Chapter IV: Part I: The Drama (2)

O the bliss of memory!
My infant brother slain, his limbs asunder rent,
My royal father spoiled of his ancestral realm,
And Pelias' guiltless daughters lured to slay their sire!
But here I must not rest; no untrained hand I bring
To execute my deeds.
But now, by what approach,
Or by what weapon wilt thou threat the treacherous foe?
Deep hidden in my secret heart have I conceived
A purpose which I dare not utter. O I fear
That in my foolish madness I have gone too far.--
I would that children had been born to him of this
My hated rival. Still, since she hath gained his heart,
His children too are hers.--
That punishment would be most fitting and deserved.
Yes, now I see the final deed of crime, and thou,
My soul, must face it. You, who once were called my sons,
Must pay the penalty of these your father's crimes.--
My heart with horror melts, a numbing chill pervades
My limbs, and all my soul is filled with sinking fear.
Now wrath gives place, and, heedless of my husband's sins,
The tender mother-instinct quite possesses me.
And could I shed my helpless children's blood? Not so,
O say not so, my maddened heart! Far from my hand
And thought be that unnamable and hideous deed!
What sin have they that shedding of their wretched blood
Would wash away?
Their sin--that Jason is their sire,
And, deeper guilt, that I have borne them. Let them die;
They are not mine.--Nay, nay, they are my own, my sons,
And with no spot of guilt.--Full innocent they are,
'Tis true: my brother too was innocent. O soul,
Why dost thou hesitate? Why flow these streaming tears
While with contending thoughts my wavering heart is torn?
As when conflicting winds contend in stubborn strife,
And waves, to stormy waves opposed, the sea invade,
And to their lowest sands the briny waters boil:
With such a storm my heart is tossed. Hate conquers love,
And love puts impious hate to flight. O yield thee, grief,
To love! Then come, my sons, sole comfort of my heart,
Come cling within thy mother's close embrace. Unharmed
Your sire may keep you, while your mother holds you too.

But she remembers, even as she embraces her children, that this is her last embrace.

But flight and exile drive me forth! And even now
My children must be torn away with tears and cries.--
Then let them die to Jason since they're lost to me.
Once more has hate resumed her sway, and passion's fire
Is hot within my soul. Now fury, as of yore,
Reseeks her own. Lead on, I follow to the end!
I would that I had borne twice seven sons, the boast
Of Niobe! But all too barren have I been.
Still will my two sufficient be to satisfy
My brother and my sire.

She suddenly falls distraught, as one who sees a dreadful vision.

But whither hastes that throng
Of furies? What their quest? What mean their brandished
fires?
Whom threats this hellish host with horrid, bloody brands?
I hear the writhing lash of serpents huge resound.
Whom seeks Magaera with her deadly torch?--Whose shade
Comes gibbering there with scattered limbs?--It is my
brother!
Revenge he seeks; and we will grant his quest. Then come,
Within my heart plunge all your torches--rend me--burn!
For lo, my bosom open to your fury's stroke.
O brother, bid those vengeful goddesses depart
And go in peace down to the lowest shades of Hell.
And do thou leave me to myself, and let this hand
That slew thee with the sword now offer sacrifice
Unto thy shade.

Roused to the point of action by this vision, and still at the very pitch of frenzy, she plunges her dagger into the first of her sons. (The poet thus violates the canons of the classical drama in representing deeds of blood upon the stage.)

But now hoarse shouts and the quick tramping of many feet are heard; and well does Medea know their meaning.

What sudden uproar meets my ear?
'Tis Corinth's citizens on my destruction bent.
Unto the palace roof I'll mount, and there complete
This bloody sacrifice.
[_To her other son._] Do thou come hence with me;
But thee, poor senseless corse, within mine arms I'll bear.
Now gird thyself, my heart, with strength. Nor must this
deed
Lose all its just renown because in secret done;
But to the public eye my hand must be approved.

Medea disappears within, leading one son, terrified and reluctant, and bearing the body of her other child in her arms. Jason and a crowd of Corinthian citizens rush upon the stage. Stopping in front of his own palace, he shouts:

Ho, all ye loyal sons who mourn the death of kings!
Come, let us seize the worker of this hideous crime.
Now ply your arms and raze her palace to the ground.

At this moment, though as yet unseen by those below, Medea emerges upon the palace roof.

_Medea._ Now, now have I regained my regal power, my sire,
My brother! Once again the Colchians hold the spoil
Of precious gold, and by the magic of this hour
I am a maid once more! O heavenly powers appeased
At length! O festal hour! O nuptial day! On! on!
Accomplished is the guilt, but not the recompense.
Complete the task while yet thy hands are strong to act.
Why dost thou linger still? Why dost thou hesitate
Upon the threshold of the deed? Thou canst perform it.
Now wrath has died within me, and my soul is filled
With shame and deep remorse. Ah me, what have I done,
Wretch that I am? Wretch that thou art, well mayest thou
mourn,
For thou hast done it!--At that thought delirious joy
O'ermasters me and fills my heart which fain would grieve.
And yet, methinks, the act was almost meaningless,
Since Jason saw it not; for naught has been performed
If to his grief be added not the woe of sight.

_Jason._ [_discovering her._] Lo, there she stands upon the
lofty battlements!
Bring torches! Fire the house! That she may fall ensnared
By those devices she herself hath planned.

