MEGACLES, COURTIERS; _afterwards_ ASANDER.
_Meg._ Well, my lords, two years have passed since we left our
Bosphorus, and I see no sign of our returning there. If it were not
for that delightful Lady Melissa, whose humble slave I am always
(Courtiers _laugh_), I would give all I am worth to turn my back upon
this scurvy city and its republican crew. But my Lord Asander is so
devoted to his fair lady--and, indeed, I can hardly wonder at
it--that there seems no hope of our seeing the old shores again. I
thought he would have been off long ago.
_1st Court._ A model husband the Prince, a paragon of virtue.
_2nd Court._ Well, there is no great merit in being faithful to a
rich and beautiful woman. I think I could be as steady as a rock
under the like conditions.
_3rd Court._ Well, mind ye, it is not every man who could treat the
very marked overtures of the fair Lady Irene as he did. And he had
not seen his wife then, either. No; the man is a curious mixture,
somewhat cold, and altogether constant, and that is not a bad
combination to keep a man straight with the sex. Poor soul! do you
remember how she pursued him at Bosphorus, and how she fainted away
at the wedding? They say she is coming back speedily, in her right
mind. She has been away ever since, no one knows where. That solemn
brother of hers conveyed her away privily.
_1st Court._ I hate that fellow--a canting hypocrite, a solemn
impostor!
_2nd Court._ So say we all. But mark you, if the Lady Irene comes
back, there will be mischief before long. What news from Bosphorus,
my Lord Megacles?
_Meg._ I have heard a rumour, my lord, that his Majesty the King is
ailing.
_1st Court._ Nay, is he? Then there may be a new King and a new
Queen, and we shall leave this dog-hole and live at home like
gentlemen once more.
_3rd Court._ Then would his sacred Majesty's removal be a blessing in
disguise.
_2nd Court._ Ay, indeed would it. Does the Prince know of it?
_Meg._ I have not told him aught, having, indeed, nothing certain to
tell; but he soon will, if it be true. But here his Highness comes.
_Enter_ ASANDER.
My Lord Asander, your Highness's humble servant welcomes you with
effusion.
[_Bows low._
_Asan._ Well, my good Megacles, and you, my lords. There will be
ample work for you all ere long. The Lady Gycia is projecting a great
festival in memory of her father, and all that the wealth of Cherson
can do to honour him will be done. There will be solemn processions,
a banquet, and a people's holiday. Dost thou not spy some good
ceremonial work there, my good Megacles? Why, thou wilt be as happy
as if thou wert at Byzantium itself, marshalling the processions,
arranging the banquet, ushering in the guests in due precedence, the
shipowner before the merchant, the merchant before the retailer. Why,
what couldst thou want more, old Trusty? [_Laughs._
_Meg._ Ah, my Lord Prince, your Highness is young. When you are as
old as I am, you will not scoff at Ceremony. This is the pleasantest
day that I have spent since your Highness's wedding-day. I thank you
greatly, and will do my best, your Highness.
_Asan._ That I am sure of, good Megacles. Good day, my lords, good
day. [_Exeunt_ MEGACLES _and_ Courtiers.
_Enter_ Messenger.
_Mess._ My Lord Asander, a messenger from Bosphorus has just landed,
bringing this letter for your Highness.
_Asan._ Let me see it. (_Reads_) "Lysimachus to Asander sends
greeting. Thy father is failing fast, and is always asking for his
son. Thou art free, and must come to him before he dies. I have much
to say to thee, having heard long since of a festival in memory of
Lamachus to be held shortly. I will be with thee before then. Be
ready to carry out the plan which I have formed for thy good, and
will reveal to thee. Remember."
My father ailing?
And asks for me, and I his only son
Chained here inactive, while the old man pines
In that great solitude which hems a throne,
With none but hirelings round him.
Dearest father, I fear that sometimes in the happy years
Which have come since, my wandering regards,
Fixed on one overmastering thought, have failed
To keep their wonted duty. If indeed
This thing has been, I joy the time has come
When I may show my love. But I forget!
