Part 11

_Th._ Kiss me, my son. By the gods’ life, I love thee: My grief is to deny thee. But there’s need 760 Of counsel, for the day is critical And glides apace. And first if they should find thee, Then ’tis thy fate to go: I cannot stay thee. And since to bear thee hence were sure betrayal, I urge thee to be true to thy disguise. And better to escape thy foes, learn now Whom most to dread. Of all the Argives shun Ulysses; come not near him in the halls; And should he speak to thee, answer no word. Him thou wilt know by his preëminence: 770 In person he is beardless yet, and smooth Of face and tongue, alluring, gentle in voice But sturdy of body, and ’neath his helm his locks O’er a wide brow and restless eye curl forth In ruddy brown; nor less for his attire Notable is he, wearing the best of all, His linen broidered, and broad jewels to hold A robe of gray and purple.

_Ach._ He shall not spy me. But if by any warning from the gods He know and call to me, how then to escape 780 The shame of this Ionian skirt?

_Th._ That chance I can provide for, and shall give thee now A magic garment fitting to thy body, Which worn beneath thy robe will seem as weft Of linen thread, but if it meet the light ’Twill be a gilded armour, and serve well In proof as show. Come, I will set it on thee.

[_Exeunt._

_Enter Deidamia and Chorus._

_Deid._ The ground is clear, we have deceived them mightily, Running around.

_Ch._ Where is our queen?

(_2_) Not here.

_Deid._ I’ll call her. Pyrrha!—Call all together.

_Ch._ Pyrrha!

_Deid._ She will come presently.—Did ye not mark How resonant this glade is? that our voices 792 Neither return nor fly, but stay about us? It is the trunks of the trees that cage the sound; As in an open temple, where the pillars Enrich the music. In my father’s hall The echo of each note burdens the next. ’Twould be well done to cut a theatre Deep in some wooded dale. Till Pyrrha come, Alexia, sing thou here.

_Ch._ What shall I sing? 800

_Deid._ There is a Lydian chant I call to mind In honour of music-makers: it beginneth With praise of the soft spring, and heavenly love— ’Twill suit our mood, if thou remember it.

_Chorus._

The earth loveth the spring, Nor of her coming despaireth, Withheld by nightly sting, Snow, and icy fling, The snarl of the North: But nevertheless she prepareth 810 And setteth in order her nurselings to bring them forth, The jewels of her delight, What shall be blue, what yellow or white; What softest above the rest, The primrose, that loveth best Woodland skirts and the copses shorn.

2.

And on the day of relenting she suddenly weareth Her budding crowns. O then, in the early morn, Is any song that compareth With the gaiety of birds, that thrill the gladdened air In inexhaustible chorus 821 To awake the sons of the soil With music more than in brilliant halls sonorous (—It cannot compare—) Is fed to the ears of kings From the reeds and hirèd strings? For love maketh them glad; And if a soul be sad, Or a heart oracle dumb, Here may it taste the promise of joy to come. 830

3.

For the Earth knoweth the love which made her, The omnipotent one desire, Which burns at her heart like fire, And hath in gladness arrayed her. And man with the Maker shareth, Him also to rival throughout the lands, To make a work with his hands And have his children adore it: The Creator smileth on him who is wise and dareth In understanding with pride: 840 For God, where’er he hath builded, dwelleth wide,— And he careth,— To set a task to the smallest atom, The law-abiding grains, That hearken each and rejoice: For he guideth the world as a horse with reins; It obeyeth his voice, And lo! he hath set a beautiful end before it:

4.

Whereto it leapeth and striveth continually, And pitieth nought, nor spareth: 850 The mother’s wail for her children slain, The stain of disease, The darts of pain, The waste of the fruits of trees, The slaughter of cattle, Unbrotherly lust, the war Of hunger, blood, and the yells of battle, It heedeth no more Than a carver regardeth the wood that he cutteth away: The grainèd shavings fall at his feet, 860 But that which his tool hath spared shall stand For men to praise the work of his hand; For he cutteth so far, and there it lay, And his work is complete.

5.

