Chapter II: Part 2

_Chr._ Would that bind?
How can you think it?

_Ph._ It might not be binding perhaps on her;
And yet ’twould do the business. If it did not shock
Clinia’s love, as it must, ’twould kill his last pretence.
How could he face his father armed with such a paper?
If you will help this old Menedemus, that’s the way—

_Chr._ I’ll tell Menedemus of this.

_Pam._ If you would help him, father,
Spare him the pain. No doubt he’d give you back the money.

_Chr._ I believe you there. I’d give six times the sum myself,
Were I in his place.

_Ph._ I’ve half a mind, if you are afraid, 740
To do it myself.

_Chr._ I should not fear to advance the money.

_Ph._ A poor man might, but you, sir....

_Chr._ I do not grudge the money.

_Ph._ A gentleman can’t consider his pocket at every turn.

_Pam._ I’m sure you can’t.

_Chr._ Do you think that forty pounds would do it?

_Ph._ Forty or fifty.

_Chr._ Thirty?

_Pam._ Do it handsomely.
You say you’d give six times the sum yourself.

_Chr._ I would.
Ay, Pamphilus, fifty times.

_Ph._ Then don’t think twice about it.

_Chr._ I do think twice. (_Goes aside._)

_Ph._ Will he do it or not?

_Pam._ My lucky coin.

_Ph._ Watch him.

_Pam._ Heads he does, & tails he doesn’t. Heads!
He does.

_Ph._ And he will. Look at him.

_Chr._ (_aside._) Fifty pounds! A risk. 750
No chance of profit; no: nor marketable return.
Yet might it save a thousand. Well saved, is like well spent;
Ay, even though ’tis saved for another: besides I am sure
The money is safe enough. And now I have gone so far
To help Menedemus, I can’t draw back; while if I do it
I certainly win his esteem & thanks. ’Tis very true
That a good turn done to a neighbour is done to oneself: one lives
Within the circle of joy one goes to create! ’Tis wise:
And then to have Menedemus my friend! Say forty pounds; 759
I happen to have it handy. I’ll do it. It shan’t be said,
Chremes is not a gentleman. No, I’ll do it.

_Pam._ Sir,
Have you decided?

_Chr._ I have.

_Ph._ You’ll do it?

_Chr._ I shall.

_Ph._ Bravo!
Will you give us the money now?

_Chr._ You, sir!

_Ph._ I mean to your son;
To arrange with the lady.

_Chr._ How so? You seem in a vast hurry.
I manage my own affairs. Besides the forty pounds
Is only a guess. I hope to win the lady for less.
Perhaps you thought that if I gave you the round sum,
I should not enquire for the balance, and you might manage to save
A little commission. No: I manage my own affairs.
You can’t take Chremes in as easily as all that. 770

[_Exit._

_Ph._ Ho! ho! ho! ho! What say you!

_Pam._ You are a genius.

_Ph._ Well!
You wanted a present for Gorgo, you told me. Won’t this do?

_Pam._ Oh yes! But I am amazed.

_Ph._ Come, let’s go in and dress.
I hope to bleed Menedemus to better purpose than this.
For after all we shan’t see much of this forty pound;
And as far as I am concerned it’s money thrown away.

[_Exeunt._

ACT · III

_Enter CHREMES._

_CHREMES._

I never saw such a woman; never in all my life.
Upon my word I am sorry for poor Menedemus now:
What would he have done without me? What a predicament!
Suppose his son had returned, and he with his simple heart 780
Had given in, and had this woman to live in his house—
Well, thanks to me he is safe. Forty pounds, I think,
Was not so dear a bargain: and yet ’tis a tidy sum.
As much as I should make on a small consignment of sponges:
And that I have paid on risk—although I cannot doubt
But that Menedemus will gladly pay me again—’tis risked.
All for this paper, wherein the lady promises
In consideration of this same money made over to her,
Never again to receive the addresses of her quondam lover,
Clinia; signed Gorgo: a genuine business. 790
And yet no wonder she laughed; of course she thinks me a fool
To consider her promise of weight. Ah, mistress, giggle and all,
I’ve settled your hash. Ha! ha! ’twas clever of Pamphilus:
The lad has some of my wits. But still I shall be uneasy,
Until I find Menedemus is reasonable:—indeed
I’ll lose no time. Menedemus might desire to come
And judge for himself: I’ll press him to do so: ’twere best,
and then
He’ll dine with us after all, & I shall dine much better
Myself, I must confess, when I know my money is safe.
[_Exit into Menedemus’ garden._

_Enter Philolaches and Pamphilus disguised as Persians._

_PHILOLACHES._

Now don’t you think we are unmistakable Persians, eh?

_PAMPHILUS._

The essence of Central Asia: I shouldn’t fear to meet
The shade of Themistocles.

_Ph._ Indeed, I’ll bet my life
Your mother would never know you. Is it not a miracle
What these wide snowy trousers & black beards will do?

_Pam._ I like the hat.

_Ph._ Is it comfortable?

_Pam._ It fits like fun.
Have you your tale by heart?

_Ph._ I shan’t go wrong in that.
You must speak mock high-Persian; as interpreter
I will make sense of nonsense. Be grave too.

_Pam._ If I laugh, 808
I’ve got a pretty good sleeve to laugh in. Let us go.
But stay—which gate sh^d good true Persians enter by?
In at the garden gate, or round the house to the front?

_Ph._ Suppose we try the garden. Isn’t this the garden?

_Pam._ Yes.

_Ph._ I’ll lead. You know the way too well.

[_They go to the garden gate and there meet Chremes
re-entering._

_Pam._ Gods, here’s my father!

_Chr._ (_aside_). Why, who in the name of wonder are these queer
foreigners?

_Ph._ LIERTOS TULVO.

_Chr._ Sir, I do not understand you.

_Pam._ (_to Phil, aside_). Tell him we want Menedemus, and get
him out of the way.

—MEFARIM BURNE SIN MENEDEMUS RYNEAS.

_Ph._ The prince salutes my lord, and asks if here in the earth
Are the thresholds of lord Menedemus.

_Chr._ Ah, you speak our tongue.
’Tis well. This is his house. What would you with him?

_Pam._ (_to Phil._). Heavens!
What will you say?

_Ph._ Go on.