The fetters honour binds are adamant;
I am free no more. Nay, nay, there is no bond
Can bind a son who hears his father's voice
Call from a bed of pain. I must go and will,
Though all the world cry shame on my dishonour;
And with me I will take my love, my bride,
To glad the old man's eyes. My mind is fixed;
I cannot stay, I cannot rest, away
From Bosphorus. (_Summons_ Messenger) Go, call the Lady Gycia.
(_Resumes_) Ay, and my oath, I had forgotten it.
I cannot bear to think what pitiless plot
Lysimachus has woven for the feast.
What it may be I know not, but I fear
Some dark and dreadful deed. 'Twere well enough
For one who never knew the friendly grasp
Of hands that once were foemen's. But for me,
Who have lived among them, come and gone with them,
Trodden with them the daily paths of life,
Mixed in their pleasures, shared their hopes and fears
For two long happy years, to turn and doom
Their city to ruin, and their wives and children
To the insolence of rapine? Nay, I dare not.
I will sail at once, and get me gone for ever.
I will not tell my love that I am bound
By her father's jealous fancies to return
To Bosphorus no more. To break my oath!
That were to break it only in the word,
But keep it in the spirit. Surely Heaven
For such an innocent perjury keeps no pains.
But here she comes.
_Enter_ GYCIA.
_Gycia._ Didst send for me, my lord?
_Asan._ Gycia, the King is ill, and asks for me;
He is alone and weak.
_Gycia._ Then, fly to him
At once, and I will follow thee. But stay!
Is he in danger?
_Asan._ Nay, not presently;
Only the increasing weight of years o'ersets
His feeble sum of force.
_Gycia._ Keeps he his bed?
_Asan._ Not yet as I have known.
_Gycia._ Well then, dear heart,
We yet may be in time if we should tarry
To celebrate the honours we have vowed
To my dead father. This day sennight brings
The day which saw him die.
_Asan._ Nay, nay, my sweet;
'Twere best we went at once.
_Gycia._ My lord, I honour
The love thou bearest him, but go I cannot,
Until the feast is done. 'Twould cast discredit
On every daughter's love for her dead sire,
If I should leave this solemn festival
With all to do, and let the envious crowd
Carp at the scant penurious courtesy
Of hireling honours by an absent daughter
To her illustrious dead.
_Asan._ (_earnestly_). My love, 'twere best
We both were far away.
_Gycia._ My lord is pleased
To speak in riddles, but till reason speaks
'Twere waste of time to listen.
_Asan._ Nay, my wife,
Such words become thee not, but to obey
Is the best grace of woman. Were I able,
I would tell thee all, I fear, for thee and me,
But cannot.
_Gycia._ Then, love, thou canst go alone,
And I must follow thee. The Archon Zetho
Comes presently, to order what remains
To make the solemn festival do honour
To the blest memory of Lamachus.
Doubtless, he will devise some fitting pretext
To excuse thy absence.
_Asan._ Nay, thou must not ask him;
Breathe not a word, I pray.
_Gycia._ My good Asander,
What is it moves thee thus? See, here he comes.
_Enter_ ZETHO _and_ Senators.
_Gycia._ Good morrow, my Lord Zetho! We were late,
Debating of the coming festival,
And how my lord the Prince, having ill news
From Bosphorus, where the King his sire lies sick,
Can bear no part in it.
_Zetho._ I grieve indeed
To hear this news, and trust that Heaven may send
Swift comfort to his son, whom we all love.
_Asan._ I thank thee, Archon, for thy courtesy;
And may thy wish come true.
_Gycia._ And meantime, since my husband's heart is sore
For his sire's lonelihood, our purpose is
That he should sail to-morrow and go hence
To Bosphorus, where I, the festival
Being done, will join him later, and devote
A daughter's loving care and tender hand
To smooth the old man's sick-bed.
_Zetho._ Nay, my daughter,
I grieve this cannot be. The Prince Asander,
Coming to Cherson only two years gone,
Did pledge his solemn word to thy dead father
That never would he seek, come foul or fair,
To turn from Cherson homewards, and I marvel
That never, in the years that since have passed
Amid the close-knit bonds of wedded lives,
He has revealed this secret. We who rule
Our Cherson know through what blind shoals of fortune
Our ship of state drives onward. And I dare
not, Holding the rule which was thy father's once,
Release him from the solemn pledge which keeps
Our several States bound fast in amity,
But each from the other separate, and each
Free from the perils tangled intercourse
Might breed for both. Indeed, it cannot be;
I grieve that so it is.
_Gycia._ My Lord Asander,
Are these things so indeed?
_Asan._ They are, my wife.
A rash and heedless promise binds me fast,
Which, in all frankness, I had never dreamt
Could thus demand fulfilment. Who is there
More loyal to the State than I? Who is there
Bound by such precious chains of love and faith
As is thy husband? If I said no word
Of this before, it was that I would fain
Forget this hateful compact. Sir, I beg you
Let me go hence, and when the old man's sickness
Is done, as Heaven will have it, take my word
That I will be a citizen of Cherson
Again, whate'er may come.
_Zetho._ If the King dies,
Then art thou straightway King of Bosphorus,
Knowing the strength and weakness of our State,
And having bound to thee by closest friendship
Our chiefest citizens. Nay, nay, I dare not
Relieve thee from the pledge.
_Asan._ Thou hoary trickster,
Speakest thou thus to me?
[_Draws._
_Gycia (interposing)._ Great heavens! Asander,
Knowest thou what thou dost? (_To_ ZETHO) Pardon him, sir.
He is not himself, I think, but half distraught,
To bear himself thus madly.
_Zetho._ Daughter, the State
Knows to protect itself from insolence
And arrogant pride like this, and it is certain
'Twas a wise caution led thy honoured father
To stipulate that such ungoverned passion
Should be cut off from those conspiring forces
From which combined came danger.
_Asan._ Gycia,
Hearest thou this schemer? Dost thou know indeed
That I am prisoned here, while my loved father
Lies on the bed of death? Dost thou distrust me,
That thou dost speak no word?
_Gycia._ My lord, I cannot.
The measure which my father's wisdom planned
For the safety of the State, I, a weak woman,
Am too infirm to judge. Thou didst not tell me,
Asking that I should fly with thee, the bonds
By which thy feet were fettered. Had I known
I never had consented. Had I gone,
Breaking the solemn ordinance of State,
I should have left with thee my former love,
And sailed back broken-hearted. That thou grievest
There is none knows as I, but oh, my love!
Though it be hard to bear, yet is grief lighter
Than broken vows, and blighted honour, and laws
Made to sustain the State, yet overset
By one man's will. Dearest, we cannot go--
Nor thou; the State forbids it. I will pray
Thy father may grow strong again, and sit
Here at our hearth a guest; but this is certain--
To Bosphorus we go not. And I pray you
Make to my lord, who fills my father's place,
What reparation thy ungoverned rage
And hasty tongue demand.
_Asan._ Thou cold Greek woman!
Of this, then, 'twas they warned me--a smooth tongue
And a cold heart; a brain by logic ruled,
And not at all by love. Thou hast no pity,
For pity shapes not into syllogisms;
Nor can affection ape philosophy,
Nor natural love put on the formal robe
Of cold too-balanced State-craft. Hear me, old man,
And thou too, wife. 'Twere better, ay, far better,
That I should get me gone, and my wife with me,
Than be pent here unwilling; but were it better
Or were it worse, be sure I will not stay
When duty calls me hence. Wife, wilt thou come?
_Gycia._ My lord, I cannot.
_Asan._ Then, I go alone.
_Zetho._ Nay, thou shalt not. Ho there! arrest the Prince.
[Guards _arrest_ ASANDER.
_Asan._ Unhand me. At your peril.
[_Draws._
_Gycia._ Oh, my husband!
[_Weeps._