_Medea._ [_derisively._] Not so;
But rather build a lofty pyre for these thy sons;
Their funeral rites prepare. Already for thy bride
And father have I done the service due the dead;
For in their ruined palace have I buried them.
One son of thine has met his doom; and this shall die
Before his father's face.--

_Jason._ By all the gods, and by the perils of our flight,
And by our marriage bond which I have ne'er betrayed,
I pray thee spare the boy, for he is innocent.
If aught of sin there be, 'tis mine. Myself I give
To be the victim. Take my guilty soul for his.

_Medea._ 'Tis for thy prayers and tears I draw, not sheathe the
sword.
Go now, and take thee maids for wives, thou faithless one;
Abandon and betray the mother of thy sons.

_Jason._ And yet, I pray thee, let one sacrifice atone.

_Medea._ If in the blood of one my passion could be quenched,
No vengeance had it sought. Though both my sons I slay,
The number still is all too small to satisfy
My boundless grief.

_Jason._ Then finish what thou hast begun--
I ask no more--and grant at least that no delay
Prolong my helpless agony.

_Medea._ Now hasten not,
Relentless passion, but enjoy a slow revenge.
This day is in thy hands; its fertile hours employ.

_Jason._ O take my life, thou heartless one.

_Medea._ Thou bidst me pity--
Well--[_She slays the second child_]--'Tis done!
No more atonement, passion, can I offer thee.
Now hither lift thy tearful eyes, ungrateful one.
Dost recognize thy wife? 'Twas thus of old I fled.
The heavens themselves provide me with a safe retreat.
Twin serpents bow their heads submissive to the yoke.

For there suddenly appears in the air a chariot drawn by dragons.

Now, father, take thy sons; while I, upon my car,
With winged speed am borne aloft through realms of air.

_Jason._ [_calling after as she vanishes_].
Speed on through realms of air that mortals never see:
But heaven bear witness, whither thou art gone, no gods
can be.

3. ROMAN COMEDY

We have already said that the natural mimicry of the Italian peasantry no doubt for ages indulged itself in uncouth performances of a dramatic nature, which developed later into those mimes and farces, the forerunners of Roman comedy and the old Medley-Satura. We have also shown how powerfully Rome came under the influence of Greek literature and Greek art; and how the first actual invasion of Rome by Greek literature was made under Livius Andronicus, who, in 240 B. C., produced the first play before a Roman audience translated from the Greek into the Roman tongue. What the history of native comedy would have been, had it been allowed to develop entirely apart from Greek influence, we shall never know, since it did come powerfully under this influence, and retained permanently the form and character which it then acquired.

When Rome turned to Greece for comedy, there were three models from which to choose: the Old Athenian Comedy of Eupolis, Cratinus, and Aristophanes, full of criticism boldly aimed at public men and policies, breathing the most independent republican spirit; the Middle Comedy, which was still critical, directed, however, more at classes of men and schools of thought than at individuals; and New Comedy, the product of the political decadence of Greece, written during a period (340-260 B. C.) when the independence which had made the trenchant satire of the Old Comedy possible had gone out of Greece. These plays aimed at amusement and not at reform. Every vestige of politics was squeezed out of them, and they were merely society plays, supposed to reflect the amusing and entertaining incidents of the social life of Athens. The best known writers of New Comedy were Philemon, Apollodorus, and Menander, only fragments of whose works have come down to us.

Which of these models did the Romans follow? There is some evidence in the fragments of the plays of Naevius, a younger contemporary of Andronicus, and who produced his first play in 235 B. C., that he wrote in the bold spirit of the Old Comedy, and criticized the party policies and leaders of his time. But he soon discovered that the stern Roman character was quite incapable of appreciating a joke, especially when its point was directed against that ineffably sacred thing, the Roman dignity. For presuming to voice his criticisms from the stage the poet was imprisoned and afterward banished from Rome.

Perhaps warned by the experience of Naevius, Roman comic poets turned to the perfectly colorless and safe society plays of the New Comedy for translation and imitation. They not only kept within the limitations of these plays as to spirit and plot, but even confined the scene itself and characters to some foreign city, generally Athens, and for the most part were careful to exclude everything Roman or suggestive of Rome from their plays.

Judging from the remaining fragments, there must have been many writers of comedy during this period of first impulse; but of all these, the works of only two are preserved to us. These are Titus Maccius Plautus, who died in 184 B. C., and Publius Terentius Afer, commonly known as Terence, who was born in 195 B. C., and died in 159 B. C. These two writers have much in common, but there are also many important points of difference. Plautus displays a rougher, more vigorous strength and a broader humor; and, within the necessary limitations of which we have spoken, he is more national in his spirit, more popular in his appeal. Terence, on the other hand, no doubt because he was privileged to associate with the select and literary circle of which Scipio and Laelius were the center, was more polished and correct in style and diction. But while he thus gains in elegance as compared with Plautus, he loses the breezy vigor of the older poet.

As an illustration of the society play of the New Comedy, we are giving with some abridgment the _Phormio_ of Terence, which we have taken the liberty of translating into somewhat free modern vernacular. This is perhaps the best of the six plays of Terence which we have, and was modeled by him after a Greek play of Apollodorus. It is named _Phormio_ from the saucy parasite who takes the principal role. The other characters are two older men, brothers, Demipho and Chremes; two young men, sons of these, Antipho and Phaedria; a smart slave, Geta; a villainous slave-driver, Dorio; Nausistrata, wife of Chremes, and Sophrona, an old nurse. The scene, which does not change throughout the play, is laid in Athens. As for the plot, it will develop itself as we read.