_Pam._ APROYSI THULNEAR. 821
KEKACHYLOS RATULIAN DRICHO BRESNION OIN.

_Ph._ My lord has bid me say we are Persians, sir, arrived
With tidings to lord Menedemus.

_Chr._ (_aside_). Ah! I guessed as much.
This should be news of Clinia: bad news too, I think.
Their Asiatic gravity cannot quite conceal
A strange anxiety. If he’s dead, my money is lost,
My forty pounds all gone. I’ll learn the truth at once—
The news, sir, that ye bring, concerns it the old man’s son?

_Ph._ (_aside_). We’re in for it.

_Pam._ (_aside_). Put him off. Say we bear secret tidings.— 830
NUSPIOL ONAYRMICO.

_Ph._ My lord, sir, will not speak

But only with lord Menedemus.

_Chr._ (_aside_). That’s unfortunate. How shall I find it out? Menedemus is gone from home: I’m sure he’d wish them to tell me; and ’twould be kindness’ self Gently to break the news to the poor old man. Suppose I say that I’m Menedemus. I’m sure that scowling fellow Would drive him out of his wits with fright. Ay, so I’ll do.— Sir, tell your master that I’m Menedemus.

_Pam._ (_to Phil._). Ho; the deuce! What’s to be done?

_Ph._ (_to Pam._). The old liar. It’s all the same in the end. He’ll tell Menedemus for us. Go on.

_Pam._ VEQUAMIEL 840 SAREPO MANEAS, CAMERUSYN NÁSLONON.

_Ph._ I am bid to tell thee, sir, the news is of thy son.

_Chr._ Is’t bad news?

_Ph._ Very bad.

_Chr._ Alas!

_Pam._ (_aside_). Now must my father Act for himself. He’ll not discover me.

_Chr._ I pray,

Tell me the worst. I am not entirely unprepared.
Conceal nothing.

_Pam._ BIOS EMELTO ORMIMOS
NASEPHON FELDIDO BO CHRYSNOTAPAROYS.

_Ph._ Clinia, thy son, was slain in battle by the prince
NASEPHON on the plains Of CHRYSNOTAPAROYS.

_Chr._ (_aside_). My money is paid for nothing: how very
provoking! But now 850
I must not forget the part I am playing. I must affect
In some degree the sorrow which Menedemus would feel.—
Alas, my dear son, ah, alas, my dear son, slain,
Slain dead upon the plains of ...

_Pam._ CHRYSNOTAPAROYS.

_Chr._ Of CHRYSNOTAPAROYS. Alas! how was he slain?

_Ph._ My master now will tell.

_Pam._ HASTORIPESON NON.

_Ph._ They pierced him through with spears.

_Pam._ BO NASLON TYVAMO.

_Chr._ What’s that?

_Ph._ They cut off his head.

_Pam._ VEM DRESCHIM PAILEKIN.

_Ph._ They tore him limb from limb.

_Chr._ Alas, my son! no hope.—
(_Aside._) I don’t know what to say.—Barbarian beasts!

_Ph._ Oh, sir!
Wreak not thy wrath on us, the unwilling messengers
Of mournful tidings.

_Chr._ Pray don’t take me now for a fool:
I perfectly understand, that my obligation to you
Is as great as if the news you brought was good. Go on.
Pardon the hasty expression that burst from me in my woe.
If yet there is more, don’t scruple to tell it.

_Ph._ We thank thee.

_Pam._ CATROS
USCORINO FRICOSAN NON.

_Ph._ They flayed him alive.

_Pam._ (_aside to Phil._). You’ve killed him twice.

_Chr._ O horror!

_Ph._ (_aside to Pam._). Give me a long one now.—

_Pam._ PERMASON CRALTI ABRITHEOS NASOLION,
ILNO SYNORPIN MUDI.

_Ph._ Ere he died, thy son
Sent thee a message, sir. There lives in the town hard by 870
A poor old widow woman from Corinth ...

_Chr._ I know. Her daughter
My son fell madly in love with, was even on the point to marry.
’Twould never have done: she was not at all the sort of woman.
Tell me, sirs, when you came.

_Ph._ Our ship arrived this morning;
And since we sail to-night, ’twill save thee needless trouble
To make thy gift to the prince my master here at once,
According to Persian custom.

_Chr._ Ask you for money, sir?

_Ph._ That is the Persian custom.

_Chr._ (_aside_). Most annoying this!—
Sir, I will send it you.

_Ph._ We would not trouble thee:
We’ll wait, sir, while thou fetchest it.

_Chr._ (_aside_). What in the world to do?
These Persians have an uncommon sharp eye to the main chance: 881
I’ll try one piece of gold if ’twill content him.—Sir,
Give this then to your master.

_Ph._ It will not satisfy him.
For he is a potentate: but I will obey thee, sir.

_Pam._ TARTYS CHRIBOS! (_Puts hand on sword._)

_Ph._ See, sir, he doth not like it.

_Chr._ Well,
I am but a poor man, but what is right I’ll do.
Look! here are four more pieces, and that is all I have.
And pray consider, sirs, the mournful news you bring
Cannot be held of value, as joyful tidings might. (_Gives._)

(_Aside._) I hope this may content them: ’tis not much.
Menedemus 890
Will after all be spared the expense of a funeral.

_Pam._ JOPISCO MORCA.

_Ph._ Sir, he is still but ill contented.

_Chr._ Then wait, sirs. I’ll go in and fetch you what I may.

_Ph._ We will await thee here.

_Chr._ (_aside_). I’ll go and find Menedemus. [_Exit._

_Ph._ Now let’s be off at once.

_Pam._ What sport! O gods! five pounds!
He never made me so handsome a present in all my life.
I’ve tried all kinds of dodges to screw coin out of him,
But I never could: and you’ve come round him twice to-day.
I’ll arrange with you for some more adventures of this sort.

_Ph._ Stay, 899
Half this is mine.

_Pam._ And welcome.

_Enter Menedemus at back unperceived: he watches them._

_Ph._ What made your governor
Tell all those lies?

_Pam._ Just like him.

_Ph._ Why should he pretend
To be Menedemus?

_Pam._ Merely to meddle: besides no doubt
He was anxious about the money we cheated him of this morning;
He wishes now he was off his bargain with Gorgo.

_Ph._ Ay.
He gave you a blessing this morning.

