Part 2

DIDO. I love a rough sea. Couldn’t we go as far as Sicily with them? They’re going to stop there.

ÆNEAS. I don’t think you could leave Carthage just at this moment, could you?

DIDO. No, that’s true. We couldn’t very well leave Carthage just now, could we? Because King Iarbas has sent another threatening message.

ÆNEAS. Again?

DIDO. Yes; he threatens to attack Carthage at once. He cannot get over the fact that we really are married, and that I have a brave, dear, faithful, darling husband to love and protect me for ever and ever.

ÆNEAS. It certainly is most awkward.

DIDO. What? What does it matter to us what he says and does?

ÆNEAS. Well, the fact is that I shall probably have to go with the fleet.

DIDO. Then I’ll come with you.

ÆNEAS. My dear Elissa, that’s impossible.

DIDO. You don’t mean to say that you’re going to leave me--your wife--alone and unprotected, to face the invasion of a powerful, savage, and angry king when there is absolutely no necessity for your going at all?

ÆNEAS. I can’t possibly leave the fleet to Palinurus--our only pilot. Quite between ourselves he doesn’t know how to navigate--he once mistook the Charybdis beacon for a star ... it was after supper....

DIDO. Dearest, I quite understand. You must put off the expedition. I promise you not to mind. I don’t really want the purple dye. We’ll wait till the season is more propitious. It was most dear of you to think of it.

ÆNEAS. But I’m afraid it can’t be put off.

DIDO. Why?

ÆNEAS. Well, you see I have absolutely promised--I have definitely pledged myself--I have given my word of honour to visit my brother Eryx in Sicily.

DIDO. You can put that off until the spring.

ÆNEAS. I’m afraid it would be too late then. You see the whole matter is most complicated. Eryx expects me. I promised him to go, and if I don’t go now----

DIDO. What will happen?

ÆNEAS (_vaguely_). He won’t be there.

DIDO. Why? Is he going away?

ÆNEAS. And then there’s another matter which is still more important. I simply must visit my father’s tomb in Sicily.

DIDO. You might have thought of that before.

ÆNEAS. I have constantly--but I put it off.

DIDO. As you have put it off so long already, you may just as well put it off a little longer.

ÆNEAS. Yes, but there’s Jove.

DIDO. What has Jove got to do with it?

ÆNEAS. He wishes me to go. He is anxious that I should go to Sicily and (_pauses_) to Italy.

DIDO. Why to Italy?

ÆNEAS. It’s entirely for my boy’s sake, Ascanius ... to establish a home for him.

DIDO. And how long will you stay there?

ÆNEAS. It depends how things turn out.

DIDO. A month?

ÆNEAS. I’m afraid it will be a little longer than that.

DIDO. Six weeks?

ÆNEAS. You see it all depends on Jove.

DIDO. I ask you as a favour to put off the whole thing until the spring.

ÆNEAS. You know I would do anything you ask me, but I’m afraid I can’t do that. I would if I could, but I can’t.

DIDO. You mean you are determined to go to Italy.

ÆNEAS. It’s the last thing I wish to do personally, but Jove----

DIDO. Please leave Jove out of the discussion.

ÆNEAS. After all I must go there some time or other.

DIDO. You are tired of me.

ÆNEAS. How can you say such a thing?

DIDO. I knew it at once. You are going to Italy, and you’re never coming back.

ÆNEAS. Of course I shall come back some time.

DIDO (_violently_). Then it’s true! I knew you were tired of me! I’ve known it for a long time; but I never thought you could be so despicably mean as to try and go away without saying a word.

ÆNEAS. But I never dreamt----

DIDO. You build a fleet on the sly, in the middle of winter, to go to a strange country where you have no ties.