A shock-headed slave comes lounging in from the direction of the Forum and stops in front of Demipho's house. He carries in his hand a purse of money which, it appears, he has brought in payment of a debt:

Friend Geta paid me a call yesterday; I've been owing him a
beggarly balance on a little account some time back, and he wanted
me to pay it. So I've got it here. It seems that his young master
has gone and got married; and this money, I'm thinking, is being
scraped together as a present for the bride. Things have come to a
pretty pass, to be sure, when the poor must all the time be
handing over to the rich. What my poor gossip has saved up out of
his allowance, a penny at a time, almost starving himself to do
it, this precious bride will gobble up at one fell swoop, little
thinking how hard Geta had to work to get it. Pretty soon he will
be struck for another present when a child is born; for another
when its birthday comes around, and so on, and so on. The mother
will get it all; the child will be only an excuse. But here comes
Geta himself.

The private marriage of the young man Antipho, mentioned in this slave's soliloquy, is one of the important issues of the play. The real situation is revealed in the following conversation between the two slaves. After the payment of the money and an interchange of civilities, says the friend:

_Davus._ But what's the matter with you?

_Geta._ Me? Oh, you don't know in what a fix we are.

_Da._ How's that? _Ge._ Well, I'll tell you if you won't say anything
about it. _Da._ O, come off, you dunce, you have just trusted money
with me; are you afraid to lend me words? Besides, what good would it
do me to give you away? _Ge._ Well, listen then. You know our old
man's brother Chremes? _Da._ Well, I should say. _Ge._ And his son
Phaedria? _Da._ As well as I do you. _Ge._ Both the old men went away,
Chremes to Lemnos, and his brother to Cilicia, and left me here to
take care of their two sons. My guardian spirit must have had it in
for me. At first I began to oppose the boys; but there--my
faithfulness to the old men I paid for with my bones. Then I just
gave it up and let them do as they pleased. At first, my young master
Antipho was all right; but his cousin Phaedria lost no time in getting
into trouble. He fell in love with a little lute-player--desperately
in love. She was a slave, and owned by a most villainous fellow.
Phaedria had no money to buy her freedom with--his father had looked
out for that; so the poor boy could only feast his eyes upon her, tag
her around and walk back and forth to school with her. Antipho and I
had nothing else to do, so we watched Phaedria. Well, one day when we
were all sitting in the barber-shop across the street from the little
slave-girl's schoolhouse, a fellow came in crying like a baby. When
we asked him what the trouble was, he said: "Poverty never seemed to
me so dreadful before. Just now I saw a poor girl here in the
neighborhood crying over her dead mother. And there wasn't a single
soul around, not an acquaintance or a relative or any one at all to
help at the funeral, except one little old woman, her nurse. I did
feel sorry for the girl. She was a beauty, too." Well, he stirred us
all up. Then Antipho speaks up and says: "Let's go and see her; you
lead the way." So we went and saw her. She _was_ a beauty. And she
wasn't fixed up a bit either: her hair was all hanging loose, she was
bare-footed, unkempt, eyes red with weeping, dress travel-stained.
So she must have been an all-round beauty, or she couldn't have
seemed so then. Phaedria says: "She'll do pretty well." But
Antipho-- _Da._ O yes, I know, he fell in love with her. _Ge._ But do
you know how much? Wait and see how it came out. Next day he went
straight to the nurse and begged her to let him see the girl; but the
old woman wouldn't allow it. She said he wasn't acting on the square;
that the girl was a well-born citizen of Athens, and that if he
wanted to marry her he might do so in the legal way. If he had any
other object it was no use. Our young man didn't know what to do. He
wanted to marry her fast enough, but he was afraid of his absent
father. _Da._ Why, wouldn't his father have forgiven him when he came
back? _Ge._ What, he allow his son to marry a poor girl that nobody
knew anything about? Not much! _Da._ Well, what came next? _Ge._ What
next? There is a certain parasite named Phormio, a bold fellow--curse
his impudence! _Da._ What did he do? _Ge._ He gave this precious
piece of advice. Says he: "There is a law in Athens that orphan girls
shall marry their next of kin, and the same law requires the next of
kin to marry them. Now I'll say that you are related to this girl,
and will bring suit against you to compel you to marry her. I'll
pretend that I am her guardian. We'll go before the judges; who her
father was, who her mother, how she is related to you--all this I'll
make up on the spur of the moment. You won't attempt any defense and
of course I shall win the suit. I'll be in for a row when your father
gets back, but what of that? You will be safely married to the girl
by that time." _Da._ Well, that _was_ a jolly bluff. _Ge._ So the
youth was persuaded, the thing was done, they went to court, our side
lost the suit, and Antipho married the girl. _Da._ What's that? _Ge._
Just what I say. _Da._ O Geta, what will become of you? _Ge._ I'll be
blessed if I know. I'm sure of one thing, though: whatever happens,
I'll bear it with equanimity. _Da._ That's the talk! You've got the
spirit of a man! But what about the pedagogue, the little
lute-player's young man? How is he getting on? _Ge._ Only so so.
_Da._ He hasn't much to pay for her, I suppose? _Ge._ Not a red; only
his hopes. _Da._ Has Antipho's father come back yet? _Ge._ No. _Da._
When do you expect him? _Ge._ I'm not sure, but I have just heard
that a letter has been received from him down at the custom-house,
and I'm going for it now. _Da._ Well, Geta, can I do anything more
for you? _Ge._ No. Be good to yourself. Good-by.

We see from the foregoing conversation what the situation is at the opening of the play, and can guess at the problems to be solved by the development of the action: How shall Phaedria obtain the money with which to buy his sweetheart? and how shall Antipho's father be reconciled to the marriage so that he may not annul it or disown both the young people upon his return?

