Part 5

_Petr._ It hath no name. It scarce exists. I think the goddess never walked the earth.

_Par._ Ranks she with poetry?

_Petr._ I avouch above.

_Par._ Cæsar, if this be proved, thou must rescind Thy poet’s sentence.

_Ner._ Let him prove it first.

_Petr._ I see in other arts some wit or fancy Extrinsical to nature. I can find No ground of need in any, save maybe 1590 In architecture,—which ranks not so well As to be mentioned by you.—Now, if I Show you an art whose matter every day Is life’s necessity, which gives more scope To skill than any other, which delights Among the senses one which the other arts Wholly neglect, would you not say this art Hath the first claim? See, I could live without The joys of harmony, colour, or form, But without this it were impossible 1600 To outlast the week.

_Par._ Oh! Cookery.

_Several._ Cookery, cookery!

_Petr._ There’s the mistake I gird at. None of you But thinks this art I speak of, which includes Pleasures of entertainment, ease and elegance, The mind’s best recreation, the satisfaction Of the body’s nearest needs, the preservation Of health, and with all this, the gratifying Of that one sense, which above all the senses Is subtle, difficult, discerning, ticklish, And most importunate,—that this great art 1610 Is a cook’s province.

_Ner._ True, Petronius, true; There’s room for bettering these things.

_Petr._ Why, wine— Just think of wine. A hundred vintages Lie in my cellar; by my taste I tell Each one; are eye or ear so delicate?

_Par._ Here’s half a case already.

_Petr._ Then again, Look on this side. You bid your friends to supper: That is a promise; and hath all your life An hour more suitable for skilful kindness? 1619 They come perturbed, fatigued, hungry and thirsty; Nature exhausts them for you, drains them empty To take all kinds of pleasure; their grated nerves Ask music, their wearied limbs soft cushioned couches, Their harassed mind wise cheerful conversation, Their body’s appetites fawn at the word Of food and wine: and yet we see these things, Which should be studied, ordered, suited, measured, All jumbled in confusion, till a feast, Instead of relaxation and renewal, Becomes, I say, for body and for mind 1630 The worst discomfort and the stiffest trial That life can show.

_Par._ Bravo! bravo!

_Ner._ For one, I am converted. Thou shalt be henceforth Arbiter of my table.

_Br._ (_to servt._) ’Tis boiling hot; Taste it.

_Ner._ (_to Petron._) Accept you the office?

_Petr._ This would make me A Cæsar above Cæsar.

_Ner._ In the province Of imperial æsthetics.

_Servt. to Brit._ Pardon, your highness, I will add water to it: ’tis yet unmixed.

[_They pour in the poison._

_Petr._ ’Twill be a tyranny. For look, I hold Man’s stomach is not to be trifled with. 1640 Not only should your table give delight Even to the ravishment of every palate, But since the end and final cause of food Is not to breed diseases in the flesh, Nor heat the spirits more than they can bear, But rather to build up and comfort health, I’d order first that there be served at table Nothing but what is wholesome.

_Br._ (_after drinking nubile Petr. speaks_). Ah!

[_Falls back._

_Oct._ The wine, the wine!

_Br._ Ah! [_Dies._

_Oct._ He is dead. O dead! O dead! 1650

_Lucan, Petronius and Paris go to Britannicus. Domitia follows.—All rising._

_Agr._ What is this?

_Ner._ He hath a fit.

_Petr._ He doth not breathe.

_Oct._ (_has come round to front_). Alas, alas! my brother; he is dead.

_Ner._ Nay, sit you down; look not aghast, I say. He hath the falling sickness, and will oft Faint on a sudden, as ye see. He lies An hour as dead, and then awakes again With nought amiss. Best take him out in quiet. (_To servants._) Carry him from the room.

_Luc._ Lift you his feet, Petronius. We two will take him.

_Ner._ Let him be, I say. 1660 His servants will attend him. Return to table: We cannot spare you.

_Par._ (_to Oct._) Honoured lady, be hopeful: For hath your noble brother e’er been taken Like this, he may recover.

_Oct._ (_to Par._) Never— Never! O never! he is dead! I knew it! [_Going._

_Ner._ (_to Oct._) Heh, sit you down. What could you do, I pray? He will come round.