ÆNEAS. I beg your pardon, there’s my brother----

DIDO. When wind and weather are at their worst, simply and solely to get away from me----

ÆNEAS. But I swear----

DIDO. Oh! you don’t expect me to believe for a moment all that nonsense about Jove. If you wanted to stay you wouldn’t think twice about Jove. You don’t care a pin what may happen to me. You have set everybody against me; even my relations, my brother, all the Numidians, and the whole of Libya. You’ve ruined my reputation and given me over to my enemies, and then you put it all upon Jove.

ÆNEAS. I beg you to listen, Elissa. I had never for a moment meant to conceal my journey.

DIDO. Then why tell all those silly lies about Tyre and the purple dye?

ÆNEAS. I never said a word about Tyre and the purple dye. It was you.

DIDO. How can you tell such lies? When I asked you if the fleet was going to Tyre you distinctly said Yes.

ÆNEAS. What I did say was that I was obliged to go to Sicily to visit my father’s tomb, and that is the simple truth. You can’t expect me to wish the whole world to think me unfilial! As it is, I haven’t had a night’s rest for months. My father’s ghost appears to me every night.

DIDO. You expect me----

ÆNEAS. Please let me finish. And only yesterday I received a direct command from Jove, saying I was to go to Italy at once and found a kingdom there. Of course, if this only concerned myself I shouldn’t care, but there’s my son Ascanius to be thought of. I have no right to defraud him of his kingdom. If it were a question of inclination of course I should stay here, and Italy’s the last place I want to go to. If I went anywhere I should go to Troy; but Jove has made my duty plain, and after all a man must do his duty.

DIDO. Your duty! And I suppose it was a part of your duty to deceive me, to ruin me, to stir up enemies against me, and then to leave me to them defenceless! Me, your wife!

ÆNEAS (_angrily_). I must point out that I warned you at the time that our marriage was in no sense legal or valid--it could never be recognised as an alliance.

DIDO (_calmly_). You are quite right. It is entirely my fault. I thought you were a man of honour. I believed your word. I thought you were a man. I was mistaken. You were only a Trojan. I found you shipwrecked, an outcast, starving, helpless, at death’s door. I saved your fleet. I rescued your comrades from death. I saved you from destruction. And this is my reward. The Greeks were right when they burned Troy to the ground, killed your men and made your women into slaves. They were right to spare you, because you are not a man. Your place is with the menials. Please don’t think I shall prevent you going to Italy. Don’t imagine for a moment I am going to argue with you. By all means go and found a kingdom. I trust you will enjoy it and that it will turn out better than Troy. I am sure you know best, and I am sure you know what is best, and I am sure you are right. Don’t imagine that I mind, or that I shall miss you, for I shan’t. I am not the least annoyed at your going, I am only surprised and vexed to find that a man whom I thought was honourable, and truthful, and brave should turn out to be dishonourable, a liar, a coward--and a mean coward. I am angry with myself that I should have made such a mistake about a man, and that you, by your foolish, silly, transparent lies and shuffling should have shown me what a poor opinion you have of me. I wish you a very pleasant journey, and I hope you will do your duty in Italy as well as you have done it in Carthage.

[_She goes out C._

ÆNEAS (_wiping his forehead with a handkerchief_). That’s over!

_Enter_ SERGESTUS _R._

SERGESTUS. Seven minutes to noon, sir.

ÆNEAS. It’s all right. We go to sea to-morrow.

SERGESTUS. Aye, aye, sir.

[ÆNEAS _goes out, whistling the tune “Good-bye, Carthage, I must leave you.”_

CURTAIN.

IV

THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER

SCENE FROM A TRAGEDY.--“_The Life and Death of Alexander._” Anon. [Old Plays. Printed for _Peter Buck_, at the sign of the _Temple_, near the _Inner-Temple-gate_ in _Fleetstreet_, 1701.]