But I will praise ’mong men the masters of mind In music and song, Who follow the love of God to bless their kind: And I pray they find A marriage of mirth— And a life long 870 With the gaiety of the Earth.

_Ch._ There stands an old man down beneath the bank, Gazing, and beckoning to us.

_Deid._ He is a stranger, That burdened with some package to the palace Hath missed his way about, and fears to intrude. Go some and show him. [_Some run out._ Meanwhile what do we? We have no sport when Pyrrha is away. Our game is broken. Come, a thought, a thought! Hath none a thought?

_Ch._ We have never built the bower.

_Deid._ Ye idled gathering flowers. Now ’tis too late.

_Ch._ Let us play ball.

_Deid._ The sun is still so high. 881 I shall go feed my doves.

(_Re-enter one of Chorus._)

_Ch._ The old man saith That he is a pedlar, and hath wares to sell If he may show them. Shall he come?

_Deid._ Now Hermes, The father of device and jugglery, Be thanked for this; ’tis he hath sent him.—Call him. His tales may be good hearing, tho’ his pack Repay not search. But be advised: beware, Lest he bear off more than he bring: these fellows Have fingers to unclasp a brooch or pin 890 While the eye winks that watches. There was one Who as he ran a race would steal the shoes Of any that ran with him. The prince of all Was merry Autolycus.

_Enter, with those who had gone out, Ulysses as a pedlar._

Good day, old man. Come, let us see thy wares.

_Ul._ I have no breath left, Wherewith to thank you, ladies; the little hill Has ta’en it from me.

_Deid._ Rest awhile, and tell us Whence thou art come.

_Ul._ In a Greek ship this morn. I pray you, that I lack not courtesy, Art thou the princess of this isle?

_Deid._ I am. 900

_Ul._ My true and humble service to your highness.

_Deid._ In turn say who art thou, and whence thy ship.

_Ul._ Fair, honoured daughter of a famous king, I have no story worthy of thine ear, Being but a poor artificer of Smyrna, Where many years I wrought, and ye shall see Not without skill, in silver and in gold. But happiness hath wrecked me, and I say ’Tis ill to marry young; for from that joy I gat a son, who as the time went on, 910 Grew to be old and gray and wise as I; And bettering much the art which I had taught him Longed to be master in my place, for which He grew unkind, and his sons hated me: And when one day he wished me dead, I feared Lest I should kill myself; and so that night I made me up a pack of little things He should not grieve for, and took ship for Greece. There have I trafficked, lady, a year and more, And kept myself alive hawking small ware 920 From place to place, and on occasion found A market for my jewels, and be come here Making the round of the isles in any ship That chances: and this last I came aboard At Andros, where I was: but whence she hailed I have even forgot. May it please thee see my wares?

_Deid._ Thy tale is very sad. I am sorry for thee. Why would thy son, being as thou sayst so skilled, Not ply his trade apart?

_Ul._ My house in Smyrna Was head of all the goldsmiths: ’twas for that, 930 Lady, he envied me. See now my wares.

_Deid._ What beauteous work! I’m glad thou’rt come. I’ll buy A trinket for myself, and let my maids Choose each what she may fancy. Hear ye, girls? I’ll make a gift to each.

_Ch._ O thanks.—To all?— And may we choose?

_Deid._ Yes.

_Ch._ Anything we please?

_Deid._ Why, that is choosing.

_Ch._ O we thank thee.

_Ul._ Now I see, princess, thou’rt of a bounteous blood, To make all round thee happy.

_Deid._ What is this brooch?

_Ul._ If for thyself thou fancy a brooch, I’ll show thee The best jewel in my box, and not be shamed 941 To say I have no better.

_Ch._ See, oh, see! What lovely things!—A rare old man!

_Ul._ Here ’tis. What thinkest thou?

_Deid._ Is’t not a ruby?

_Ul._ And fine!

_Deid._ I think thy son will have missed this.

_Ul._ Nay, lady: I had it of a sailor, who, poor fool, Knew not its worth; and thou mayst buy it of me For half its value.

_Deid._ May I take these two To view them nearly?

_Ul._ All take as ye will. Ye do me honour, ladies.

_Deid._ Hear ye, girls, 950 Make each her choice. I will o’erlook your taste When all is done.

