Plautus and Terence/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
THE COMEDIES OF TERENCE.
I.—THE MAID OF ANDROS.
'The Maid of Andros'—the earliest in date of Terence's comedies with which we are acquainted—is confessedly founded upon two plays of Menander, his 'Andria' and 'Perinthia;' and the Roman dramatist tells us, in his prologue, how certain critics complained that in this adaptation he had spoilt two good pieces to make a single indifferent one. How much truth there may he in the accusation we cannot even guess. But there seems to have been generally a lack of incident in the comedies of his great original, which, supposing such adaptation to he permissible at all, would quite justify a writer who had to make his own work effective in supplying himself with sufficient material from as many separate pieces as he thought proper. Even as we have the play, the incidents are so few and simple, that its defect, if acted before a modern audience, would be the want of sufficient interest in the plot. A lady named Chrysis has come from the island of Andros to Athens, and there, from lack of money or friends, after a hard struggle to make an honest livelihood, has been driven to make a market of her beauty. Amongst the visitors to her house, one of the most constant has been the young Pamphilus, who may be considered the hero of the piece. But, whatever the lady's reputation, the relations between her and Pamphilus have been of the most innocent kind: and of this fact none are better convinced than his father Simo, and the freedman Sosia—who is, in spite of his humble position in the household, the confidential friend and adviser of both father and son. The scene between Sosia and his master gives us, as most of these comedies do, a very pleasant idea of the kindly relations which in a well-regulated Roman household might subsist between the head of the family and his dependants, even under the hateful conditions of slavery. For we must still remember that, though the scene is laid in Athens, the words, and in a great degree the manners also, are Roman; though Terence is more careful on this point than Plautus. Simo tells his freedman that he wants his services in a matter which involves trust and secrecy—qualities in which he has not hitherto found him wanting.
Simo. You know that, since I bought you when a boy,
You found me as a master just and kind;
Then from a slave I made you free; and this
Because you had served me with a free goodwill;
The greatest boon I had to give, I gave you.
Sosia. I don't forget it.
Si. Nor do I repent it.
So. If aught that I have done, or can do, pleases you,
It is my pleasure: if you thank me for it,
I thank you for the thanks. But that you name it
Troubles me somewhat; thus reminding me
Seems half to charge me with ingratitude;—
Sir, in one word, what would you have me do?
Simo will tell him. It was true,—there was nothing between his son and Chrysis; his visits were really not to her. But Chrysis died a short time ago; and Pamphilus, as a mark of respect to an old acquaintance, had followed amongst the mourners at her funeral. Simo—one of the many idle old gentlemen who were wont to be spectators on such occasions—had seen his son actually wipe away a tear. He was charmed, he tells Sosia, at such a mark of true sensibility. "If he weeps, said I to myself, for a person who was a mere common acquaintance, what would he not do for me—his father!" Suddenly a young woman, hitherto unknown, attracted his attention: of such a ravishing beauty that the staid father of the family grows positively enthusiastic—rather to the surprise of the discreet Sosia—in his description. When the corpse is laid, according to Athenian custom, on the funeral pile, this interesting young stranger, in the agony of her grief, crept so close to it as to be almost caught by the flames; when a young man rushed forward, clasped her in his arms with the tenderest expressions of affection, calling her his "darling Glycerium," and led her off sobbing very familiarly on his shoulder—quite as if she was used to the situation. And this young man was Pamphilus—and his father looking on with his own eyes! He had gone home, as he tells Sosia, in such mood as might be imagined after witnessing this outrageous conduct in the promised bridegroom of his old friend's daughter. Yet, after all, he continues—
I had scarce ground enough, methinks, to chide him;
He might reply—"Have I deserved this, father?
What have I done? Wherein have I offended?
She would have thrown herself into the flames;
I hindered it—I saved her life!"—Such plea
Sounds fair and honest.
So. Marry, so it does;
For if you chide him that would save a life,
What will you say to him that seeks to take it?
However, the father is in great tribulation. His friend Chremes has heard of the matter, and is told that Pamphilus is privately married to this young foreigner; and very naturally declines any longer to look upon him as a future son-in-law. But Simo is determined to find out the truth, and to be satisfied whether his son has really got into this disreputable entanglement. He means to pretend to him that the marriage with Chremes's daughter, so long meditated, is at last finally settled, and is to come off at once, this very evening, the day originally named. Young men in Athenian society must have been usually very obedient to their fathers in such matters: for Simo has no doubt of his son's compliance, unless he can show good and reasonable cause to the contrary. If this Andrian girl really stands in the way, Pamphilus will make decided objections to the being disposed of in marriage, and then—then, this indulgent father, who evidently dreads nothing so much as having to find fault with his son at all, will know how to deal with him. So Sosia is charged to keep up the deception, and to assure every one that his young master is to be married this very evening.