_Oct._ Oh! I will follow him.

[_Exit with servants who are carrying Brit._

_Petr._ (_to Par._) How happened it?

_Par._ (_to Petr._) He drank a draught of wine Fresh mixed, and then fell back just as you saw. What think you?

_Petr._ (_to Par._) Think you ’twas aught? 1670

_Par._ (_to Luc._) What think you?

_Luc._ Impossible.

_Dom._ (_aside_). He is poisoned. Yet my sister Was nothing privy to it. She is pale.

_Ner._ Come, sit you down, aunt: come, Petronius, Lucan, be seated. Let not the horrid sight Unwhet your appetites.

_Petr._ (_to Luc._) That was no fit. [_To Par._ He is dead. What if ’twere poison? Where’s the drink?

_Par._ ’Twas hurried out.

_Luc._ O God!

_Ner._ (_to servts._) Serve out the wine. We all must need a bumper; ’tis most natural. I have known the mere revulsion to provoke In a strong man a seizure similar 1680 To that which frighted him.

_Par._ (_aside_). ’Twould not amaze me, Had he such drink to cheer him. [_All refuse drink._

_Pop._ (_to Nero_). I will not drink.

_Ner._ From my cup.

_Pop._ Well, from thine. [_Drinks._

_Luc._ (_aside_). He is self-betrayed.

_Ner._ Where were we?

_Petr._ At the point where Cæsar made me Arbiter of his table. I shall ask To inaugurate my office.

_Ner._ Do so, Petronius.

_Petr._ Then know you are all dismissed. Let all go home, And for the prince’s safety offer up [_All rise._ What vows ye may unto the gods. Myself, I set the example, and go first. Come, Lucan. [_Going._

_Ner._ Eh! eh! yet thus ’tis best. Good night, Petronius, 1691 Thou hast spoken well; may the gods hear thy prayers. I wish you all good night.

_In disorder of going curtain falls._

ACT · IV

SCENE · 1

_The same. A public place. THRASEA and PRISCUS meeting._

_PRISCUS._

I was coming to your house.

_THRASEA._

’Tis well we meet. How went it in the senate?

_Pr._ As you said. A message read from Nero.

_Thr._ Seneca?

_Pr._ No doubt.

_Thr._ And in what terms touched he the murder?

_Pr._ With double tongue, as being an ill which none, And Cæsar least, could have desired; and yet A good none should lament.

_Thr._ He is very prompt. 1700 What glozing for the hasty burial?

_Pr._ The speech was thus; that ’twas the better custom Of simple times to shun all vain parade: That private grief was mocked by frigid pomp, And public business and quiet thereby Idly disturbed;—_Then for myself_, it ran, _To have lost the aid and comfort of a brother Demands your sympathy. Of your goodwill I make no doubt; the more that my misfortune Throws me upon it, seeing that all my hopes 1710 Now anchor wholly on the commonwealth. Wherefore to you, my lords, and to the people, I look so much the more for maintenance And favour, since I now am left alone Of all my family, to bear the cares Your empire throws upon me._

_Thr._ This was well.

_Pr._ Then were there gifts decreed to all his friends.

_Thr._ Hush-money. Did none murmur?

_Pr._ There were none So much as frowned.

_Thr._ See, Lucan! let us speak with him.

_Enter Lucan._

If now he be not shaken, I mistake 1720 His temper.

_LUCAN._

Good day, Thrasea.

_Thr._ A dull morning.

_Luc._ Comest thou from the house?

_Thr._ Nay, more’s the pity. There was a distribution, as I hear, To friends of order. Say, how didst thou fare?

_Luc._ In many things, Thrasea, I hold not with thee, Nor will pretend that I can see in virtue A self-sufficiency invulnerable Against the crime of others. I believe The world is wronged, and burn to avenge the wrong. But, as an honest man, I take thy hand. 1730

_Thr._ I looked for this, Lucan, and take thy hand. Frivolity and crime are most unworthy Of thy companionship.

_Luc._ My uncle’s hope Tainted my judgment. I have been blind, and wronged thee.

_Thr._ Where I am misconceived I blame myself.

_Luc._ Hear me abjure.