_Pam._ May the gods bless him.
I love him at this moment.

_Ph._ Come, we must be gone.

_Pam._ Hercules! there is old Menedemus himself.
Make haste!
I hope he has not overheard us.

_Ph._ March by in good style.

_Pam._ CHRYSNOTAPAROYS.

_Ph._ BO CHRYSNOTAPAROYS.

_MENEDEMUS._

_Chrysnotaparoys_! Whatever jargon is this? 910
Queer-looking fellows too to be prowling about my house,
And talking of me. Some maskers my neighbour Chremes hires
To honour the Feast of Bacchus. A stupid, vulgar fashion,
This orientalising, in great vogue too, and still
Gains ground, I fear; and this is one of the gaudy-days.
’Tis well I did not accept his invitation to dine.
Mummery and tomfoolery! Alas, I have been all day
More nervous and anxious than ever. I even thought this morning
I heard my poor son’s voice: so certain I was that I ran
To the end of the garden and looked.—Surely I was
either born 920
With a mind most singularly sensible of grief, or else
The saying is not true that time is sorrow’s cure.
My sorrow rather increases upon me every day,
And the longer he is away the more do I yearn for him,
And miss him.

_Re-enter Chremes from Menedemus’ house._

_Chr._ (_aside_). Why here he is, just when I’d given him up.—
O Menedemus!

_Men._ What is the matter?

_Chr._ Alas, Menedemus!

_Men._ You frighten me, Chremes.

_Chr._ I’ve sought you everywhere.

_Men._ I had to go in the town. Is anything wrong?

_Chr._ I came
To tell you how I had done you a service; light of heart.
Because I had done you a service, knew you must approve, 930
And did not doubt that you would repay me a little sum
That I ventured on your behalf.

_Men._ Certainly, Chremes; well?

_Chr._ I knew you would, but still I came to explain at once.
I sought for you in your garden in vain; and coming out,
Intending to go to your house, just as I opened the gate,
Just here, I met two foreigners strangely dressed.

_Men._ In white?

_Chr._ You saw them?

_Men._ A moment ago. Who are they?

_Chr._ The elder one
Addressed me in Persian.

_Men._ In Persian, did he? What did he say?

_Chr._ I’ll tell you. When they saw me at your gate, coming out,
They thought most naturally that I was you.

_Men._ I see. 940

_Chr._ I did not undeceive them.

_Men._ They thought that you were me?

_Chr._ They did.

_Men._ I have little doubt but that they are revellers,
Who knowing what you, Chremes, would call my folly, came
To play some practical joke. They said they were Persians?

_Chr._ Yes.

_Men._ With news of Clinia?

_Chr._ Yes.

_Men._ This sort of impertinence
Provokes me, Chremes; ’tis want of respect. Suppose I am
Somewhat old-fashioned, yet to be idly trifled with,
In a matter in which I feel so deeply ...

_Chr._ Pray heaven you are right.
I did suspect them myself at first: but when they spoke ...

_Men._ What did they say?

_Chr._ I dare not tell you.

_Men._ You need not fear. 950

_Chr._ They said your son was dead. They saw him killed by a prince,
In a battle at Chrysno ... Chrysno ...

_Men._ Chrysnotaparoys?

_Chr._ Ha! is it a famous place?

_Men._ I never heard of it, Chremes.

_Chr._ Then how did you know?

_Men._ They were talking together as I came in.

_Chr._ That should convince you, and then the dying message he sent.

_Men._ What’s that?

_Chr._ The tale you know. The old Corinthian widow,
Whose daughter he was in love with ...

_Men._ Did they say, may I ask,
All this in Persian?

_Chr._ One did: yes—but I confess,
That in spite of a few expressions I was able to understand, 959
I had to trust very much to the one that interpreted.

_Men._ But him I should understand?

_Chr._ I don’t say but what you might.

_Men._ It’s forty years since I was in Persia: but this I know,
That is not a Persian dress, and I think I ought to remember
At least the sound of the language. If you could find these men
And send them to me ...

_Chr._ I will. They promised to wait for me.
They’re not far off: I’ll fetch them at once.

_Men._ Stay! ere you go—
I wanted to tell you, Chremes, I have quite made up my mind
Concerning the girl: my duty is plain enough.

_Chr._ What is it?

_Men._ To adopt her: for if my son returns, to find her here 969
Under my care, protected & loved as I shall love her,
Will be a bond between us to make him forget the past,
My harshness and all; while should he be killed or die abroad,—
Which God forbid—or never return, I have then no heir,
And the only consolation remaining to me in the world
Is the loving her, whom he would have made my daughter, and whom
I shall love like him.

_Chr._ You won’t.

_Men._ Why not?

_Chr._ I shall convince you
That you will do nothing of the sort.

_Men._ Why not?

_Chr._ You wouldn’t ask,
If you only knew what a creature she is.

_Men._ You know her?

_Chr._ Ay.

_Men._ But how? You never told me.

_Chr._ She is spending the day at my house.
’Twas this I was coming to tell you about, but the
other matter 980
Had driven it out of my head. I thought to discover for you
(Seeing you did not know) what kind of person she was;
That I might judge and tell you, whether you most were wrong
In being at first so harsh to your son, or now to yourself.
So I asked her to spend the day at my house. It has ended in this,
That when I saw what kind of woman she really was,
I offered her forty pounds if she would renounce your son.
Believe me, she jumped at the bargain; so then, to prevent mistake,
I made her sign a paper to that effect. I hold it.
It cost me forty pounds; and that’s the money I said,
That I had advanced for you. 991

_Men._ ’Twas very kind of you, Chremes.
You see I am shocked.

_Chr._ Nay, don’t give way.

_Men._ You have dashed my hope.
I was not prepared for this. Freeborn I knew she was not;
But this I never suspected.

_Chr._ Come to my house and see.
I wish you to judge for yourself.

_Men._ She is there?

_Chr._ She is there, do you ask?
Ay, to my cost she is there. No sooner she comes to the door,
Than all is to be topsy-turvy. She calls me ‘old man!’
Asks if the bath is ready, and presently calls for wine.
She’ll take a ‘whetting brusher,’ she says. The quantity
She wasted in merely tasting was more than most men drink. 1000
She kept me an hour on my legs before she was pleased, and then
Drank like a fish, & laughed at nothing & everything.
Had it not been for you, Menedemus, I promise you
I could not have stood it.

_Men._ I feel extremely obliged to you,
And sorry for this. You have been most friendly in all you have done.
I cannot doubt you are right. But still whatever she is,
I’d like to see her once. I can’t dine with you;—arrange
To send her across to me. Explain to her who I am;
And let me judge for myself if it is so impossible
To carry out my former intention as you believe.

_Chr._ By all means. I shall be glad enough to be rid of her. 1011
I go at once.

_Men._ And find those Persians, whoever they are.

_Chr._ Indeed I must. For either I was grossly deceived
In a manner I cannot believe—I gave them money too—
Or else—

_Men._ Well, lose no time, I pray: I am less at ease
In the matter now, than when you told me first.

_Chr._ Indeed
I fear you have cause: I’ll go at once. Farewell.

[_Exit._

_Men._ Farewell.
A silly hoax no doubt. I wish ’twere half as likely
That Chremes was wrong about the girl. ’Tis very strange 1019
That he should suddenly take such an active interest
In my affairs. I think he’s a little meddlesome,
With all his kindness and thought. But that’s the way
of the world. [_Exit._

_Re-enter Chremes and Pamphilus._

_Chr._ See Gorgo at once, I say, and get it back if you can.

_Pam._ Why, father?

_Chr._ I’ll tell you. Clinia your friend is dead.

_Pam._ Impossible.

_Chr._ No. I have seen two Persians just arrived,
Who say he was slain in battle.

_Pam._ Does old Menedemus know?

_Chr._ He does.

_Pam._ And how does he take it?

_Chr._ Why? How should he take it?

_Pam._ How should I know? The cross old hunks.

_Chr._ Stop! Pamphilus.
You wrong him; he’s distracted: and now in consequence, 1029
He has made up his mind to adopt that woman.

_Pam._ Gorgo?

_Chr._ Yes.
How can you laugh?

_Pam._ Well, if he adopts her, what’s the use
Of asking her for the money now? Menedemus will pay.

_Chr._ You do, please, as I say. Of course it’s impossible
To adopt her: I intimated to him as much, but still
He wants to judge for himself. I promised to send her tó him.
As soon as the ladies return from the bath explain this tó her.
And take her across; at least if I’m not back from town.

_Pam._ You go to the town?

_Chr._ I have promised to bring these Persians back;
We wish to establish the news they brought. They half engaged 1039
To await me here, but it seems they are gone.

_Pam._ Can I go fór you?

_Chr._ Ay, ay. Yet no. (_aside_) Nay, I shall have to explain to them
That I am not Menedemus,—I fear I must go myself.
I think I shall not be long. You do as I told you, please;
And tell your mother where I am gone.

_Pam._ I hope you’ll find them.

_Chr._ I shan’t come back without ’em. [_Exit._

_Pam._ (_aside_). Good-bye then, dad, for ever!

ACT · IV

_PAMPHILUS and CLINIA._

_PAMPHILUS._

’TIS simply ruin, Clinia; pray come back at once.
Do wait till after dinner.

_CLINIA._

I couldn’t.

_Pam._ The governor
Will smoke it all if you go: ’twill break our party up.

_Clin._ My father thinks I am killed.

_Pam._ What matter so you’re not?

_Clin._ He’ll be so grieved. Indeed I can’t consider
your party. 1050

_Pam._ You’re most ungrateful.

_Clin._ Nay indeed, good Pamphilus,
I am much obliged for all your kindness; I say so again.
But this I told you expressly I did not wish.

_Pam._ You’ve got
More than you ever hoped. Antiphila here: your father
Brought nicely round: and all through my good management.
And now you’ll throw me over for want of a little patience.

_Clin._ To be free with you, I do not like being half
drawn in, as I am,
To tricking your father of fifty pounds. Besides I am here
Under a false name, as his guest. Antiphila too
Is passing off for somebody else, I know not who;
While you and Philolaches have deceived your father and mine, 1061
In a way that I cannot be party to.

_Pam._ Wait. Here comes my father.
I’ll show you now what kind of a temper I risk for you.

_Enter Chremes from town._

_CHREMES._

Wheu! back at last. Wheu, wheu! my word! as hot as hot!
Wheu! bah! and all this worry and flurry for nothing: wheu!
I am covered and choked with dust. I wish most heartily
These Persians had found their grave at Chrysnotaparoys.
I vow that the famous army of Darius never gave
Such trouble to brave Miltiades at Marathon,
As these two rascally slinkers have given to me. Wheu! Wheu! 1070

_Pam._ (_advancing_). Have you not found them, father?

_Chr._ If I have found them? No.
I went to the port; the ship I found there sure enough,
But I could not hear of them. A single passenger,
They said, had landed; and he was a Greek. I enquired besides
At all the houses along the road: there was not a man,
Who had even so much as seen them.

_Sostrata_ (_within_). Chremes! Chremes!

_Chr._ Ah!

_Enter Sostrata from Chremes’ house._

_SOSTRATA._

O husband! husband!

_Chr._ O wife! wife!

_Sost._ She is found, she is found!

_Chr._ Who’s found?

_Sost._ Our daughter, our long-lost daughter
is found.

_Chr._ What now?

_Sost._ Look! this is the necklace, this the ring.

_Chr._ Why, what d’ye mean?

_Sost._ See, husband, if you remember them; they are the
very same 1080
Our daughter Antiphila wore, the day she was stolen.

_Chr._ Hey!
What’s this?

_Sost._ I knew them at once.

_Chr._ Then tell me at once, whén,
How, and where did you find them?

_Sost._ The girl that Gorgo brought
Wore them. I knew them at once: and when I heard her name....

_Chr._ Antiphila?

_Sost._ Yes, Antiphila.

_Chr._ Quite so. You heard the name;
That made you think this girl our daughter: I’ll wager my life
She’s no such thing. ’Tis unsupposable.

_Sost._ Dearest husband,
I always knew we should find her. I’ve said so a thousand times.

_Chr._ Oh yes! you always knew beforehand of everything 1089
After it happened, wife: there’s nothing could occur
But you would tell me you told me before. And yet this time
Do not be wise too soon.

_Sost._ Why, here’s the ring itself,
The necklace and the name.

_Chr._ The name is a common name,
And rings and necklaces too are made so much alike,
They’re nothing to go by.