The two cousins Antipho and Phaedria now appear, each envying the seemingly happy lot of the other, and deploring his own. Antipho has already repented of his hasty action, and is panic-stricken when he thinks of the wrath of his father. While Phaedria can think only of his friend's good fortune in being married to the girl of his heart. Geta's sudden appearance from the direction of the harbor strikes terror into Antipho, and both the cousins retire to the back of the stage. The slave is evidently much disturbed, though the young men can catch only a word now and then.

Desirous, yet fearful of knowing the worst, Antipho now calls out to his slave, who turns and comes up to him.

_Antipho._ Come, give us your news, for goodness' sake, and be quick.
_Ge._ All right, I will. _Ant._ Well, out with it, then. _Ge._ Just
now at the harbor-- _Ant._ What, my-- _Ge._ That's right. _Ant._ I'm
done for!

Phaedria has not Antipho's fear-sharpened imagination to get Geta's news from these fragmentary statements, and asks the slave to tell him what it is all about.

_Geta._ I tell you that I have seen his father, your uncle. _Ant._
[_frantically_]. How shall I meet this sudden disaster? But if it has
come to this, Phanium [_his wife_], that I am to be separated from
you, then I don't want to live any longer. _Ge._ There, there,
Antipho, in such a state of things you ought to be all the more on
the watch. Fortune favors the brave, you know. _Ant._ [_with choking
voice_]. I'm not myself to-day. _Ge._ But you must be, Antipho; for
if your father sees that you are timid and meek about it, he'll think
of course that you are in the wrong. _Ant._ But, I tell you, I can't
do any different. _Ge._ What would you do if you had some harder job
yet? _Ant._ Since I can't do this, I couldn't do that. _Ge._ Come,
Phaedria, there's no use fooling with this fellow; we're only wasting
our time. Let's be off. _Phaed._ All right, come on. _Ant._ O say,
hold on! What if I pretend to be bold. [_Strikes an attitude_]. Will
that do? _Ge._ Stuff and nonsense. _Ant._ Well, how will this
expression do? _Ge._ It won't do at all. _Ant._ How is this? _Ge._
That's more like it. _Ant._ Is this better? _Ge._ That's just right.
Keep on looking that way. And remember to answer him word for word,
tit for tat, and don't let the angry old man get the better of you.
_Ant._ I--I--w-won't. _Ge._ Tell him you were forced to it against
your will-- _Phaed._ By the law, by the court. _Ge._ Do you catch
on?--But who is this old man I see coming up the street?

Antipho casts one look of terror down the street, cries: "It's father himself, I just can't stay," and takes to his heels.

_Phaed._ Now, Geta, what next? _Ge._ Well, you're in for a row; and I
shall be hung up by the heels and flogged, unless I am much mistaken.
But what we were advising Antipho to do just now, we must do
ourselves. _Phaed._ O, come off with your "musts"! Tell me just what
to do. _Ge._ Do you remember how you said when we were planning how
to get out of blame for this business that "Phormio's suit was just
dead easy, sure to win"? Well, that's the game we want to work
now,--or a better one yet, if you can think of one. Now you go ahead
and I'll wait here in ambush, in case you want any help.

They retire to the back of the stage as Demipho enters from the direction of the harbor. The old man is in a towering rage, for he has heard the news, which by this time is all over town. After listening awhile to his angry soliloquy, and interjecting sneering comments _sotto voce_, Geta and Phaedria conclude that it is time to act. So Phaedria advances to his uncle with an effusive welcome:

_Phaed._ My dear uncle, how do you do? _Demipho_ [_crustily_]. How are
you? But where is Antipho? _Phaed._ I'm so glad to see-- _Dem._ Oh, no
doubt; but answer my questions. _Phaed._ Oh, he's all right; he's here
in the house. But, uncle, has anything gone wrong with you? _Dem._
Well, I should say so. _Phaed._ What do you mean? _Dem._ How can you
ask, Phaedria? This is a pretty marriage you have gotten up here in my
absence. _Phaed._ Why, uncle, you aren't angry with him for that, are
you? _Dem._ Not angry with him, indeed? I can hardly wait to see him
and let him know how through his own fault his indulgent father has
become most stern and angry with him. _Phaed._ Now, uncle, if Antipho
has been at fault in that he wasn't careful enough of his purse or
reputation, I haven't a word to say to shield him from blame. But if
some one with malicious intent has laid a trap for him and got the
best of him, is that our fault, or that of the judges, who often
decide against the rich through envy, and in favor of the poor out of
pity? _Dem._ But how is any judge to know the justice of your case,
when you don't say a word in self-defense, as I understand he didn't?
_Phaed._ Well, in that he acted like a well-bred young man; when he
came before the judges, he couldn't remember a word of his speech
that he had prepared; he was so bashful.

Seeing that Phaedria is getting along so well, Geta decides to come forward.

_Ge._ Hail, master! I'm very glad to see you home safe again. _Dem._
[_with angry irony_]. Hail! A fine guardian you are! A regular pillar
of the family! So you are the fellow that I left in charge of my son
when I went away?

Geta plays injured innocence, and wants to know what Demipho would have had him do. Being a slave, he could neither plead the young man's cause nor testify in his behalf.

_Dem._ O, yes; I admit all that. But even if the girl was never so
much related, he needn't have married her. Why didn't you take the
other legal alternative, give her a dowry, and let her find another
husband? Had he no more sense than to marry her himself? _Ge._ O, he
had sense enough; it was the dollars he lacked. _Dem._ Well, he might
have borrowed the money. _Ge._ Borrowed it? That's easier said than
done. _Dem._ He might have gotten it from a usurer on a pinch. _Ge._
Well, I do like that! As if any one would lend him money in your
lifetime!