_Thr._ Spare words. There’s no more fear Thou wilt be duped. Cæsar, in slaying his brother, Has doffed the mask.

_Luc._ The heart of Rome must swell To put the monster down.

_Thr._ We have our part: But in the sorry tragedy he makes 1740 We can be but spectators. On his stage There’s nought but folly. Come thou home with me: I’ll show thee how we may regard this play, Take note of all the actors, and watch the end.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE · 2

_The room in Domitia’s house, Enter DOMITIA and PARIS._

_DOMITIA._

’Twas a most shameful deed; we take upon us A just revenge.

_PARIS._

But ’tis the general thought That Nero killed his brother; that his mother Had no hand in it, rather would have saved him.

_Dom._ ’Twas her intrigues determined him, and they Who egg on others are the real movers. 1750 Now will he hate her more a thousand-fold For driving him to crime. She will not ’scape: Our plot will stand.

_Par._ Is it thy scheme to push Silana’s accusation?

_Dom._ Ay, ’tis that. We shall accuse the Augusta of intent To marry Plautus, to assert his claim, And thus assail the throne.

_Par._ How wilt thou broach it?

_Dom._ We have fixed to-night. Cæsar will dine at home, And with convenient company. ’Tis agreed When he’s well drunk, you enter, announce the plot As freshly hatched, and so unmask the affair 1761 That he shall be persuaded.

_Par._ How glibly, madam, Speech can glide o’er the hitch; I must feel flattered That just in the awkward place I am shovelled in To carry it through, who have no heart in the matter.

_Dom._ No heart! had you no ear then to my promise?

_Par._ ’Tis little for the risk. But what of Burrus?

_Dom._ Seeing that without his name the plot were weak, And that to avouch his treason would discredit it, We say he is suspected.

_Par._ ’Twill not stand. 1770 We lack confederates.

_Dom._ You forget Poppæa. I have sent for her to try her. If I mistake not, ’Tis she that knocks. Get you behind the door, And watch what passes. There! [_Paris hides._

_Enter Poppæa._

Now this is kind.

_POPPÆA._

I am bounden, lady, to wait on Cæsar’s aunt.

_Dom._ I count the days, Poppæa, when you yourself Will call me aunt: and in that happy hope I’ll stand thy friend.

_Pop._ I shall have full need, madam, Of all good offices.

_Dom._ Maybe: my sister Is an unscrupulous enemy. Beware! 1780 She stole from me a husband, and will now Keep you from winning one.

_Pop._ She doth not hide Her disapproval of my love to Cæsar, And thus appears my foe; but in truth, madam, Half of my heart sides with her, and the fear Lest the full passion which I bear your nephew May shame his rank, conquers my love so far That oft I doubt if I have a heart to bear The honour I have dreamed of, or a love Worthy of him, since it so much can fear. 1790

_Dom._ Tut, tut! if you’re the woman that I think You’re just what I would wish his wife to be. Wronged in his marriage, he since hath wronged himself: Octavia is a ninny, but his low And last intrigues have scandalized the court: Our family is hurt. You are his equal In wit and manners, and can hold your place; Nor in opposing you is it his good His mother weighs: rather it suits her schemes To have his wife a fool. ’Tis not unknown 1800 What lately she had dared to keep her place, But that Britannicus’ so sudden death Blasted her plots: now in her constant project Your marriage threatens her.

_Pop._ The more I see It blackens more. May I dare ask you, madam, To tell your sister that I willingly Retire, if she prevail upon her son Quite to forget his love and put me by?

_Dom._ Which side to take? that must you first determine; ’Tis Cæsar or his mother. I supposed 1810 ’Twas him you loved, not her. Now should I tell you That she is deeply pledged to take his life, And seize the empire...

_Pop._ Oh! what wicked crimes! Impossible!

_Dom._ But if I prove it to you?

_Pop._ I could not hear it.

_Dom._ Nay, but if ’tis true, Side you with us who hinder it, or her Who pushes it?

_Pop._ O madam, ’tis incredible.

_Dom._ Ay, and to-night, as Nero sits at supper, When Paris brings the news he’ll not believe it. But then a word from you might turn the scale, 1820 And rouse his better judgment.

_Pop._ The very thought That her destruction were my safety, madam, Would hold my tongue. Indeed you have wronged me much, Telling me this.

_Dom._ Why, such things you will hear.

_Pop._ Nay, let me go.

_Dom._ Ay, go, but think upon it.

_Pop._ Farewell. [_Exit._

_Dom._ (_sola_). Was I mistaken?

_Par._ (_re-entering_). My mind is changed.

_Dom._ How now! what say you?

_Par._ Madam, the plot will stand.

_Dom._ Did you hear all?

_Par._ And saw.

_Dom._ All that compunction...

_Par._ Ay, be sure of it. Why she and I could carry anything. 1830 She’s a born actress: we must keep good friends With her.

_Dom._ Then this is well; go learn your part.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE · 3

_At the tomb of Britannicus, Enter OCTAVIA and ATTENDANTS._

_OCTAVIA._

Hang there, sweet roses, while your blooms are wet, Hang there and weep unblamed; ay, weep one hour, While yet your tender, fleshly hues remember His fair young prime; then wither, droop, and die, And with your changèd tissues paint my grief. Nay, let those old wreaths lie, the shrivelled petals Speak feelingly of sorrow; strew them down About the steps: we mock death being trim. 1840 Now here another. Ah! see, set it you: I cannot reach. Have you not thought these roses Weave a fit emblem—how they wait for noon That comes to kill their promise, and the crown Is but a mock one?

_ATTENDANT._

’Tis a good custom, lady, To honour thus the tombs of those we love.

_Oct._ Custom! Is this a custom? Then I think I wrong my sorrow in such common shows.

_Att._ Nay, it doth ease affliction to be busy; And grief, that cannot reckon with a mystery, 1850 Is comforted by trifles.

_Oct._ Why, thou’rt wrong; It brings no comfort.

_Att._ And ’tis kindly done To hide the fresh-cut stone. Death is hard featured In a new-built tomb.

_Oct._ O, hold thy peace! I see Thou canst not be my comforter. Alas, I blame thee not. But yet, whate’er be said, Think not our gracious deed finds its account In the honour done: the wreaths I bring were woven More for myself; the tears I shed, I shed The more abundantly that they are crimes 1860 In the sight of him that slew him.

_Att._ Speak not so, Lady; thou’rt o’er-distraught.

_Oct._ What would’st thou have me? Knowing my sorrow thou should’st rather wonder, And think it well that I speak sense at all.

_Att._ Let not such passion kill thy courage, lady; The greatest die. There stands the tomb of Julius, Whose mighty march was no less foully stayed At noon of power: there is Augustus’ tomb, Wherein so many lie...

_Oct._ Why, what are they To me? Is’t not my brother that is dead? 1870 Whose life was mine, as needful to my day As is the sun; as natural, old a want To very life as is the bathing air That my blood battens on. Take these away And give him back; it then were likelier I should not gasp, fret, pale, nor starve, nor pine. He is gone! O miserably, suddenly, For ever; alas! alas!—See, who comes hither?

_Att._ ’Tis Agrippina, lady; and she carries Wreaths such as ours. 1880

_Oct._ Let us begone in haste.

_Att._ Alas! she hath seen us, lady: ’tis too late.

_Oct._ I’ll but salute her. I pray you all keep back, Nor speak with her attendants.

_Enter Agrippina, Fulvia, and Attendants._

_AGRIPPINA._

My dearest daughter, I have longed for this embrace. Where else but here Beside this sacred tomb should we have met? I should have been much with thee in thy sorrow, But am forbidden the palace.

_Oct._ I must thank thee Doing this grace to my unhappy brother. The gods grant thee kind messages. Farewell.

_Agr._ Nay, go not thus. See how I hang these garlands.

_Oct._ Not there, nay, not on mine; not there! thy grief 1891 Must own a lower place; mix not its show With mine. He was my brother.

_Agr._ Thou art right. Set them here, Fulvia. If my heart is wronged, ’Tis done unwittingly; thou canst not know.

_Oct._ I leave thee.

_Agr._ Grant one word.

_Oct._ Would’st thou be kind ’Twill be but one.

_Agr._ ’Tis this then: I am kind. In sum ’twas this I came to say.