_Sost._ Then I have spoken to her, Chremes,
And she is so like her:—

_Chr._ Hey! here’s fine proof indeed;
Just think for once now what you have said. You recognize
In a grown-up lady, you say, the baby you have never seen
Since she was three! Why, even supposing she was not changed
In all these fifteen years, could you remember her
So long?

_Sost._ But she is my daughter: that makes the difference. 1101

_Chr._ Why, that’s the very question. Is she? And if she was,
What difference could it make? But if you have spoken with her,
Where does she say she comes from?

_Sost._ She says she lives in the town
With an old Corinthian widow ...

_Chr._ I know: the mother of Gorgo.
They live together, do they? Then just send Gorgo here.

_Sost._ Indeed she has nothing to do with Gorgo.

_Chr._ According to that
There are two Corinthian widows.

_Sost._ Two?

_Chr._ Why not? I suppose
There must be two, unless it’s the same.

_Sost._ But who is the other?

_Chr._ There isn’t another at all. Bring Gorgo here at once. 1110
She’ll know enough of the facts to set this matter at rest.

_Sost._ Why, Chremes ...

_Chr._ I say, fetch Gorgo.

_Sost._ I assure you, Chremes dear ...

_Chr._ Do go and fetch her, wife.

_Sost._ Well, as you will....

_Chr._ Of course.
Dó I ever express an opinion, issue a command,
Without an ample reason? (_Exit Sostrata._)
’Twould be strange!—(_To Pam._) Now, sir,
Had you not heard of this?

_Pam._ No, father.

_Chr._ And there you stand,
As dull as a fish! Why, what will you think, if this be true,
Of finding a sister?

_Pam._ Sir, you wished me a happy day:
As nothing was more unlooked for, nothing is happier
In the world than this.

_Chr._ Yet there’s your friend, a perfect stranger.
Is far more moved than you. You go to the play, I know: 1121
Fifty per cent. of all our Attic comedies
Have this same plot, a daughter stolen in early years,
Lost sight of, despaired of, almost forgotten, and then at last,
When least expected—although there’s scarce a soul in the house
That does not know or guess it beforehand—she reappears.
Then are not all eyes wet? Why, that’s the poetic art,
Which makes emotion, and sells it to fools at market price.
You have pitied the child, have pictured the thousand possible ills
She may have encountered, hardships of body and mind,
neglect, 1130
The injuries and privations of slavery, wrongs and blows;
The lack of all that care, to which, in a mother’s love,
The meanest birth is titled, without which even brutes
Perish for lack of instinct: the tenderness of sex
You have thought of; her innocence, the snares of a merciless world
For the unprotected, and then this picture you contrast
With the comfortable, gentéel hóme the scene presents.
You feel for the parents then—ay, tho’ some ridicule
Be fastened upon them; ’tis by such touches of flesh and blood
The life comes home to your heart, and while you are made
to smile, 1140
You weep. You have paid for the tear, or if your false shame
Forbids you to shew your feeling, you’ve bought a lump in the throat.
You praise the play, because ’tis a tender situation.
Enough to stir the blood of a crocodile like yourself:
I catch you weeping—slap! all’s changed. ’Tis not a play:
The stage is yóur hóme, the actors your father and mother,
Your own sister is found, & where’s your feeling now?
I think your heart is made of matting! Your friend, I say,
Is far more moved: I see the tears stand in his eyes.

_Clin._ ’Tis joy. I wish you joy, sir. I wish your
daughter joy. 1150
And, may I say it, your happiness brings happiness to me.

_Chr._ I thank you, Clitipho; but now we go too fast:
Because I don’t at all suppose this is my daughter.
Ho! Gorgo! where’s Gorgo? (_Goes to door._)

_Clin._ (_to Pam._). O Pamphilus, I am in heaven:
For if Antiphila really be your sister, then
My father cannot oppose our marriage.

_Pam._ No more will mine.
’Twill make him as proud as a peacock.

_Clin._ Sweetest Antiphila.

_Pam._ Quite so: but what in the world do you think will happen to me,
When he finds out?

_Clin._ Oh, I have attained the life of the gods!

_Pam._ Go on. You will not tell me now I have done too much? 1160

_Clin._ Oh no: I forgive it all.

_Pam._ Forgive it?

_Clin._ I thank you for it.

_Pam._ I shall need more than thanks.

_Clin._ O Pamphilus, anything.
What can I give you?

_Pam._ Listen. If things go well with you,
They’re not so smart with me: and if you wish to help me,
I only see one hope.

_Clin._ What’s that?

_Pam._ That you should win
Your father to plead for me: after all I have done for him,
I think he might: and if you ask him, I am sure he will.
Concealment is out of the question: go to him now at once,
And tell him all.

_Clin._ Indeed I was going; but may I not see
Antiphila first?

_Pam._ No, no, there’s not a moment to lose.
The governor will be back, and if he finds you out,
You’ll have to go to your father with him, and what a tale 1172
He’ll tell it’s easy to guess.

_Clin._ I would not consent to that.
I’ll go at once.

_Pam._ Go quickly, before Gorgo comes.
Quick! Quick! [_Exit Clinia._
And just in time. I wonder what she will say.

_Chr._ (_at the door to Gorgo_). I want you a moment, Gorgo.

_Enter Gorgo with Sostrata._

Prithee, be so good
As just to answer my questions. This girl Antiphila
Who came with you, is your maid? Don’t look at my son and laugh.
I am serious. Is this girl your servant?

_GORGO._
No.

_Chr._ She is not?
She lives with you?

_Gor._ No.

_Chr._ I thought you lived with the widow woman,
Who came from Corinth. Pray be sober. I want to know. 1181
You told me you did.

_Gor._ Ay, sir.

_Chr._ And yet Antiphila
Does not live with you?

_Gor._ No, sir.

_Chr._ When did you see her first?

_Gor._ This morning.

_Chr._ Indeed. And can you tell me nothing about her?

_Gor._ Nothing whatever.

_Chr._ I thank you. I’ve nothing to ask you then.

_Gor._ It’s thank you for nothing, sir! No further commands
at present?

_Chr._ Peace, prithee, peace!
(_To Sostrata._) Now, wife, you see I was right for once.
Gorgo knows nothing about her.

_Sost._ I told you she didn’t, Chremes.

_Chr._ But then you said she lived with the widow. You see
she doesn’t, 1189
And Gorgo does.

_Sost._ I can’t believe it. Antiphila told me
The widow’s name; and then the very clothes she wore
The day she was stolen, she has laid by.

_Chr._ Eh! said she so?
Then you should have sent for the woman, told her to bring the clothes.

_Sost._ So, Chremes, I did, but the poor old lady’s too ill to come:
But the clothes were sent. I have seen them.

_Chr._ And are they the same?

_Sost._ They are.

_Chr._ Why then did you not spare me all this trouble, wife?
Why did you not tell me before of the clothes?

_Sost._ You would not hear!

_Chr._ Not hear! when all the time I was asking you this and that.
Ye gods! have ye never made one reasonable woman?
Don’t you see that the clothes are the chiefest
matter of all? 1200
Why, they’re a proof.

_Sost._ Then do you believe?

_Chr._ Ay, wife, come in.
I think we have found our daughter.

_Gor._ Oho! ho! ho! [_Exeunt Sost. and Chr._
O he does make me laugh.
And when he finds all out, the silly old man, at last,
How I shall love to see him!

_Pam._ Indeed you must not stay.

_Gor._ Why not?

_Pam._ Why, don’t you see how mad he’ll be?

_Gor._ He will.

_Pam._ He’ll want that forty pounds.

_Gor._ He may want.

_Pam._ I am afraid
You cannot keep it.

_Gor._ I not keep it? What! d’ye think
I’d give it him back?

_Pam._ I think you had better make sure of it.
Take my advice and go.

_Gor._ I am sorry to go, and yet
What should I stay for now? There’ll be no dinner.

_Pam._ No, 1210
That there won’t.

_Gor._ Well, make my excuses, & give your father
My kind congratulations.

_Pam._ Go!

_Gor._ With the same to you.
Antiphila’s quite a dove.

_Pam._ Do go!

_Gor._ Good-bye, my lad.
It’s wisest to go, I see: but if the old man should ask
Where I am gone to ...

_Pam._ Well?

_Gor._ Why, tell him I’m gone to spend
His forty pounds in the town. Ta ta! [_Exit._

_Pam._ I think that woman
Has done for me. Thank the gods she’s gone, and just in time;
Here somebody comes from the house.

_Enter Philolaches from Chremes’ house._

_PHILOLACHES._

Look out, Pamphilus!
Your father is coming after you.

_Pam._ He has found us out of course?

_Ph._ He has guessed who Gorgo is; but still is quite in
the dark. 1220
He still imagines Clinia slain and torn to bits
On the plains of what d’ye call it.—

_Pam._ What is best to do?

_Ph._ Nothing. Let him rave it out. The quicker he heats,
The quicker he’ll cool.

_Pam._ But if you had ever seen him angry ...

_Ph._ Don’t be afraid.

_Pam._ I am.

_Ph._ Throw all the blame on me.

_Pam._ I hear him.

_Re-enter Chremes, speaking as he comes out to Sostrata within._

_Chr._ It’s high time, wife, you stopped this precious noise,
Deafening the gods with singing all your confounded praises
For finding your daughter. You judge them by yourself perhaps,
And think they can’t understand a simple thing, unless
It’s told them a hundred times.
(_To Pam._) Now, sir, ’tis you I want. 1230
Come here.

_Pam._ What, father?

_Chr._ _What, father?_ As innocent
As milk, no doubt. You think it’s possible I do not know?
I’ll tell you what: to-day I have found a daughter, sir,
And lost a son. Begone and take your Gorgo with you:
For I’ll not own you longer. Be off! Go where you will:
But see you ne’er set foot beneath my roof again.

_Pam._ Father, what do you mean? What have I done?

_Chr._ You dare
Ask! If I tell you now that you are a reprobate,
An idle, dissipated, licentious, spendthrift fellow:—
Is that enough?

_Pam._ O father!

_Chr._ Or if I add the rest, 1240
A mean, deceitful, undutiful, snivelling, sneaking cheat;
A liar.

_Pam._ Oh, I am not.

_Chr._ Well, you deny it, do you?
I’ll ask you is this true or not. You found that I,
With a view to help our neighbour, wished to see the girl
That got his son into trouble. You undertook to bring her.
I trusted you wholly, could not expect to be played on bý you;
You knew her, and I did not, had never heard her name;
And this you knew, and took occasion to introduce
A different person altogether, a friend of your own,
A woman whose very presence was an insult; and not content 1250
With abusing my confidence & kindness, my sheer disgust
You turned to your own account, and so, on a mock pretence
Of doing my neighbour a wonderful service, made me pay
I don’t know what. You blinded me, and robbed me, and all the while
’Twas yóur víle místress I was entertaining for you,
And paying out of my pocket for nothing. Is that not true?
Was it not enough to have this creature sit down to dine
With your mother and me? ay, and with your sister? and as for her,
Yóu have been the means of aspersing her character,
The day when she is restored to the family. Yes, ’tis she 1260
Is the lady in question, and I have been running here and there
To diffame my own daughter to my neighbour, and thanks to you
Have been a pretty fool! And if his son returns,—
For now I am so confused that whether he’s living or dead
I have not a notion,—but if, I say, he should return,
And ask Antiphila’s hand, would then Menedemus believe
That I did not tell him the truth before I knew any cause
To wish for one thing more than another? I say be off!
Ask me what you’ve done? A treasure of innocence
You are! Begone! I’ll never see you again. Begone!

_Ph._ For patience’ sake, one word from me, sir! Pamphilus 1271
Was not so much in fault; I am the one to blame:
He truly intended to introduce Antiphila;
And I was sent to fetch her: but when it appeared her friends
Would not consent to allow that you should interfere
Between Menedemus and her, then, on the spur of the moment,
The ladies were changed, & that at my suggestion, sir.

_Chr._ I interfere, you say? ’Tis you that interfere,
I think. Pray hold your tongue; or if you wish to advise,
Advise your friend again: he needs it more than I;
Maybe he’ll thank you for it. I neither ask nor want it. 1281

_Re-enter Sostrata._

(_To Pam._) To you, sir, I have no more to add. Begone at once!
’Twill spare your sister pain, if she sh^d never know you;
Not that there’s aught to lose. Now, if there is anything
You want in the house, go in at once and fetch it. Look,
I’ll give you half an hour.

_Sost._ Chremes, what are you saying?

_Chr._ I have only said, wife, what I told you; and you may now
Bid your dear Pamphilus good-bye.

_Sost._ How cruel you are!
Do you wish to kill your son? You’ll certainly be his death, 1289
Unless you mind. I wonder how anything so wicked
Could have come into your head.

_Chr._ Oh, will you never learn
To keep your place, woman? Was there ever a thing
Which I ever proposed or did in my whole life, in which
You did not go against me? But sh^d I ask you now
What wrong I am doing, or why I do the thing I do,
You would not know: you could not tell me anything
Of the matter in which so confidently you oppose me. Fool!

_Sost._ I do not know?

_Chr._ Well, well, you do know. Anything
Rather than have it all over again.

_Sost._ How iniquitous of you,
To prevent my speaking in such a matter!

_Chr._ I don’t prevent you. 1300
Go on! Talk yourself hoarse. [_Exit._

_Pam._ Mother, what shall I do?

_Sost._ What did he say?

_Pam._ He says he disowns me.

_Sost._ Don’t give way.
He is angry now: I know he’ll soon be kind again.

_Ph._ Quite so, madam; a father’s threats are nothing to fear.

_Pam._ I am glad you think so.

_Ph._ Don’t be angry with me, Pam!
I’ve got you into a mess, but if you’ll trust to me,
I’ll get you out.

_Sost._ How kind of you, Mr. Philogelos!

_Ph_. Take my advice and hide. Pretend you have run away.
I’ll say you’ve sailed to the Persian wars in Clinia’s ship.
And when your father finds that Clinia is safe, and he
Demands Antiphila’s hand, the rest will be all forgotten. 1311

_Sost._ Is Antiphila to marry Clinia?

_Ph._ Yes, ma’am.

_Sost._ Menedemus’ son,
That ran away?

_Ph._ Yes, ma’am.

_Sost._ Why, Chremes said he was killed.

_Ph._ It’s all a mistake; you’ve spoken to him to-day yourself:
He is Clitipho.

_Sost._ O dear! I must tell Chremes this.
How glad I am!

_Ph._ Stay, madam, stay; I pray you won’t.
Your husband will find that out quite soon enough for us.
Far better see Menedemus, if he will help us out.

_Sost._ What could he do?

_Ph._ He’ll stand our friend. How could he wish
To see Antiphila’s brother driven disgraced from home? 1320

_Sost._ Go, Pamphilus, go at once!

_Pam._ Clinia is there; I will.

_Sost._ And can I then tell Chremes?

_Ph._ Madam, consider this:
He won’t believe you, and after will only be angry with you
For knowing it first, and being in the right when he was wrong.

_Sost._ ’Tis all so strange, that really and truly I don’t suppose
That any one would believe it. It may be best to wait.
But you should waste no time, Pamphilus; go at once.

_Pam._ I go, but do not tell him where I am gone.

_Sost._ No, son. [_Exit Pam._
I’ll do my best to win him. (_To Ph._) I thank you, sir, very kindly.

_Ph._ I wish you good success. [_Exit Sostrata._
A sensible body. I lean 1330
On her and old Menedemus. Not that I doubt myself;
I know a stroke to play: is’t not the feast of Bacchus?
I will invoke the god; his genius will confound
This dull, contrary Chremes. What’s his humour worth
To gods or men, that I should bow to it? Nay, & since
Whate’er the humour be, ’tis the persistency
That carries it, to hell with dumps! ’Twere póor mérriment
That Chremes’ frown could dash. Why, if there be a choice 1338
’Twixt Chremes pleased and Chremes angry, of the two
This latter, angry Chremes is the more ridiculous.

ACT · V

_MENEDEMUS and CLINIA._

_MENEDEMUS._

You have made me, my dear Clinia, the very happiest of fathers,
By this return to your senses; indeed I ran great risk
Of taking leave of my own: but since I have you back,
’Tis nothing but happiness: and gladly I now consent
To the match, which hitherto in your own interest
I have only opposed because I would not have you marry
A woman not freeborn. To be sure I c^d have wished
’Twas somebody else’s daughter than Chremes’. After all
It might be worse. But are you sure you hold to it still,
And wish to marry her?

_CLINIA._

I, father? How can you ask? 1350

_Men._ You are young to marry; but, mind, I should not make your age
An objection, provided I thought you knew what marriage is.
But do you, can you know? You have only experience
Of childhood, and some few years of youthful liberty:
What can thát teach? Your tie to me, your friendships,—
Some intimate friendships too: but nothing here nor there
Comparable to the bond of marriage. Suppose I say
’Tis, next to existence, the most familiar thing in
the world:— 1358
Then judge how jealous pride & self-regard should be,
Ere they admit this master circumstance to rule,
As rule it must. You know the story Plato tells
Of Er, the Armenian soldier, & what he saw in death,
Permitted to stand between the gates of heaven and hell;
How there he saw the souls, who, ere they came on earth,
Were choosing each their lives in turn—and, what was strange,
How wantonly and without deliberation they chose,
Making a rush at what they fancied first: and this,
So Plato said, explained man’s discontent on earth,
His misery being his fault. All w^h, be it fable or no,
Clinia, has this much truth; that you may see the like
Without going down to the grave, nor any revelation
Of nature’s secrecies—but every day on earth, 1372
In men that wive. With them the stake is no less great;
Their carelessness in choice, their after-discontent
Match each in kind. Now I would play the interpreter
To you, as some celestial did to Er: I warn you,
Take not this step in haste. You choose a second being:
The lives are strewn before you: is this the best to take?

_Clin._ O if you knew Antiphila, father, you would not ask.

_Men._ Very well. I see your choice is made. I only wish 1380
She did not drink.

_Clin._ O father! you know—

_Men._ Yes, yes. I know.
What a number of sad mistakes Chremes has made to-day!
He has not discovered yet who the two Persians were,
Who came to frighten me.

_Clin._ I hope I need not tell you, father,
I never wished that done. I feared you might be grieved:
But Chremes being so sure you never would forgive me ...

_Men._ Was he?

_Clin._ He said you told him.

_Men._ Did he? He has been to blame.
There’s much he will have to explain to me, which he will not wish
Another to hear. Retire to the garden, while I go
And smooth things over with him, and ask his daughter’s hand. 1390

_Clin._ How long?

_Men._ Well, if I send, be ready at once to come:
And see that Pamphilus too is handy: explain to him,
That if I can be happy enough to make his peace with his father,
His presence will then be needed.

_Clin._ I hope it will not be long. [_Exit._

_Men._ I am not very wise myself or clever, that I know:
And I may have behaved in a manner open to criticism,
I may have even provoked derision, that may be;
I think I have. But this same would-be helper of mine,
My counsellor and guide, Chremes, is very far beyond me. 1399
I never did anything half so foolish in all my life
As to trust my secrets to him. In time now; here he comes.

_Enter Chremes._

_CHREMES._

Ah, my good Menedemus, now I have news indeed.

_Men._ I know it, Chremes, and give you my hearty congratulations.
’Tis a happy day for us both: for you have found a daughter,
And I ...

_Chr._ You know it already? Who told you?

_Men._ My son.

_Chr._ Your son!

_Men._ Clinia. Yes. He is in my house. I was coming across
To ask you to join your treasure so newly found with mine:
And to give your daughter to-day to my son in marriage.

_Chr._ Well!
I cannot understand it. Where did he come from? When?

_Men._ Why, that’s the strangest of all: he landed only
this morning, 1410
Met your son in the town; & has been in yóur house
Ever since.

_Chr._ My house?

_Men._ It seems your son is a friend of his:
He introduced him, but under another name, because
He did not wish to be known.

_Chr._ Not Clitipho?

_Men._ Ay, ’twas that.

_Chr._ There then! O how I have been deceived! And you were right
About the Persians too: they were a make-believe.

_Men._ So I guessed all along, Chremes.

_Chr._ But who then were they?

_Men._ Forgive me, my good friend, I ask you once for all,
The annoyance my family affairs have been to you to-day. 1419
Your kindness has brought you only vexation.

_Chr._ O, I am sure
You are welcome enough to any service that I can render.

_Men._ Then pray oblige me in this, and overlook the folly
Of the actors in thís fárce. The intention was to deceive
Me and not you: till you accidentally, as it seems,
Came in their way: and then they could not help themselves:
They even tried to avoid you.

_Chr._ Who were they?

_Men._ Remember too
’Tis the feast of Bacchus to-day, ’tis not so great a crime
To droll on a private person, at a time that is set apart
For mirth and jollity, and when buffoonery too makes up
A part of the festival.

_Chr._ I think no gentleman 1430
Should suffer buffoonery to cover an insult.

_Men._ Supposing not,
Yet none was intended.

_Chr._ Who were they?

_Men._ The deceit was planned for me,
And I forgive it.

_Chr._ Who were they?

_Men._ They came from yóur house.

_Chr._ Not Clinia?

_Men._ No; although it was done in his interest.
Your son was one, and a friend ...

_Chr._ I know: Philolaches.
I see.

_Men._ It seems they had drawn from you, I know not how,
Somewhat too harsh a picture of me: so ’twas resolved
To put me to proof.

_Chr._ Menedemus, since ’twas my own son,
It does not matter; for now my account with him is closed.

_Men._ What say you?

_Chr._ Well, never mind. He is now no more my son. 1440
O Menedemus, indeed he has treated me shamefully.
This morning I thought your son had acted ill by you:
How willingly now I’d change.

_Men._ You make too much of it.
No harm was meant; and none has been done: a foolish hoax,
And nothing more.

_Chr._ You cannot hope to persuade me now
There is any excuse for a son deceiving his own father.

_Men._ I think a father would find one, Chremes, where there
was none.

_Chr._ Nay, nay: no more of him. I understand you came
About my daughter.

_Men._ I did. Clinia asks her hand.

_Chr._ You know she is not that woman they made me
think....

_Men._ I know. 1450

_Chr._ Menedemus, I never wished to have a daughter. I thought
A girl was a burden, the worst possession a man could have;
Costly to rear, costly to keep, costly to get rid of.
It seems I was wrong. I have had a daughter, who from her cradle
Has never cost me a single penny, and the very hour
She is thrown on my hands, she has offers of marriage. ’Tis not
for me
To hinder the kindness of heaven. You are welcome to take her. Yet
I have one condition: the dowry.

_Men._ Certainly: about that
We shall not quarrel however. My son will be rich: and you 1459
Will give as you think is fit.

_Chr._ I still shall insist on terms.
You will not oppose a project of mine?

_Men._ I promise not;
Consider it settled: & now let us put the business off,
And bring the two young lovers happily face to face.
I long to see Antiphila.

_Chr._ Wait. I’ll call my wife, [_Goes to_ L.
And tell her to bring her out.

_Men._ And I will call my son. [_Goes to_ R.
(_Calling_) Clinia!

_Re-enter Clinia._

_Clin._ Father!

_Men._ Come! Is Pamphilus there?

_Clin._ He is.

_Men._ Let him be ready.

_Enter Sostrata and Antiphila._

_Chr._ See here, Menedemus, my daughter.

_Men._ And mine.
My dear Antiphila, I fear you have heard hard tales of me:
I have therefore the greater pleasure in bringing you, now we meet,
The joy I have stood in the way of. I have asked your good
father 1470
To grant your hand to my son in marriage: he has consented.
See, here is Clinia. Let me join your hands—for ever.
Be happy.

_SOSTRATA._

(_Aside._) The dear old man; see how he weeps for joy.

_Chr._ You will not deny me now, Menedemus, I’m sure: you’ll come
And spend what is left of the day at my house. You will
dine with us?

_Men._ With all my heart. You have not presented me to your wife.
I beg....

_Chr._ Come, Sostrata, come & make your compliments
To our new relation.

_Men._ Your servant, madam.

_Sost._ O sir, I am glad
My Antiphila will have your son for a husband.

_Men._ I am very proud
Of such a daughter-in-law. But now, if I may ask,
Where is your son Pamphilus? He should not be absent now. 1481

_Chr._ Don’t ask for him.

_Sost._ I beseech you speak with my husband, sir.

_Chr._ I beg, Menedemus, you’ll say no more. I have cast him off.

_Men._ I still shall venture to plead his forgiveness.

_Chr._ ’Tis too late.
I have sent him off already: he is gone.