The old man, beaten to a standstill, can only fall back upon his obstinate determination, and vow that he won't have it.

_Dem._ No, no; it shall not be, it cannot be! I won't permit this
marriage to continue for a single day longer. Now, I want to see that
other fellow, or at least find out where he lives. _Ge._ Do you mean
Phormio? _Dem._ I mean that woman's guardian. _Ge._ I'll go get him
for you. _Dem._ Where is Antipho now? _Ge._ O, he's out somewhere.
_Dem._ Phaedria, you go hunt him up and bring him to me. _Phaed._ Yes,
sir; I'll go find him right away. _Ge._ [_leering at Phaedria as the
latter passes him_]. You mean you'll go to Pamphila [_Phaedria's
sweetheart_].

Demipho, left alone, announces that he will get some friends together to advise him in the business, and prepare him for his interview with Phormio. The act ends with the prospect pretty dark for Antipho, and with no plan of action formed in his behalf.

We are now introduced, at the opening of the second act, to the actor of the title role, the keen-witted, reckless parasite, Phormio. He is accompanied upon the stage by Geta, who is telling him the situation. Geta beseeches Phormio to come to their aid, since he is, after all, entirely responsible for the trouble. Phormio remains buried in thought awhile, and then announces that he has his plans formed, and is ready to meet the old man.

[_Enter Demipho and three friends from the other side of the stage.
Demipho is talking to his friends._]

_Dem._ Did you ever hear of any one suffering more outrageous
treatment than I have? I beg you to help me. _Ge._ [_apart to
Phormio_]. My, but he's mad! _Phor._ You just watch me now; I'll stir
him up. [_Speaking in a loud enough tone to be overheard by
Demipho_]. By all the powers! Does Demipho say that Phanium isn't
related to him? Does Demipho say so? _Ge._ Yes, he does.

Demipho is caught by this bait, as Phormio had intended, and says to his friends in an undertone:

I believe this is the very fellow I was seeking. Let's go a little
nearer.

Phormio continues in a loud voice to berate Demipho for his neglect of the supposed relative, while Geta noisily takes his master's part. Demipho now interrupts this sham quarrel, and after snubbing Geta, he turns with mock politeness to Phormio.

_Dem._ Young man, I beg your pardon, but will you be kind enough to
tell me who that friend of yours was that you are talking about, and
how he said I was related to him? _Phor._ O, you ask as if you didn't
know. _Dem._ As if I didn't know? _Phor._ Yes. _Dem._ And I say that
I _don't_ know. Now do you, who say that I do, refresh my memory.
_Phor._ Didn't you know your own cousin? _Dem._ O, you make me tired.
Tell me his name. _Phor._ The name? Why, certainly.

But now the name by which he had heard Phanium speak of her father has slipped from his mind, and he is forced to awkward silence. Demipho is quick to see his embarrassment:

Well, why don't you speak? _Phor._ [_aside_]. By George! I'm in a
box! I have forgotten the name. _Dem._ What's that you say? _Phor._
[_aside in a whisper to Geta_]. Say, Geta, if you remember that name
we heard the other day, tell it to me. [_Then determining to bluff it
out, he turns to Demipho_]. No, I won't tell you the name. You are
trying to pump me, as if you didn't know it already. _Dem._
[_angrily_]. I pump you? _Ge._ [_whispering_]. It's Stilpho. _Phor._
[_to Demipho_]. And yet what do I care? It's Stilpho. _Dem._ Who?
_Phor._ [_shouting it at him_]. Stilpho, I say. Did you know him?
_Dem._ No, I didn't, And I never had a relative of that name. _Phor._
No? Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Now if he had left a matter of
ten talents-- _Dem._ Confound your impudence! _Phor._ You would be the
first to come forward, with a very good memory, and trace your
connection with him for generations back. _Dem._ Well, have it as you
say. Then when I had come into court. I should have told just how she
was related to me. Now you do the same. Come, how is she related to
me? _Phor._ I have already explained that to those who had a right to
ask--the judges. If my statement was false then, why didn't your son
refute it? _Dem._ Don't mention my son to me! I can't possibly
express my disgust at his folly. _Phor._ Then do you, who are so
wise, go before the magistrates and ask them to reopen the case.
[_This, according to the law of Athens, was impossible._]

Demipho has twice been completely beaten in a war of words--once by Geta and now by Phormio. He chokes down his rage as best he can, and now makes a proposition to his enemy. He is still too angry to express himself very connectedly.

_Dem._ Although I have been outraged in this business, still, rather
than have a quarrel with such as you, just as if she were related to
me, since the law bids to give her a dowry, take her away from here,
and make it _fui minae_. _Phor._ Ho! ho! ho! Well, you _are_ a
cheerful idiot! _Dem._ What's the matter? Have I asked anything
wrong? Or can't I get even what is my legal right? _Phor._ Well,
really now, I should like to ask you, when you have once married a
girl, does the law bid you then to give her some money and send her
packing? On the contrary, it is for the very purpose that a citizen
of Athens may not come to shame on account of her poverty, that her
next of kin is bidden to take her to wife. And this purpose you are
attempting to thwart. _Dem._ Yes, that's just it--"her next of kin."
But where do I come in on that score? _Phor._ O pshaw! don't thresh
over old straw. _Dem._ Sha'n't I? I vow I shall not stop until I have
accomplished my ends.