_Oct._ If hither Thou didst but come to seek me, know I had chosen The hour to be alone.

_Agr._ My dearest child, 1900 My injured child! See, I would have thee trust My friendship. ’Twas my constant, loving wish To right thy brother’s wrongs, and now my heart Is wholly turned on thee.

_Oct._ Think not of me. Am I not past all help? nor do I crave The help that leads to death.

_Agr._ O never dream That I had hand in that accursèd deed. The terror of it rather hath possessed My purpose with the justice of revenge. 1909

_Oct._ I cannot thank thee, and from thy messengers Have gathered all. There’s nought to say. Farewell.

_Agr._ Thou dost not know Poppæa marries Cæsar.

_Oct._ Ay.

_Agr._ Thou consentest?

_Oct._ Say, would my refusal Or my consent be counted?

_Agr._ It shall not be.

_Oct._ It matters not.

_Agr._ Thou lookest for divorce?

_Oct._ Can I remain his wife who killed my brother?

_Agr._ Thou art the last branch of the house of Claudius, And if thou wilt forget the hurt now done thee, May’st yet retrieve thy blood; but being too proud, Wilt more dishonour what thou seemest to honour. If now thou’rt brave, and wilt join hands with me...

_Oct._ O never, never! was it not that hand That.... O my brother, with thy trait’rous foe Make peace, and at thy tomb! Ask clemency Of him that murdered thee! O never.— Thou most dear shade, who wast too mild and kind, If death seal not thy spiritual sense To my loud sorrow, hear me! O thou my joy, By whom the bitterness of life, my lot Of horror, was quite sweetened,—cruelly, 1930 Most cruelly slain. Ay, I will all forget When he who wrought this thing can bring again Out of thy cold unmotionable ashes The well-compacted body and grace of life. Ay, if he make one smile of thine, although It last no time, I will forget: but else, I say, the thing he hath done, since so ’tis done That he cannot undo it, he must o’er-do Ere I forget.

_Agr._ I will be yet thy friend—

[_Exit Oct. with Attendants._

There comes no help from her. Maybe her grief Is yet too fresh. Come, Fulvia, let us go. 1941 She would not speak with me. Now on all hands Thou seest I am set aside, and count for nought. Yet not for this am I a whit discouraged; I shall rise yet. Am I not Agrippina? [_Exeunt._

SCENE · 4

_A room in the Palace. Enter through a door from the supper-room NERO and POPPÆA._

_NERO._

Now ere they follow, Poppæa, ease my heart, And tell me thy request.

_POPPÆA._

Thou’lt grant it me?

_Ner._ Whate’er it be, if thou wilt come to Baiæ.

_Pop._ I’ll have it without bargain or not at all.

_Ner._ I grant it: ask. 1950

_Pop._ ’Tis that you give my husband The post in Lusitania which he begs.

_Ner._ ’Tis his. Would he were there.

_Pop._ My thanks.

_Ner._ I prithee Call him not husband.

_Pop._ Ah, now I pierce this veil Of generosity: why, when he goes I must go with him.

_Ner._ Eh! if that’s the case I grant not his commission.

_Pop._ ’Tis a promise.

_Ner._ I had a promise once.

_Pop._ That was conditioned.

_Ner._ And what condition have I not fulfilled?

_Pop._ Heavens! is’t forgotten?

_Ner._ Say, what have I lacked in?

_Pop._ Or did I dream ’twas promised me? ’Twas this; 1960 Marriage.

_Ner._ By Juno, I will marry thee. But come to Baiæ.

_Pop._ Nay; thine oath is vain Upon the point of honour. There are things Idle and ceremonial, and that count In love as nought, but which alone can make Divorce from Otho honourable, nay, To me, I say, possible. Till the day Octavia is divorced I am Otho’s wife, Ay, and am well content to be: he loves me, And lacks in nothing that a gentlema. 1970 And lover should observe. I sometimes think That you mistake...

_Ner._ Ah!

_Pop._ But to mistake in that! Seem to forget! I fly.

_Ner._ O most impatient! I have yet no pretext.

_Pop._ Nay, nor ever will. Besides, your mother rules: she would not suffer it. I have no desire to taste her dishes.