ACT V. SCENE IV.--_Babylon. A bed-chamber in_ ALEXANDER’S _Palace._ ALEXANDER _sleeping in bed;_ ROXANA _attending._

ROXANA. Full thrice hath Phœbus bath’d in Neptune’s flood, Thrice hath the pale-fac’d moon increas’d and wan’d, But Alexander is uncomforted. Not watchful care, nor drugs, nor natural simples Can hold at bay the sickness which pursues him. Methinks that treason whets his murderous knife, And meditates a foul and bloody deed. I dare not sleep. Have pity on my woes, Immortal gods! I know not friends from foes!

_Enter a_ SLAVE

SLAVE. Madam.

ROXANA. I know thou bringest some ill news.

SLAVE. Good madam, there is treason in the palace. The Queen Statira, envious of thy issue, Is plotting murder. She hath a strange syrup, Brew’d by a wizard in Arabia, More direful than the hebenon which Medea Did cull in Colchos by the yawning graves. She purposes, when sleep shall seize thee wholly, To give my Lord o’ the juice.

ROXANA. I thank you, slave, I thank you, here is gold.

SLAVE. I thank you, madam.

[_Exit_ SLAVE. ROXANA _feigns sleep._

_Enter_ QUEEN STATIRA

STATIRA. My Lord, I come to say a last farewell, Perchance the lying mist which seal’d thine eyes Shall dissipate and we may be aton’d; And, deaf to false Roxana, thou’lt prefer Thy Royal spouse, and cancel and defy Her bastard’s claim.

ROXANA. Hence! hence, foul murd’ress hence! Thou cursed thief who in the midnight season Dost come to filch Great Alexander’s soul With mixture dire of hellish property, Begone! Thy treason is made palpable, Thy baleful juice is harmless as pure water, And thy dread weapon, turning on thyself, Shall compass thine own ignomy.

STATIRA. Vain fool! Thy scolding frights me not. I am Statira. Nor canst thou with false accusation Raze from this brow the seal of royalty, Nor take away the sov’ranty of birth. Albeit supplanted by a saucy caitiff, Albeit slighted, I was once a Queen; And I am still the daughter of Darius, The King, whom kneeling Emperors called the Great. Farewell, my Lord, with no more dreadful purpose Have I come hither, than to say farewell. I was thy spouse, and I will not importune A faithless husband with a faithfulness Unprofitable. So my Lord, farewell.

[_Exit_ STATIRA. ALEXANDER _wakes._

ALEXANDER. Roxana, take thy lute. My soul is heavy. Sing me asleep with music, let me rest.

SONG

’Twas in the merry month of May, When the sweet birds do sing, That Proserpine--ah! lack-a-day!-- Did go a-gathering. She stoop’d and cull’d the violet, The pansy and the oxlip wet.

But gloomy Dis the maid espied, And yoked his horses six, And in his wagon drove a bride Across the doleful Styx. ’Twas in the merry month of May She gathered flowers. Ah! lack-a-day!

ALEXANDER. I thank you, ’tis a tuneful melody. I am aweary. Sleep, impiteous sleep, Unmitigable, uncorruptible gaoler, Come, cloak my senses with thy leaden robe, Lead me to durance in thy drowsy cell.

_Enter_ DOCTOR

DOCTOR. How doth my Lord?

ROXANA. Ill, ill beyond the power Of simples, drugs, and the physician’s art. In slumb’ry perturbation he’ll converse With images of his distemper’d fancy; Or he will bid me touch the instrument And soothe his fever’d spirit with a strain.

DOCTOR. Are you not weary? It is now three nights That you have watch’d.

ROXANA. The canker of sharp grief, The sleepless sorrow gnawing at my heart Doth countervail outwearied nature’s claim. I shall not sleep till Alexander wakes To health, or till he sleeps to wake no more. But, softly. See, he stirs.

DOCTOR. Good night, sweet lady.

ROXANA. Good night to you.

[_Exit_ DOCTOR. ROXANA _sleeps._

ALEXANDER. The galleys ride at anchor! To-morrow we’ll set sail for Italy, Nor rest until we’ve pitch’d our tent in Rome, And snatch’d the insolent jewel of the West. But yesterday the Afric oracle Bespake to me an unconfined sway, An orb and empery unparallel’d. And thence, when the barbarians of the West Are mild as leashed hounds beneath our yoke, And when each sev’ral province hath subscrib’d, To India we’ll retrace our eager steps And reach the undiscover’d sea beyond. By the lush banks of Ganges, Alexander Shall build a temple to his royal sire, Great Jupiter. Thence we’ll to Babylon, And plant there our abiding seat of rule In the fix’d centre of the universe. North, south, and east and west shall our dominion, Like the spread rays of gold Hyperion, Pierce to the distant corners of the globe. Oh look, Seleucus, look, Hephæstion, Look, the Swarth King in jewell’d burgonet, All clinquant, mounted on an elephant, Advances with his congregated host. On veterans! On, on, Bucephalus! The ford! The ford! The villains fly! Come, Ho! Clitus, awake, Roxana, O.

ROXANA. My Lord?

ALEXANDER. Didst thou cry out?

ROXANA. My Lord, I was asleep, And knew not that I cried.

ALEXANDER. Give me to drink. Methought I was once more in India, Crying my veterans to victory Across the enchafed surges of Hydaspes, My spirit fails. Come near to me, Roxana, That I may breathe my last in fond adieu.

ROXANA. Drink, my Lord, of this potion. It is mix’d Of herb-grace by a sure apothecary.

ALEXANDER. Farewell, Roxana. Hie thee to my mother, Olympias, and tell her that I die Her name upon my lips, a dutiful son. Salute her with deep duty, say I needed Her tenderness; say that I am the shadow, The mockery and ruins of her boy Who manag’d and bestrid Bucephalus. Remain with her, and let our only child Be nurs’d and school’d in martial exercise, And taught, as I was taught, philosophy. Farewell, adieu! The last of all the Greeks Hath gone to meet Achilles.

ROXANA. O my Lord!

_Enter_ MESSENGER

MESSENGER. Most gracious liege, the veterans are here, They press without.

ALEXANDER. They shall be welcome. Ho! Come quickly, veterans, or I am dead.

ROXANA. My Lord! My husband!

_Enter_ VETERANS

ALEXANDER. Friends, farewell to you, Friends all and brothers all and countrymen, Born of one soil in Macedonia, Tell Macedon of how we fought together Beyond Hydaspes. Grieve not overmuch, That with the world half-conquer’d I must die, Not fighting, but in bed, and like a woman. I, to whom earth’s huge globe was all too small, Must occupy a niggard urn of dust. I am for India. Come, Bucephalus, One charge and we are masters of the world!

[_Dies._

ROXANA. Great Alexander’s dead. That soaring spirit Which fretted in the confines of the world, Hath broken from its circumscribing clay. Hyperion himself was not so bright, Nor Mars so bold. Our Orient sun hath set. Ashy eclipse shall darken the stale world: Asia and Egypt to the furthest Ind, And Greece, and Macedon, where he was born, Shall mingle tears of everlasting woe. Come bear his body hence, and build a pyre More lofty than the walls of Babylon; And when the funeral’s done, we’ll bear his urn, Obsequiously in sad procession, Across the Libyan desert, to the grove Where stands the Temple of his father Jove.

CURTAIN.

V

THE GREEK VASE

SCENE.--_A garret on the top floor of a squalid house in the Trastevere, Rome. Discovered:_ GIOVANNI, _a young sculptor, lying in bed, pale and emaciated; he coughs incessantly. The room is quite bare. There are only two chairs and one cupboard. It is very cold. There is no fire. By the bedside sits a prosperous dealer. He wears a frock-coat and a gold pince-nez._

GIOVANNI (_wearily_). But I tell you it’s not for sale.

THE DEALER. You might let me look at it.

GIOVANNI. What is the use? I tell you I won’t sell it.

THE DEALER. There can be no harm in your showing it to me.

GIOVANNI (_coughing_). Not to-day. Can’t you see that I’m very ill and that talking tires me?

THE DEALER. Very well. I will call again to-morrow.

GIOVANNI. You won’t find me at home.

THE DEALER. Are you going away?

GIOVANNI. Yes, on a long journey.

THE DEALER. Abroad?

GIOVANNI. Abroad.

THE DEALER. To what country?

GIOVANNI. They have prescribed me change of air. They say it is the only thing which can cure me.

THE DEALER. You are going to the seaside?

GIOVANNI. On the contrary, I am going to be near a river.

THE DEALER. The Arno? Pisa, I suppose?

GIOVANNI. No.

THE DEALER. Not Paris; that would be bad for you.

GIOVANNI. Why do you think Paris would be bad for me?

THE DEALER. In the first place it’s very cold there now, and then I don’t think a large town is what you need.

GIOVANNI. You are anxious that I should not go to Paris.

THE DEALER. I? Not at all. Why? I merely meant that I thought you needed country air.

GIOVANNI. Yes, a villa on the Riviera for the winter, and another for the summer at Amalfi with a garden of roses; or a chalet in the Tyrol; or perhaps an island in the Tropics with palm trees and a yacht to sail about in--all that would do me good, wouldn’t it? One doesn’t have to pay for little luxuries like that, does one? They drop from heaven into the pockets of starving artists.

THE DEALER. Now, if you would only be reasonable and show me that vase. I am sure we could make enough money for you to take a trip to Albano. The air there is beautiful.

GIOVANNI. Very well, you may see it. It’s in the cupboard.

[_The_ DEALER _goes to the cupboard and takes out large black circular Greek vase with figures painted on it. He observes it carefully._

THE DEALER. This is not, of course, up to your best form. I won’t say that it is valueless. There is, however, very little market now for this kind of thing, and if I bought it I should probably have it on my hands for years.

GIOVANNI. You needn’t trouble about that. The vase is not for sale.

THE DEALER. But in the peculiar circumstances, and since we have done business together for so many years, I am willing to make an exception in this case. How much do you want for it?

GIOVANNI (_savagely_). I tell you it’s not for sale.

THE DEALER. Now, be reasonable. I will give forty lire for it.

GIOVANNI. You amuse me immensely.

THE DEALER. The vase is of no particular use to me, and the fashion changes so quickly. Collectors now are mad about Egypt and Japan. Greece is finished. It’s old, finished. Why, collectors now prefer even Roman things to Greek. Giordani says----

GIOVANNI. You are wasting your breath.

THE DEALER. I will give you forty-five lire. Mind you, that’s an enormous price, because, I repeat, the vase is not up to your usual standard.

GIOVANNI. Please put the vase down on this chair, there, next me. (_The_ DEALER _puts the vase down on the chair next to_ GIOVANNI.) Thank you. Now I wish you would go away. I am tired. You tire me. (_He coughs._)

THE DEALER. Now, instead of a vase, if it had only been a Japanese idol or a Renaissance figure, it would be a very different matter.

GIOVANNI. When you bought my Simonetta you said there was no demand for Renaissance work.

THE DEALER. That was three years ago. It was perfectly true then. The fashion changes so quickly.

GIOVANNI. I won’t sell the vase.

THE DEALER. Then, how do you propose to live?

GIOVANNI. Perhaps I have found a patron?

THE DEALER. Ah! Who is he?

GIOVANNI. You would like to know, wouldn’t you?

THE DEALER. I wouldn’t believe it of you. I know you are far too honest to violate all the canons of business etiquette and to play off one patron against another. You have always dealt with me, and I have always treated you handsomely--most handsomely--you must admit that.

GIOVANNI. How much did you give me for my large terra-cotta bust of Pallas?

THE DEALER. I was mad when I bought that bust. I sold it for a quarter of what I gave you. I had the greatest difficulty in getting rid of it.

GIOVANNI. How much exactly did you give me for it?

THE DEALER. Of course, I could never give you so much as that again.

GIOVANNI (_impatiently_). How much was it?

THE DEALER. I believe it was eighty-five lire. I must have been mad. But times were better then. There is no market for that kind of thing now, none whatever.

GIOVANNI. So much the better for you, then, as you won’t lose money over my vase.

THE DEALER. For old acquaintance’ sake, I offer you fifty lire; there, you see?

GIOVANNI. You make very good jokes.

THE DEALER. Do you mean to say you think that’s too little?

GIOVANNI. I said you make very good jokes. You’re a witty fellow.

THE DEALER. You artists are so improvident. You never know how many soldi there are in a lira.

GIOVANNI. You see we don’t have very much experience in counting lire. (_He coughs._)

THE DEALER. Ah! if you only counted the soldi the lire would take care of themselves.

GIOVANNI. We don’t always have the chance of counting soldi.

THE DEALER. To think of the position you might be in now if you had only observed the elementary rules of thrift.

GIOVANNI. And to think of the position you are in by my not having done so!

THE DEALER. Yes; here am I obliged, positively forced, to offer you for a trumpery vase at least three times its value, and I give you my word of honour that in offering you fifty-five lire for the vase--for I am going to go as far as that--I shall be out of pocket--out of pocket. Do you understand?

GIOVANNI. I quite understand, only if I were you I shouldn’t bring in the word “honour.”

THE DEALER. I don’t understand.

GIOVANNI. You wouldn’t.

THE DEALER. Well, fifty-five lire; it’s a bargain!

GIOVANNI. Suppose we talk about something else.

THE DEALER. You are all the same, you artists.... You never will listen to reason. You never will understand that business is business and not----

GIOVANNI. Charity.

THE DEALER. In this case it is charity, pure charity. I would not dream of buying the vase from any one else.

GIOVANNI. I don’t expect you would.

THE DEALER. Why, Leonardi sold me only yesterday a little ivory Perseus for thirty lire.

GIOVANNI. I made that Perseus, and you know it; otherwise you wouldn’t have bought it.

THE DEALER. Well, I’m a busy man, and I can’t waste my time arguing with you. I’ll give you sixty lire. That’s my last word.

GIOVANNI. It’s a great pity you didn’t go on the stage.

THE DEALER. You think I’m trying to cheat you. Surely----

GIOVANNI. No, I don’t _think_ anything of the kind.

THE DEALER. Now, come, let me take the vase. You’ve got no use for it here. Think what a nice little trip to Albano will do for you.

GIOVANNI (_coughing_). You can’t imagine how you tire me.

THE DEALER. I never knew such an obstinate fellow as you are. I’ll make it seventy, but this is positively my last word. You can take it or leave it.

GIOVANNI. Oh! Leave it for Heaven’s sake. Leave the vase, and leave me. (_He coughs._)

THE DEALER. You’re surely not going to sell it to some one else; you wouldn’t be so mean!

GIOVANNI. Who knows?

THE DEALER. That kind of bluff, my friend, won’t do with me. I am too old a bird to be caught by a trick. Come now, I offer you seventy lire--seventy whole lire. Do you understand?

GIOVANNI. It’s impossible. The vase is disposed of.

THE DEALER. Sold! Impossible! You couldn’t do such a thing. You couldn’t play me such a shabby trick. Who has bought it?

GIOVANNI. Nobody has bought it.

THE DEALER. You are trifling. It isn’t fair. You are wasting my time. You know I’m a busy man.

GIOVANNI. And you are wasting my time, and I am a dying man. They say I can’t live twenty-four hours.

THE DEALER. What nonsense! There, you see how foolish you are! Now I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you two hundred lire for the vase. It’s unheard of, but in view----