After further badgering and bear-baiting on the part of Phormio, Demipho finally falls back upon his dogged determination as before, and gives his ultimatum:

See here, Phormio, we have said enough. Unless you take immediate
steps to get that woman away, I'll throw her out of the house. I have
spoken, Phormio.

Phormio is not to be outdone in bluster, and adopting Demipho's formula, as well as his tone and gestures, he says:

And if you touch that girl except as becomes a free-born citizen,
I'll bring a cracking suit against you. I have spoken, Demipho.

So saying, he turns and swaggers off the stage, much to the secret delight of Geta, the impotent rage of Demipho, and the open-mouthed amazement of the three friends.

Demipho now appeals to his friends for advice as to how to proceed in this crisis; but they are so obsequious in their manner, and so contradictory in their advice, that Demipho is in greater perplexity than before, and decides to take no action at all until his brother Chremes comes home. He accordingly leaves the stage in the direction of the harbor, his three friends having already bowed themselves out.

This temporary disposition of Antipho's case is fittingly followed by the appearance of the young man himself in self-reproachful soliloquy that he should have run away and left his young wife in the lurch. Geta appears, and tells Antipho all that has passed in his absence, much to Antipho's gratitude and relief, though he sorely dreads the return of his uncle, who, it seems, is to be the arbiter of his destiny.

Phaedria and his troubles now claim the center of the stage. As Antipho and Geta stand talking, they hear a pitiful outcry, and looking up, they see a black-browed, evil-faced, typical stage villain, who we presently discover is Dorio, the slave-driver who owns Phaedria's sweetheart. Things have evidently come to a crisis with that young man. He is following Dorio, and imploring him to wait three days until he can get money enough to buy his sweetheart. But Dorio says he has a customer who offers cash down. After much entreaty, however, he tells Phaedria that if the money is forthcoming before to-morrow morning he will consider the bargain closed. So there Phaedria's business is brought to a head, and the attention of us all must be at once turned to what has suddenly become the paramount issue. What is to be done? Phaedria is too hysterical to be of any help in the matter, and Antipho tells the faithful and resourceful Geta that he must get the money somehow. Geta says that this is liable to be a pretty difficult matter, and doesn't want to undertake it, but is finally persuaded by Phaedria's pitiful despair to try. He asks Phaedria how much money he needs.

_Phaed._ Only six hundred dollars. _Ge._ Six hundred dollars! Whew!
she's pretty dear, Phaedria. _Phaed._ [_indignantly_]. It's no such
thing! She's cheap at the price. _Ge._ Well, well! I'll get you the
money somehow.

The third act gives a picture of the situation from the point of view of the two old men, Demipho and Chremes, for the latter has just returned from Lemnos, and now comes upon the stage fresh from his travels, in company with his brother. We now discover for the first time what is probably the real reason for the opposition to Antipho's marriage to the orphan girl.

_Dem._ Well, Chremes, did you bring your daughter with you, for whose
sake you went to Lemnos? _Chr._ No, I didn't. _Dem._ Why not? _Chr._
When her mother saw that I was delaying my coming too long, and that
my negligence was harming our daughter, who had now reached a
marriageable age, she simply packed up her whole household, and came
here to hunt me up--so they told me over there. And then I heard from
the skipper who brought them that they reached Athens all right.
_Dem._ Have you heard what has happened to my son while I was gone?
_Chr._ Yes, and it's knocked all my plans into a cocked hat. For if I
make a match for my daughter with some outsider, I'll have to tell
him categorically just how she comes to be mine, and who her mother
is. I was secure in our proposed match between her and Antipho, for I
knew that my secret was as safe in your hands as in my own; whereas
if an outsider comes into the family, he will keep the secret as long
as we are on good terms; but if we ever quarrel, he will know more
than is good for me [_looking around cautiously, and speaking with
bated breath_]; and I'm dreadfully afraid that my wife will find it
out in some way. And if she does, the only thing left for me to do is
to take myself off and leave home; for my soul is the only thing I
can call my own in this house.

From this it develops that Chremes has had a wife and daughter in Lemnos, and now lives in wholesome fear of his too masterful Athenian spouse.

Geta now comes upon the stage in fine spirits, loud in his praises of the shrewdness of Phormio, with whom he has just concluded a scheme for getting the money. He is in search of Demipho, and is surprised to find Chremes on hand as well. Meanwhile, Antipho has come cautiously upon the stage in search of Geta, just as the latter goes boldly up to the two old men. As yet unseen by any one, Antipho retires to the back of the stage, and overhears the following conversation:

_Ge._ O, how do you do, good Chremes! _Chr._ [_crustily_]. How are
you? _Ge._ How are things with you? _Chr._ One finds many changes on
coming back, as is natural enough--very many. _Ge._ That's so. Have
you heard about Antipho? _Chr._ The whole story. _Ge._ [_to
Demipho_]. O, you've been telling him? [_To Chremes_]. It's a shame,
Chremes, to be taken in that way! _Dem._ I have been discussing the
situation with him. _Ge._ I've been thinking it over, too, and I
think I have found a way out of it. _Chr._ How's that, Geta? _Dem._ A
way out of it? _Ge._ [_in a confidential tone_]. Just now when I left
you, I chanced to meet Phormio. _Chr._ Who's Phormio? _Ge._ That
girl's-- _Chr._ O, I see. _Ge._ I thought I'd test the fellow, so I
got him off alone, and said: "Now, Phormio, don't you see that it's
better to settle this matter in a friendly way than to have a row
about it? My master is a gentleman, and hates a fuss. If it wasn't
for that he would have sent this girl packing, as all his friends
advised him to do." _Ant._ [_aside_]. What in the world is this
fellow getting at? _Ge._ "Do you say that the law will make him
suffer for it if he casts her out? Oh, we've looked into that point.
I tell you you'll sweat for it if you ever get into a law-suit with
that man. He's a regular corker. But suppose you do win out; it's not
a matter of life and death, but only of damages. Now here, just
between ourselves, how much will you take, cash down, to take this
girl away and make us no more trouble." _Ant._ [_aside_]. Good
heavens, is the fellow crazy? _Ge._ "For I know that if you make any
sort of an offer, my master is a good fellow, and will take you up in
a minute." _Dem._ Who told you to say that? _Chr._ There, there, we
couldn't have gained our point better. _Ant._ [_aside_]. I'm done
for! _Dem._ Well, go on with your story. _Ge._ At first the fellow
was wild. _Chr._ Come, come, tell us how much he wants. _Ge._ How
much? Altogether too much. Said he: "Well, a matter of twelve hundred
dollars would be about right." _Dem._ Confound his impudence! Has he
no shame? _Ge._ That's just what I said. Said I: "What if he were
marrying off an only daughter? Small gain it's been to him not to
have raised a girl. One has been found to call for a dowry just the
same." Well, to make a long story short, he finally said: "I've
wanted from the first to marry the daughter of my old friend, as was
right that I should; but, to tell you the honest truth, I've got to
find a wife who will bring me in a little something, enough to pay my
debts with. And even now, if Demipho is willing to pay me as much as
I am getting from the other girl to whom I am engaged, I'd just as
soon turn around and marry this girl of yours." _Dem._ What if he is
over his head in debt? _Ge._ Says he: "I have a little farm mortgaged
for two hundred dollars." _Dem._ Well, well! Let him marry her; I'll
give him that much. _Ge._ "And then there's a bit of a house
mortgaged for two hundred more." _Dem._ Ow! that's too much. _Chr._
No, that's all right. Let him have that two hundred from me. _Ge._
"Then I must buy a little maid for my wife," says he, "and I've got
to have a little more furniture, and then there's all the wedding
expenses. Put all that down at an even two hundred more." _Dem._ [_in
a rage_]. Then let him bring as many suits as he wants to. I won't
give a cent. What, is the dirty fellow making game of me? _Chr._ O,
do please keep still! I only ask that you have your son marry that
girl that we know of. This girl is being sent off for my sake; so
it's only right that I should pay for it. _Ge._ Phormio says to let
him know as soon as possible if you are going to give Phanium to him,
in order that he may break his engagement with the other girl; for
her people have promised the same dowry. _Chr._ Well, we will give it
to him, so let him break his other engagement and marry the girl.
_Dem._ And a plague on him into the bargain! _Chr._ [_to Demipho_].
Very fortunately, I have brought some money with me--the rent I have
collected from my wife's Lemnian estate. I'll take it out of that,
and tell her that you needed it.

The two old men go into Chremes' house; and now Geta finds himself confronted by the indignant Antipho, who has hardly been able to contain himself during this (to him) inexplicable dialogue, in which his wife was being coolly bargained away. It is only with the greatest difficulty that Geta can make the angry bridegroom appreciate the ruse by which the money has been obtained for Phaedria's use. In the end Antipho goes off to tell the news to Phaedria. Demipho and Chremes now come out, the former with a bag of money in his hand. He wants it understood that no one can cheat him; he is going to be very business-like and have ample witness to the transactions. Chremes' only desire is that the business may be settled as soon as possible. Demipho now tells Geta to lead the way to Phormio, and they start toward the Forum. Chremes' troubles are only in part allayed. His Lemnian daughter's marriage with Antipho seems now safely provided for, but where _is_ his Lemnian daughter and her mother? That they are here in Athens fills him with terror. He paces back and forth in deep thought, muttering:

Where _can_ I find those women now, I wonder?

And just at this moment out from Demipho's house comes old Sophrona, Phanium's nurse, who also seems to be in great distress:

O, what _shall_ I do? Where shall I find a friend in my distress, or
to whom shall I go for advice? Where get help? For I'm afraid that my
young mistress is going to get into trouble from this marriage that I
persuaded her into. I hear that the young man's father is very much
put out about it. _Chr._ [_aside_]. Who in the world is this old
woman coming out of my brother's house? _So._ But want made me advise
her as I did, though I knew that the marriage was a bit shaky, in
order that for awhile at least we might be sure of our living. _Chr._
[_aside in great excitement_]. By Jove! unless I'm much mistaken, or
my eyes don't see straight, that's my daughter's nurse! _So._ And I
can't get any trace of the man who is her father. _Chr._ [_aside_].
Shall I go up to her, or shall I wait until I understand better what
she's talking about? _So._ But if I could only find him now, I'd have
nothing to fear. _Chr._ [_aside_]. It _is_ Sophrona; I'll speak to
her. [_Calling softly_]. Sophrona! _So._ Who is this I hear calling
my name? _Chr._ Look here, Sophrona. _So._ [_finally looking the
right way_]. My goodness gracious! Is this Stilpho? _Chr._ No. _So._
No? _Chr._ [_drawing her cautiously away from the vicinity of his
house_]. Say, Sophrona, come away a little from that door, will you?
And don't you ever call me by that name again. _So._ O, my goodness,
aren't you the man you always said you were? _Chr._ Sh! _So._ What
makes you so afraid of that door? _Chr._ I've got a savage wife shut
up there. I gave you the wrong name on purpose, that you might not
thoughtlessly blurt it out in public sometime, and so let my wife
here get wind of it. _So._ And so that's the reason why we poor women
could never find you here. _Chr._ Tell me now what business you have
with this household from which you have just come out. Where are
those women? _So._ [_with a burst of tears_]. O dear me! _Chr._ How?
What's that? Aren't they alive? _So._ Your daughter is. But the
mother, sick at heart over this business, is dead. _Chr._ That's too
bad! _So._ And then, considering that I was just a lonely old woman,
in a strange city without a cent of money, I think I did pretty well
for the girl, for I married her off to the young man the heir of this
family here. _Chr._ What, Antipho? _So._ Why, yes! _Chr._ You don't
mean to say he's got two wives? _So._ O gracious, no! This is the
only one. _Chr._ But what about that other girl who is said to be
related to him? _So._ Why, this is the one. _Chr._ [_beside himself
with joy and wonder_]. You don't mean it! _So._ That was a cooked up
scheme that her lover might marry her without a dowry. _Chr._ Thank
heaven for that! How often things come about by mere chance that you
wouldn't dare hope for! Here I find my daughter happily married to
the very man I had picked out for her! What my brother and I were
taking the greatest pains to bring about, here this old woman,
without any help from us, all by herself, has done. _So._ But now,
sir, we've got to bestir ourselves. The young man's father is back,
and they say he's in a terrible stew about it. _Chr._ O, there's no
danger on that score. But, for heaven's sake, don't let any one find
out that she's my daughter. _So._ Well, no one shall find it out from
me. _Chr._ Now you follow me, we'll talk about the rest inside.
[_They go into Demipho's house._]

Demipho and Geta appear in a brief scene, in which the former grumblingly comments upon the bargain which they have just made with Phormio. He disappears into his brother's house. Geta, left alone, soliloquizes upon the situation and sums it up so far as it is known to him. As he disappears into Demipho's house, the latter is seen coming out of his brother's house with his brother's wife, Nausistrata, whom in fulfilment of his promise he is taking in to see Phanium in order to reconcile the bride to the new arrangements that have been made for her.

And just at this moment Chremes comes rushing out of his brother's house; he calls to Demipho, not seeing in his excitement that Nausistrata is also on the stage.

_Chr._ Say, Demipho! Have you paid the money yet? _Dem._ Yes, I've
tended to that. _Chr._ Well, I wish you hadn't. [_Aside as he sees
his wife_]. Gracious! There's my wife! I almost said too much. _Dem._
Why do you wish it, Chremes? _Chr._ O, that's all right. _Dem._ What
do you mean? Have you talked with the girl on whose account I'm
taking Nausistrata in? _Chr._ Yes, I've had a talk with her. _Dem._
Well, what does she say? _Chr._ She can't be disturbed. _Dem._ Why
can't she? _Chr._ O, because--they're so fond of each other. _Dem._
What difference does that make to us? _Chr._ A great deal. And
besides, I've found that she's related to us, after all. _Dem._
What's that? You're off your base. _Chr._ No, I'm not. I know what
I'm talking about. I remember all about it now. _Dem._ Surely, you
_are_ crazy. _Naus._ I beg you won't do any harm to a relative.
_Dem._ She's no relative. _Chr._ Don't say that. She gave the wrong
name for her father. That's where you make your mistake. _Dem._
Nonsense! Didn't she know her own father? _Chr._ Yes, she knew him.
_Dem._ Well, then, why didn't she tell his right name? _Chr._ [_apart
to Demipho, in low, desperate tones_]. Won't you ever let up? Won't
you understand? _Dem._ How can I, if you tell me nothing? _Chr._ O,
you'll be the death of me. _Naus._ I wonder what it's all about.
_Dem._ I'll be blest if I know. _Chr._ Do you want to know? I swear
to you there's no one nearer to her than you and I. _Dem._ Good
gracious! Let's go to her, then. Let's all together get to the bottom
of this business. [_He starts toward his house with Nausistrata_].
_Chr._ I say, Demipho! _Dem._ Well, what now? _Chr._ [_angrily_].
Have you so little confidence in me as that? _Dem._ Do you want me to
take your word for it? Do you want me to seek no further in the
matter? All right, so be it. But what about the daughter of our
friend? What's to become of her? _Chr._ She'll be all right. _Dem._
Are we to drop her, then? _Chr._ Why not? _Dem._ And is Phanium to
remain? _Chr._ Just so. _Dem._ Well, Nausistrata, I guess we will
excuse you. [_Exit Nausistrata into her own house_]. Now, Chremes,
what in the world is all this about? _Chr._ Is that door tight shut?
_Dem._ Yes. _Chr._ [_leading his brother well out of earshot of the
house_]. O Jupiter! The gods are on our side. My daughter I have
found--married--to your son! _Dem._ What? How can that be? _Chr._ It
isn't safe to talk about it here. _Dem._ Well, go inside then. _Chr._
But see here, I don't want even our sons to find this out. [_They go
into Demipho's house._]

Antipho has seen Phaedria's business happily settled, and now comes in, feeling very gloomy about his own affairs. His deep dejection serves as a happy contrast to the fortunate turn of his affairs which we have just witnessed. In his unsettled state he starts off to find the faithful Geta, when Phormio comes on the stage, in high spirits over his success in cheating the old men out of their money in behalf of Phaedria. It is his own role now, he says, to keep well in the background. Now the door of Demipho's house opens and out rushes Geta, shouting and gesticulating: