that as yet I know not how
Antiphila will receive me. I have been six months away;
She may have thrown me over, may have another lover,
And think of me no more.

_Ph._ Wish you to find out that? 440
I’ll serve you too in this. Give me the word to go
And visit her where she lives, and if I find her true,
To bring her along at once.

_Clin._ ’Tis extremely kind of you, sir,
To throw yourself so quickly and hotly into my affairs:
But indeed I do not need it.

_Ph._ ’Tis plain to me you do.
A runaway just returned, afraid to face his father,
Fearful lest in his absence his mistress have proved untrue—
Not need a friend? Why a friend is just what you do need,
To discover for you the state of affairs, and put you in train.

_Clin._ Though, sir, I were quite content to reckon upon
your zeal, 450
Maybe you overrate your ability.

_Ph._ Not at all.
Unless you will say that by art I am able to counterfeit
Passion in all its branches, & yet not know the thing
When I see it;—as if a man c^d write who cannot read.
You think your love for this lady a secret between yourselves—
That she would not reveal it to me, a stranger? How in the world
Could she conceal it? Why, don’t you know that a girl in love
Is _A B C_ to read? Trust me and let me try.

_Pam._ Clinia, do yield, I pray.

_Clin._ I know not what to do.
I’ll yield so far as this: that if Philolaches 460
Can, as he boasts, discover these two things for me, first
How my father stands disposed to me now, and next
Whether Antiphila’s heart is firm—and this so soon
And easily as he thinks—I would not hinder him.
One stipulation only: let him name what time
Will cover the whole performance; for failing him, I’d like
To take my affairs in hand myself. I’ll ask him then,
When does he hope to do this?

_Ph._ Give me an hour apiece.

_Clin._ This afternoon.

_Ph._ Enough: a bargain. ’Tis two hearts
To read—your father and mistress.

_Clin._ And both this afternoon. 470

_Pam._ And bring the lady if she is true.

_Clin._ I said not that.

_Pam._ Clinia, you must.

_Ph._ Agree to this: I first will go
And visit Antiphila; if she is willing, I bring her here,
And here you may meet. But since she comes as Gorgo’s maid,
’Twill be easy for you to withdraw with her, where and
when you choose:
I meanwhile will angle your father.

_Clin._ (_to Pam._). Then thus I assent,
That first, she is not introduced to your father; and secondly,
That I may take her away when I choose.

_Pam._ Agreed.

_Ph._ I’m off.
But first a word with you (_to Pam._).

_Pam._ (_to Clin._). O Clinia, I do thank you.
But don’t stay out here longer: somebody is sure to see you. 480
Go into the house.

_Clin._ If you will come with me.

_Pam._ I’ll come directly.

_Clin._ I have never met your people. I can’t go in by myself.

_Pam._ Why, man alive, there’s only my father and mother. Go in.
[_Exit Clinia within._

_Ph._ Your friend has money?

_Pam._ Yes, his father.

_Ph._ If I succeed,
He’ll give me something?

_Pam._ Surely. What are you going to do?

_Ph._ I’m going to dress myself up as a Persian—didn’t you hear?
To take in old Menedemus.

_Pam._ May I help?

_Ph._ Why, yes,
If you will do as I tell: you shall be Persian in chief,
Swagger and talk the gibberish: I’ll be interpreter.
Two are better than one, tho’ one be a tup’s head.

_Pam._ Menedemus knows me by sight.

_Ph._ Not in a Persian dress. 491
Come, there’s no time to lose. I’ll go to the lady first:
What is her name? Antiphila?

_Pam._ Yes.

_Ph._ And where does she live?

_Pam._ I’ll come with you down the road, and tell you all as we go.
But let’s be off. I fear Clinia may change his mind.

[_Exeunt._

ACT · II

_Enter PAMPHILUS._

_PAMPHILUS._

What unjust judges fathers all are towards their children;
Pretending to us as they do that the moment we cease to be boys
We ought to become thorough old men, without a trace
Of the inclinations natural to our time of life:
Governing us by the rule of their present appetites,
And not by those they have lost. If ever I have a son,
He will find me an easy father, able to understand
His faults, I hope, and ready to make allowance for them:
Not like mine, suspicious & cross—& he never speaks
But to read me a lecture on somebody else. Why, bless my soul,
If he has but taken an extra glass or two, the tales
Of his own wickedness he’ll come out with! And then he says,
_By others’ faults wise men correct their own._ What wisdom!
He little thinks how deaf an adder he is trying to charm.
At present the words of my mistress touch me nearer far, 510
When she says, Give me this, or, Bring me that; and I
Have nothing to answer. Nobody could be in a worse plight.
This fellow Clinia here has his hands full, yet his mistress
Is modest & well brought up, too gentle & innocent
To trifle with affection. Mine is a fine lady, exacting,
Vain, fashionable & extravagant; & I lack the means
To please her fancy. This misfortune is new to me—
An experience, which I have only just begun to learn:
And as yet my father guesses nothing of it.

_Enter Clinia._

_CLINIA._

If all were well,
They must have been here before: I fear there’s something
happened, 520
Or that in my absence she may have become estranged from me.

_Pam._ What now, man?

_Clin._ O, I am most unhappy.

_Pam._ You had best take care,
Or some one coming out of your father’s house may see you.

_Clin._ I will; but, Pamphilus, I have a strong presentiment
Of some misfortune, I know not what.

_Pam._ Why, what’s the matter?

_Clin._ Were nothing the matter, they certainly would have been
here by this.

_Pam._ Nonsense. Doesn’t it strike you it’s some way off? and then
You know how it is with women, they are always about a year
Putting on their things and getting themselves up.

_Clin._ But only fancy if really she should have forgotten me! 530
Yes,—while like a fool I ran away from home,
And wandered I know not where, fall’n in deep disgrace,
Undutiful to my father, for whom I am now sorry
And ashamed of my conduct towards him;—thou, yes, O thou hast
Deserted me, my Antiphila. What shall I do?

_Pam._ Look, look!
I see them coming.

_Clin._ Where?

_Pam._ Well, here’s Philolaches,
Who comes to announce them, (_aside_) and on his shoulders a
mighty bale
Of Persian togs.

_Enter Philolaches with a large bundle._

_Clin._ He has come without them! (_To Phil._) Tell me, sir,
Do the ladies come?

_PHILOLACHES._

They follow; I come before,
Because there’s not a woman in Athens would walk with me 540
Carrying such a bundle along the public streets.
I was almost ashamed of myself. (_Sets bundle down._)

_Clin._ But does she know I am here?

_Ph._ Or else had never come.

_Clin._ You have actually seen her then?

_Ph._ I’ll tell you all I saw. The business was, I think,
To discover if she was true?

_Clin._ It was. Indeed I feared—

_Ph._ Then I have discovered it for you.

_Clin._ If you have really done so,
Tell me your news at once.

_Ph._ Attend. When first I came
To the house, I knocked. Out came an old woman and opened the door;
I struck past her into the room. Of all the ways
Of finding out how she has been living all these months, 550
This suddenly breaking in on her was the best: this gave me
A pretty good guess at her usual way of spending the time:
There’s nothing like it for showing what people really are.
I came upon her hard at work at her tapestry,
Dressed in a common gown: no gold about her; none
Of the rouge and powder, that women bedaub their faces with:
She was dressed like those who dress for themselves: her hair
was loose
And pushed back carelessly from her face—

_Clin._ Go on, I pray.

_Ph._ The old woman was spinning the woof: one servant girl
besides 559
Wove with her, quite in rags, untidy and dirty.

_Pam._ Now,
If this is true, I see you are safe. You would not find
The servant a slattern, where there’s a lover.

_Clin._ Pray go on.

_Ph._ When I told her that you were returned, and had sent for her.
She suddenly stopped in her work; the tears ran down her cheeks
In such a way, it was easy to see ’twas for love of you.—

_Clin._ Perdition take me now, if I know where I am for joy.
I was so afraid.

_Pam._ And Gorgo is coming?

_Ph._ Ay, no fear.
But don’t forget who’s who.

_Pam._ And have you taught the ladies
Their parts?

_Ph._ Antiphila’s part is nothing to learn at all;
Except she must not call your friend by his right name:
But Gorgo—

_Pam._ What?

_Ph._ Why she was hard to persuade, but once
Persuaded, I do not fear her. I am more afraid of you;
Don’t you forget that she doesn’t belong to you, mind!
The slip 573
Of a word might ruin all. And don’t make signs.

_Pam._ Trust me.
See here they come.

_Clin._ I see them.

_Ph._ Stay; let us stand aside;
And watch them till they see us.

_Clin._ Why now?

_Ph._ I say, stand back.

(_They retire._)

_Enter Gorgo and Antiphila._

_GORGO._

Upon my word, my dear Antiphila, I do praise
And envy you too, when I see how all your study has been
To make your mind as charming and sweet as your face. Lord love
you! 579
I’m not surprised at any one wanting to marry you.
I see from what you’ve said what kind of person you are;
And when I come to think of the sort of life, which you
And people like you, lead, who keep admirers off
At arms’-length, then no wonder, I say, that you sh^d be
Just what you are, and others, like me, so different.
Then once your mind made up to share and spend your days
With the man whose disposition is most congenial to you,
He never leaves you more: for mutual benefits
Must bind you so closely, that no misfortune can ever come
To cross your love.

_ANTIPHILA._

I cannot tell what others do; 590
But I know I always have wished, and done my best, to find
My happiness in what pleased him.

_Clin._ (_aside_). Ah, my Antiphila,
And that is why I love you, why I am now returned.

_Gor._ Who is that young man who is standing to look at us?

_Ant._ Ah, hold me up!

_Gor._ Why, what in the world’s the matter, my dear?

_Ant._ I shall die; I shall die.

_Gor._ Do say, what is it astonishes you?

_Ant._ Is it Clinia I see or not?

_Gor._ See who?

_Clin._ ’Tis I, my dearest.

_Ant._ My long-expected Clinia, it is you.

_Clin._ Are you well?

_Ant._ Oh, I am glad you have come back safe.

_Clin._ Do I hold thee,
Antiphila, thou most desired of my heart!

_Ph._ Take care. 600
Remember. Here comes the old man.

(_Takes up the bundle._)

_Enter Chremes from his house._

_CHREMES._

I thought so; here you are.
I heard your voices. I welcome you all. How very nice!
Now, Pamphilus, pray present me!

_Pam._ (_presenting Gorgo_). This is the lady, sir.
My father, miss.

_Chr._ (_aside_). She is handsomely dressed. (_To Gorgo_) I am
very proud
To make your acquaintance. I hope the day may be fortunate.
’Twas kind of you now to come.

_Gor._ Why, bless your heart, old man,
I thank ye: but all the same I came to please myself.

_Chr._ (_aside_). My word!

_Pam._ And this is the lady she brings with her.

_Chr._ (_to Antiphila_). Ah, good-day.
You are welcome, welcome all. Again, good Clitipho.
Philolaches, I think. Good-day to you, sir! My word!
What a gigantic bundle!

_Ph._ Ay.

_Chr._ What can it be? 611

_Ph._ The ladies’ cloaks and wraps.

_Chr._ Shame to load you thus!
You know the proverb, _The willing horse_. Pray set them down.
I’ll send a servant to take them.

_Ph._ Nay, ’tis the merest trifle.

_Chr._ Why, yes: and I’ll call my wife: excuse me, ladies—a moment.
Sostrata, Sostrata!... [_Goes into house calling._

_Pam._ (_to Ph._). Follow me quick: this way, before my
father is back.

[_Exeunt Pam. and Phil. into house at back._

_Clin._ You know why I am returned?

_Ant._ Nay, you must tell me first
What made you go away.

_Clin._ I could not help it, love;
My father—

_Ant._ O, I know; but is he not kinder now?

_Clin._ Nay, I’m afraid he is not.

_Re-enter Chremes with servant._

_Chr._ Ladies, my wife’s within. 620
She begs you’ll enter. Why! & where is Philolaches?
Clitipho, pray go in—no ceremony, sir—
And take this lady with you. I follow.

_Clin._ I thank you, sir.

[_Exeunt Clinia and Antiphila with servant within._

_Chr._ (_to Gorgo_). With you I beg one word of explanation alone,
Ere we go in—one word—

_Gor._ I wait your pleasure, sir.

_Chr._ I do not wish to seem to meddle in your affairs.

_Gor._ No matter for that.

_Chr._ Believe me, that, if I interfere,
It is for your good.

_Gor._ I know, sir, and thank you very kindly.

_Chr._ I broach the matter at once; my maxim has always been,
_Straight to the business._

_Gor._ Well, I don’t dislike you for that.

_Chr._ Then am I not right in thinking you have never so much
as met 611
Old Menedemus?

_Gor._ No.

_Chr._ You have not?

_Gor._ No.

_Chr._ Stay. Perhaps
You don’t know who I mean.

_Gor._ He’s whatdyecallem’s father.

_Chr._ (_aside_). Whatdyecallem! well!—He is Clinia’s father; yes.

_Gor._ What of him?

_Chr._ Why ’tis thus. (_aside_) What was I going to say?

_Gor._ Go on, sir.

_Chr._ Ay, the long and the short of the matter is this.
I know your story—let me see—do I know your name?

_Gor._ Gorgo.

_Chr._ Ay, to be sure. Well, Gorgo, I know your story,
But do not charge on you the unhappy consequence
Of a rash attachment. No. Young men will be young men, 640
And women are—women; no blame to them. But the fact is this:
That being on intimate terms with Clinia’s family,
I have been entrusted by them, as one unprejudiced,
To enquire, to judge & advise, and, if I can, to find
A _Modus vivendi_: you, Gorgo, of course are well aware
That your lover, whose absence has had no doubt its effect on you—
That Clinia’s running away from home, I say, was due
To his father’s disapproval of your attachment: that
Gave rise to disagreement; and Clinia, balancing
’Twixt love & duty, fled from home, & is now abroad,
Madly risking his life in Asia. Why do you laugh?

_Gor._ Indeed, sir, I was not laughing.

_Chr._ The shock this gave his father
Betrayed at last the affection he really bore his son:
It measures too the mischief—shows his purpose too,
And strong determination. He sold his house in town,
Retired from life & pleasure—bought a farm out here,
And works upon it from morning till night like a common drudge.
There’s nothing to laugh at.

_Gor._ Excuse me, sir, I was only thinking
Of something very ridiculous.

_Chr._ Attend. ’Tis you have caused
This quarrel: you have alienated father and son. 660
Not only that; but it lies with you, and you alone,
That one is risking his life in wild & barbarous wars,
The other is taking leave of his senses as fast as he can.
Think of this happy family life thus broken up,
Which may be never renewed. Suppose that Clinia
Be slain in the wars, and his father brought by grief to his grave—
Should not this make you serious?

_Gor._ He! he! he!

_Chr._ Your trifling manner, miss,
Causes me much distress.

_Gor._ I am very nervous, sir,
Your solemn way of talking alarms me, and when alarmed,
I always laugh. He! he! he!

_Chr._ Well, try and contain yourself, I pray.
I asked you here to my house the better to judge of you. 671

_Gor._ Ha! ha! ha!

_Chr._ Well, well, I see you are merry. I would not check your mirth,
And yet I cannot see what cause you have to laugh.
Still ’tis a feast with us. I bade you join the feast:
Be merry to-day.

_Gor._ Ha! ha! I will, sir.

_Re-enter Pamphilus and Philolaches._

_Chr._ (_aside_). By luck, here’s Pamphilus—
(_To Gor._) See, here is my son: go in: I’ll speak with you
soon again.

_Gor._ What time do you dine?

_Chr._ At five.

_Gor._ Is the bath made hot?

_Chr._ (_aside_). My word!
What a woman!—I’ll call my wife to attend you within.

_Gor._ I thank you. I’ll take the bath.

(_Going indoors._)

_Chr._ (_aside to Pam._). O Pamphilus, Pamphilus,
What have you done? Such a woman as this to dine in
my house. [_Exit Chremes with Gorgo._

_Pam._ By jove, Philolaches; here’s a dilemma now:
I never thought of it. 682

_Ph._ What?

_Pam._ Why when, for Clinia’s sake,
We changed the ladies, I quite forgot that I had described
Antiphila to my father. Gorgo will never do.

_Ph._ Why not?

_Pam._ Don’t ask. What is to be done? What shall I say?

_Ph._ I’m thinking.

_Pam._ My father must never know who Gorgo is.

_Ph._ I see.

_Pam._ What can I tell him?

_Ph._ I’m thinking.

_Pam._ He must not know.

_Ph._ Do let me think.

_Pam._ What is to be done? What can I say?

_Ph._ I have it.

_Pam._ What is it?

_Ph._ If we can do it—

_Pam._ What?

_Ph._ Your father
Must sooner or later come to learn the ladies were changed. 690

_Pam._ To-morrow that will not matter when Gorgo is out of the way.
To-day we must keep up the deception.

_Ph._ I see you must.

_Pam._ How can I?

_Ph._ What do you say if I can make your father
Give Gorgo fifty pounds for being so much unlike
The lady he thinks her to be?

_Pam._ Impossible.

_Ph._ Nay, ’tis not.

_Pam._ Well, how?

_Ph._ Why, when your father scolds, turn round upon him;
Say you knew all along exactly what he would think,
And brought the lady here in the hope he’d see his way
To helping old Menedemus out of his scrape.

_Pam._ And then?

_Ph._ Tell him to offer Gorgo forty or fifty pounds,
If she will renounce her claim on Clinia.

_Pam._ Fifty pounds! 701
My father give fifty pounds!

_Ph._ Why, don’t you wish he would?

_Pam._ And what’s the use of wishing?

_Ph._ Try him.

_Pam._ I think you’re mad.

_Ph._ Try it; I’ll help you out. See here he comes.

_Re-enter Chremes._

_Chr._ Good heavens!
Pamphilus, here’s a sample of manners and good breeding.
How could you ever have thought of bringing that woman here?

_Pam._ You said you wanted to see her: I thought you wished her
to come.

_Chr._ When, sir, I blamed your friend, you said I could not judge,
Not having seen the lady. Did I not rightly judge?

_Ph._ (_aside_). Tell him you knew. Don’t stand there mum.

_Chr._ I am quite ashamed. 710

_Pam._ You see then what she is like?

_Chr._ Of course I see too well.

_Pam._ I knew, sir, all along exactly what you would think.

_Ph._ (_aside_). That’s right.

_Chr._ And yet you brought her?

_Pam._ You blame me, sir, too soon:
I have put within your reach the very thing you wished.

_Chr._ How so?

_Pam._ I thought you wished to help Menedemus out.

_Chr._ I do.

_Pam._ Why then, ’tis easy.

_Ph._ (_aside_). Bravo!

_Chr._ What do you mean?

_Pam._ Why, sir, we are all agreed the match would never do;
Then why in the world not put a stopper on it at once?

_Chr._ I don’t quite see your drift.

_Pam._ Why, forty or fifty pound
Would settle the matter.

_Chr._ How?

_Pam._ Just make the offer and see.

_Chr._ What offer?

_Ph._ O, I see.

_Chr._ I don’t see.

_Ph._ Capital! 721

_Chr._ I’m very dull, no doubt.

_Ph._ If ’twas my place to speak....

_Chr._ I don’t forbid you, sir.

_Ph._ Then, sir, I praise the scheme.

_Chr._ What scheme?

_Ph._ I’ll wager my life he means, this lady here
Has plenty of other lovers; offer her fifty pounds,
If she’ll renounce this one.

_Chr._ Why, stuff! suppose she did.
She might be off to-day and on again to-morrow:
Besides, against what Clinia’s worth in cash to her,
A fifty pounds is nothing. (_To Pam._) If that is all you meant,
You’re a very clever fellow.

_Ph._ No doubt there’s nothing in it, 730
Unless she set her hand to paper.