_Ul._ Come, buy my wares: come buy. Come, come buy; I’ve wares for all, Were ye each and all princesses. Clasps and brooches, large and small, Handy for holding your flowing dresses.

_Ch._ What is this little box for?

_Ul._ Open it.

_Ch._ What is this vial?

_Ul._ Smell it. Buy, come buy! Charms for lovers, charms to break, Charms to bind them to you wholly. 960 Medicines fit for every ache, Fever and fanciful melancholy.

_Ch._ O smell this scent.—Here be fine pins.—See this!

_Ul._ (_aside_). I spy none here to match my notion yet.

_Ch._ I have found amber beads.—What is it is tied In little packets?

_Ul._ Toilet secrets those, Perfumes, and rare cosmetics ’gainst decay.

_Deid._ (_to one apart_). Alexia, see. I will buy this for Pyrrha. ’Tis pity she is not here. What thinkest thou of it? He said it was his best. This other one 970 I’ll give to thee if thou find nothing better. Go see. I will seek Pyrrha. [_Exit._

_Ul._ Buy, come buy! Tassels, fringes, silken strings, Girdles, ties, and Asian pockets, Armlets, necklaces and rings, Images, amulets, lovers’ lockets.

_Ch._ Pray, what are these, good man?

_Ul._ Of soft doe-skin These gilded thongs are made for dancers’ wear, To tie their sandals.

_Ch._ And is this a pin, This golden grasshopper?

_Ul._ Ay, for the hair. 980 The Athenian ladies use nought else. See here This little cup.

_Ch._ Didst thou make that?

_Ul._ Nay, ladies.

_Ch._ Show us some work of thine which thou didst make Thy very self.

_Ul._ See then this silver snake. Fear not. Come near and mark him well: my trade is, Or was, I should say, in such nice devices. ’Twill coil and curl, uncoil, dart and recoil. [_Showing._

_The Chorus crowd about him, when enter unperceived by him Achilles and Deidamia._

_Deid._ Come, come, there never hath been one like him here. Hark! see the girls: they crowd and chatter round As greedily as birds being fed. I bade them choose Each one a present, but I took the best, 991 This ruby brooch. Look at it: ’tis for thee. Let me now put it on thee. I’ll unclasp Thy robe and set it in the place of the other.

_Ach._ Nay, Deidamia, unfasten not my robe!

_Deid._ Why, ’twould not matter if he looked this way.

_Ach._ Nay, prithee.—

_Deid._ Well, thou must take my gift.

_Ach._ Then must I give thee somewhat in return.

_Deid._ But ’tis my will to-day to give to all.

_Ach._ Then let me take my choice, some smaller thing. 1000

_Deid._ Come then ere all is ransacked.

_Ach._ (_aside_). I scarce escaped The uncovering of my magic coat.—[_They go to Ulysses._

_Ul._ Come buy, Needles for your broideries rare, Dainty bodkins silver-hafted. Pins to fix your plaited hair, Ivory-headed and golden-shafted.

_Ach._ What hast thou in thy pack for me, old man?

_Ul._ There’s nought but trifles left me, lady, now, As dice and dolls; the very dregs of the box.

_Deid._ Athenian owls. And who’s this red-baked lady Clothed in a net?

_Ul._ Princess, ’tis Britomartis, 1011 The Cretan goddess worshipped at Ægina.

_Deid._ This little serpent too?

_Ul._ Nothing to thee: But the Erechtheidæ use to fasten such About their children’s necks. Nay, not a babe Is born but they must don him one of these, Or ever he be swaddled or have suck.

_Deid._ This blinking pygmy here, with a man’s body And a dog’s head, squatting upon a button... What’s he?

_Ul._ ’Tis an Egyptian charm, to ban 1020 The evil spirits bred of Nilus’ slime.

_Deid._ And this?

_Ul._ That. See, ’tis a Medusa, lady, Cut in an oyster-shell, with flaming snakes.

_Deid._ These are all nothings. Thou must have the brooch. See, now ’tis thine; thou hast it. (_Pins it upon Achilles’ robe._) (_To Ul._) What is its price? (_To Ach._) Nay, be content.

_Ul._ To thee I’ll sell it, lady, For a tenfold weight of gold.

_Ach._ Oh! ’tis too much. Spend not such store on me. And for the ruby, ’Tis dark and small.

_Ul._ The purple is its merit: Were it three times the size and half the tint, 1030 ’Twere of slight cost.

_Ach._ So might I like it better. And that—what’s that, which thou dost put aside? Is that a toy?

_Ul._ Nay, lady; that is no toy. ’Tis a sharp sword. But I will show it thee For its strange quality: the which methinks Might pass for magic, were’t not that an Arian, Late come to Sardis, knows the art to make it. Tho’ wrought of iron, look ye, ’tis blue as flint, And if I bend it, it springs back like a bow: ’Tis sharper too than flint; but the edge is straight, And will not chip. Nay, touch it not; have care!

_Ach._ Pray, let me see it, and take it in my hand.

[_Takes it and comes to front._

_Ul._ (_aside_). This should be he.

_Ach._ (_aside_). My arm writhes at the touch.

_Ul._ There is a hunter, with his game, a lion, Inlaid upon it: and on the other side 1045 Two men that fight to death.

_Ach._ ’Tis light in the hand.

_Deid._ (_to Ach._). Canst thou imagine any use for this?

_Ach._ (_to Deid._). Not when thy father dies?

_Ul._ Ladies, have care. For if the sword should wound you, I were blamed.

_Ach._ Why, thinkest thou ’tis only bearded men Can wield a sword? The queen of the Amazons Could teach thee something maugre thy white hair.

_Ul._ (_aside_). The game hath run into the snare; He is mine.

_Ach._ See, Deidamia, here’s my choice; buy this If thou wilt give me something; thou dost like 1055 The ruby; if thou wilt let me give thee that, Thou in return buy me this little sword.

_Deid._ Such presents are ill-omened, and ’tis said Will shrewdly cut in twain the love they pledge.

_Ach._ But we may make a bond of this divider.

_Deid._ Wilt thou in earnest take it for thy choice?

_Ach._ If thou wert late in earnest, thou couldst do No better than arm all thy girls with these. The weapon wins the battle, and I think With such advantage women might be feared. (_To Ul._) Old man, I like thy blade; and I will have it. I see ’twould thrust well: tell me if ’tis mettle To give a stroke. Suppose I were thy foe, And standing o’er thee thus to cut thee down Should choose to cleave thy pate. Would this sword do it? 1070

_Ul._ (_aside_). He knows me!

[_Pulling off his beard and head-dress and leaping up._

Achilles!

_Deid. and Ch._ Help! help! treachery!

[_They fly._

_Diomede comes out of bushes where he stands unseen by Achilles._

_Ach._ Beardless—and smooth of face as tongue: In voice Gentle, but sturdy of body: ruddy locks, And restless eye .. Ulysses!

_Ul._ Thou hast it.

_Ach._ I knew that thou wert here, but looked to meet thee1075 Without disguises, as an honest man.

_Ul._ Thou needest a mirror, lady, for thyself.

_Ach._ (_suddenly casts off his long robe and appears in shining armour, still holding the sword_).

Behold!.... Be thou my mirror!

_Ul._ If I be not, ’Tis shame to thee, the cause of my disguise.

_Ach._ I own thee not. I knew thee for a prince, But seeing thee so vilely disfigured...

_Ul._ Stay! 1081 We both have used disguise: I call for judgment Upon the motive. Mine I donned for valour, And care for thy renown; thine was for fear.

_Ach._ Fear! By the gods: take up thy beard again, And thy mock dotage shield thee.

_Ul._ Nay, Achilles; If I spake wrong I will recall the word.

_Ach._ Thou didst unutterably lie. Recall it.

_Ul._ Wilt thou then sail to Aulis in my ship?

_Ach._ I can sail thither and not sail with thee.

_Ul._ But wilt thou come?

_Ach._ I answer not to thee Because thou questionest me: but since I know What will be, and hear thee in ignorance Slander fair names, I tell thee that Achilles Will come to Aulis.

_Ul._ Wherefore now so long 1095 Hast thou denied thyself to thy renown?

_Ach._ Thou saidst for fear; nor hast recalled the word.

_Ul._ ’Twas first thy taunt which drew my mind from me: But, if it wrong thee, I recall the word.

_Ach._ I think thou hast judged me by thyself, Ulysses. When thou wast summoned to the war,—who wert Not free to choose as I, but bound by oath To Menelaus to help him,—what didst thou? Why thou didst feign; and looking for disguise Thy wit persuaded thee that they who knew thee Would never deem that thou wouldst willingly Make mock of that: so thou didst put on madness, Babbling and scrabbling even before thy friends: And hadst been slavering on thy native rocks Unto this day, had not one fellow there 1110 Lightly unravelled thee, and in the furrow, Which thou with dumb delusion, morn and eve, Didst plough in the sea sand (that was thy trick), He placed thy new-born babe. That thou brok’st down Then in thine acting, that thou drav’st not on The share thro’ thine own flesh, is the best praise I have to give thee.

_Ul._ Distinguish! if I feigned, ’Twas that I had a child and wife, whose ties Of tenderness I am not ashamed to own.

_Ach._ I say thou wentest not unto this war 1120 But by compulsion, thou, that chargest me With fear. ’Tis thou that art the stay-at-home, Not I; my heart was ever for the war, And ’gainst my will I have been withheld: that thou Mistakest in this my duty for my leaning, Is more impeachment of thy boasted wits, Than was thy empty husbandry. Are not The Argive chiefs more subject, one and all, To this reproach of fear? Why need they me A boy of sixteen years to lead them on? 1130 Did they lack ships or men, what are my people In number? who am I in strength? what rank Have I in Hellas? Where’s the burly Ajax? Where is the son of Herakles? and Nestor The aged? Teucer and Idomeneus? Menestheus, Menelaus? and not least Where’s Diomede?

_Dio._ (_coming forward_). By chance he’s here.

_Ach._ Ah! now I hear a soldier’s voice. Brave Diomede, I give thee welcome, tho’ thou comest behind.

_Dio._ Hail, son of Thetis, champion of the Greeks!

_Ach._ Anon, anon. What dost thou here? Wert thou 1141 Sat in an ambush or arrived by chance, As thou didst say?

_Dio._ By heaven I cannot tell. I serve Ulysses, and he serves the gods: If thou’rt displeased with them, gibe not at me.

_Ach._ I see the plan—The pedlar here in front, The lion behind. And so ye thought to seize me.

_Ul._ Have we not done it?

_Ach._ Nay.

_Ul._ Thou canst not scape.

_Ach._ I give that back to thee.

_Ul._ What wilt thou now?

_Ach._ Diomede and I have swords: thou mayst stand by 1150 Until ’tis time thou show me how to escape. I’ll drive you to your ship.

_Ul._ (_aside to Dio._). Answer him not. He cannot leave the isle: When the king learns of our discovery He must deliver him up. Let’s to the palace.

_Dio._ (_to Ul._). Nay, I must speak—

_Ul._ Thou wilt but anger him. He will yield better if we cross him not.

_Dio._ (_to Ach._). Brave son of Thetis, I’d not yield to thee In any trial of strength, tho’ thou be clad In heavenly armour; but I came not here 1160 To fight, and least with thee: put up thy sword. And since I heard thee say thou wilt to Aulis, Our mission is accomplished, nought remains But to renounce our acting, and atone For what we have ventured. First I speak thee free To follow thine own way. Unless the king Or other here be in thy secrecy, None know but we, nor shall know: be it thy will, My lips are sealed, and in whatever else Thou wilt command me, I shall be glad to obey.

_Ach._ Thank thee, good Diomede. What saith Ulysses? 1171

_Ul._ I’ll do whate’er will knit thee to our cause. (_Aside._) Yet shall men hear I found thee.

_Ach._ Return then to your ship; and when Ulysses Is there restored proceed ye to the court. But what in the surprise and consequence Of my discovery to the king, as well As to some others may arise, I know not; Nor can instruct your good behaviours further. Time grants me but short counsel for myself. 1180