But, if Sosia justly enjoys the confidence of his master, the young heir of the house has his confidant too. This is a slave named Davus—the best-known representative in classical comedy of the familiar character who has been described in a previous chapter.[1] He has considerably more cleverness than Sosia, but nothing of his honesty: except, indeed, a kind of spaniel-like fidelity to his young master's private interests, partly attributable to the mischievous pleasure which he finds in thereby thwarting the plans and wishes of the elder one. Davus has heard of this sudden renewal of the marriage-contract, and comes upon the stage soliloquising as to how this complication is to be dealt with. His master enters at the same time on the other side, listening.
Davus. Ah! I was wondering where all this would end!
The master was so quiet, I suspected
He must mean mischief. When he heard that Chremes
Downright refused his girl, he never spoke
An angry word, nor stormed at any of us.
Simo. (aside at the wing, shaking his stick at Davus).
He will speak soon, and to your cost, you rascal!
Da. (still aside). So, so! he thought to take us unprepared.
Lapping us up in this fools' Paradise,
To swoop upon us at the last, too late
To give us time to think, or opportunity
To hinder this curst wedding. (Ironically.) Clever man!
Si. (trying to listen). What is he muttering?
Da. (discovering Simo). Ha! my master there!
I had not seen him.
Si. (coming forward). Davus!
Da. (pretending not to have seen him before). Hey? what is it?
Si. Here, sirrah, come this way!
Da. (aside). What can he want?
Si. What say you?
Da. What about?
Si. D'ye ask me, sirrah?—
They say my son has a love affair?
Da. Good lack!
How folks will talk!
Si. D'ye mind me, sir, or no?
Da. I'm all attention.
Si. Well—to inquire too closely
Into the past were harsh—let bygones rest.
But now he must begin a different life;
New duties lie before him from this day:
And you—I charge you (changing his tone)—nay, indeed, good Davus,
I rather would intreat you, if I may,
Pray help to keep him straight.
Da. (affecting suprise.) Why—what's all this?
Si. Young men, you know, with such whims, do not care
To have a wife assigned them.
Da. (carelessly). So they say.
Si. Then—if a young man have a knavish tutor
Who trains him in such courses, why, the evil
Will grow from bad to worse.
Da. (looking stolid). Hercules help me!
I can't tell what you mean.
Si. (ironically). No—really?
Da. No;
I'm only Davus—I'm no Œdipus.
Si. You'd have me speak more plainly—is it so?
Da. Indeed I would.
Si. Then, if I catch you scheming
To disappoint this match of ours to-day,
By way of showing your own curst cleverness,
I'll have you flogged within an inch of life,
And sent to the mill—on this condition, look you—
When I let you out, I'll go and grind myself.
Now, sir, d'ye understand me? Is that plain?
Da. Oh, perfectly! (bowing). You state the case so clearly.
With such entire correctness of expression,
So free from ambiguity—it's quite charming!
But Davus is not deterred by these threats. He meets Chremes going about with a very gloomy face, not at all like a happy father-in-law: he meets his footboy coming home from market with a penny bundle of pot-herbs and a dish of sprats—very unlike provisions for a wedding-supper. He peeps into their kitchen; no culinary preparations whatever. Moreover, there is no music, as there should be, before the door of the bride's house. He is satisfied that his suspicions are correct; that there is really no wedding on foot, at least for the present; that Chremes still firmly refuses to allow his daughter to marry a young man whom lie believes to be married already; and that Simo is only using this pretended renewal of the engagement as a test for ascertaining how matters really stand between his son and the fair Andrian. He goes in search of his young master to acquaint him with this discovery, and to advise him to checkmate his father by consenting at once to the proposed marriage; which, as there is no bride forthcoming, will evidently pose the old gentleman considerably, besides convincing him that his son is free from the entanglement which he suspects. There will be a respite gained, at any rate: and in the meanwhile, Davus hopes,—"something will turn up."
He finds Pamphilus in a state of great perplexity, and very indignant against his father for proposing to marry him off-hand at such very short notice; the perplexity not being lessened by his Glycerium presenting him with a baby on this his wedding-day that is to be with another lady. Simo has heard a report of this little stranger's arrival: but he believes it to be a mere plot to impose upon him and Chremes, and to confirm his friend in his resolution to refuse his daughter.
Acting upon the advice of Davus, Pamphilus assures his father at their next interview that he is quite ready to take the wife suggested to him. But Davus has been too clever by half. Simo goes straight to his friend, assures him that all is over between Pamphilus and Glycerium, that his son will gladly fulfil the contract already made for him, and begs of him, by their long friendship, not to refuse any longer a connection which will be for his son's advantage and for the happiness of all. Chremes with some reluctance consents: and in the joy of his heart Simo calls Davus, to whose good offices he thinks he is chiefly indebted for his son's compliance.
Simo. Davus, I do confess, I doubted you:
I had my fears; slaves—common slaves, I mean—
Will do such things,—that you were cheating me,
As to this matter of my son's.
Davus. (with an air of injured innocence). I, master!
could you think it? cheat?—Oh dear!
Si. (soothingly). Well, well—I fancied so: and with that thought
I kept the secret which I tell you now.
Da. What's that?
Si. Well, you shall hear: for now at last
I almost think that I may trust you—may I?
Da. At last, sir, it seems, sir, you appreciate me.
Si. This wedding was a mere pretence.
Da. (with feigned surprise). No! really?
Si. A scheme of mine, to test my son and you.
Da. Indeed!
Si. Yes, really.
Da. Look ye! what a wit
Our master has! I never could have guessed it.
Si. Listen; when I dismissed you, I met Chremes—
Da. (aside.) We're lost—I know it.
Si. Listen; straight I told him
What you told me, that Pamphilus was ready.
I begged and prayed that he would give his daughter;
At last I moved him.
Da. (aside). Then I'm done for.
Si. Hey! did you speak?
Da. I only said "well done," sir.
Si. And I beseech you, Davus, as you love me,
Since you alone have brought about this wedding—
Da. I! oh. dear, no! pray—
Si. For my son I ask you,
Still do your best to regulate his morals.
Da. I will, I will, sir—trust me. [Exit Chremes.
(Throws himself on the ground and tears his hair.)
O—h! O—h!
I'm gone—a thing of nought. Why don't I go
Straight to the mill-prison of myself?—Forgiveness?
No hope of that, from any one. I've played
The very mischief with the total household;
Cheated the master—got the son a wife—
This very night, much to the old gentleman's
Astonishment, and his son's disgust.—Ah! well!
This comes of cleverness. Had I held my tongue,
No harm had happened.—Hist! here comes young master;
(Looking about.) Is there any place here high enough, I wonder,
For a man to break his neck from?
There is another lover in the plot,—which is perhaps to our modern notions more complicated than interesting. This daughter of Chremes, to whom Pamphilus has been contracted by his father, has a favoured admirer in his friend Charinus. Pamphilus has assured him that he himself has no aspirations whatever in that quarter, in spite of the arrangement between the two fathers: and the young lover is naturally indignant when he discovers, as he thinks, the treacherous part which his friend has played in the matter, in now coming forward to fulfil an engagement which he had always professed to repudiate. There is a spirited scene between the two young men, in which Pamphilus at last succeeds in convincing his friend of his own unchanged views in the matter—he will never marry the girl of his own free-will. Poor Davus narrowly escapes a thrashing from both, for his unlucky interference. He undertakes, however, if they will but have patience with him, to set matters right yet: and his next step is to persuade the nurse to allow him to lay Glycerium's baby down at his master's door—a silent claim upon his grandfather—just as Chremes, full of his daughter's marriage, is coming to call on his old friend. Chremes finds out—as Davus intends that he should—whose child it is, and is more than ever indignant at the deception which is being repeated upon himself and his daughter. He goes straight to Simo and once more recalls his consent.
But meanwhile a stranger has arrived at Athens, who announces that this Andrian girl was really no sister of Chrysis, but a free-born daughter of Athenian parents, and that therefore Pamphilus will be bound by Athenian law to marry her—if they are not married already. When Davus comes to announce this news to Simo, the old gentleman's indignation at this new ruse on behalf of the conspirators—as he thinks it—knows no bounds; and poor Davus, who is now speaking the truth for the first time in the whole business, is for his reward tied neck and heels by order of his irate master, and carried off to prison. But the tale is true. An Athenian citizen had been shipwrecked upon the island with a little child; had died there, and left the infant to be brought up by Chrysis. This shipwrecked stranger turns out to have been Chremes's own brother, to whose charge he had committed his little daughter—this Glycerium, long supposed to be drowned, and now restored to her father. All difficulties are over; Pamphilus shall yet be son-in-law to Chremes—only the bride is Glycerium, not Philumena. The latter young lady, who never makes her appearance, and whose charms, like those of Glycerium, must be taken on report by the audience, is with dramatic justice handed over to her lover Charinus. Davus is released; he comes in rubbing his neck and legs, which are still suffering from the very uncomfortable kind of stocks—a veritable "little-ease"—which the Romans used to punish their slaves, but too good-humoured and light-hearted not to rejoice in the restored harmony of the family. He concludes the piece by begging the audience not to expect an invitation to the weddings, which will take place, he assures them, quite privately.[2]
II.—THE MOTHER-IN-LAW.
The plot of 'The Mother-in-law,' though it is an extremely pretty play, and its moral excellent, turns upon incidents which would justly offend the reticence of modern manners. Here it can only be sketched generally. A young wife, but a few months married and of really irreproachable character, fancies that she has so fatally compromised herself with her husband under circumstances in which she was really not to blame, that in his absence she leaves the roof of his father and mother, with whom she has been living since her marriage, and takes refuge with her own parents. Laches, her father-in-law, a choleric and despotic personage, fancies that his wife Sostrata, the "mother-in-law," must necessarily be the cause; although that gentle and kindly woman has really a sincere affection for the runaway, to whom she has always shown every kindness. The scolding which Laches inflicts upon his wife in one of the early scenes of the play, will serve to show how little originality there is in those conjugal dialogues which have always been so popular an ingredient in modern farce. If humour of this kind cannot he said to he in the very best taste, it may at least claim a high classical antiquity.
Laches. Good heavens! what a strange race these women are!
They're all in a conspiracy! all just alike,
In what they will and what they won't; not one of 'em
But sings to the same note; with one consent
Each stepmother detests her daughter-in-law,
Each wife is bound to contradict her husband;
There must be some school where they all learn wickedness;
And my own wife must be head-mistress in it.
Sostrata. Poor me, poor me! I don't know what I
am charged with!
La. (sneering). Oh! you don't, don't you?
Sos. On my life, dear Laches,
No—as I hope to live and die with you!
La. The gods deliver me from such a prospect!
Sos. (sobbing). Well, when I'm gone, you'll know how
cruel you've been.
La. Cruel, forsooth! what words are strong enough
For your base conduct, madam? You've disgraced
Me, and yourself, and all the family;
You've ruined your son's happiness—made enemies
Of our best friends, who gave their daughter to us.
'Tis you, and only you, have done it all.
Sos. I!
La. Yes, you, madam! What! am I a stone?
Have I no feelings, think you? Do you fancy
Because I am in the country, I don't know
How you all go on here while I am away?
Ay! better than I know what goes on there.
Your conduct, madam, makes me common talk.
I knew my son's wife hated you—yes, long ago;
No wonder—'twould be a wonder if she didn't.
But that for your sake she had taken a hatred
To the whole family,—this I did not know.
Had I only known it, I'd have packed you off,
And made her stay—I would indeed, my lady!
Look how ungrateful, too, is this behaviour;
All to please you, I take a place in the country;
I work like a horse there—more than at my years
I ought to do—to keep you here in idleness,
Spending my money; 'twas the very least
You might have done, to keep a quiet house.
Sos. 'Twas not my fault, indeed, indeed, dear Laches!
La. I say it was your fault, and no one else's;
You'd nought to do but make things pleasant here;
I took all other burdens off your hands.
Shame! an old woman like you to go and quarrel
With a poor girl!—You'll tell me now, 'twas her fault?
Sos. No, no! dear Laches, I have never said so.
La. Well, I am glad, for my son's sake, you've the grace
To confess that. You don't much harm yourself
By the confession in your precious character
A fault or two the more don't make much odds.
·······
You mothers never rest until your sons
Get them a wife; and then your whole delight
Is to make mischief between wife and husband.
Some of the scenes in this play are the most dramatic of any which have come down to us from the author's hands. The grief of the young husband when, on his return from a voyage on business, he finds that his wife has left his father's roof and gone home to her own parents, and when she refuses him an interview on the plea of illness; when he believes that there is some cause of quarrel which is concealedfrom him between her and his mother, whom he dearly loves; and the struggle between his love for his wife, and his sense of what is due to his own honour, when he learns the real cause of her withdrawal, are all very finely drawn. So are the little passages in which poor Sostrata, still believing that the cause of Philumena's estrangement is some unaccountable dislike which she has taken to herself, though conscious that she has done her best to make her a happy home, proposes to give up her pleasant town-house and retire into the country, and so leave the young pair to themselves. Laches himself is touched at last by her simple and unselfish goodness; and though the indications of this are slight in the Roman play, compared with the fuller and more gradual development which would be thought necessary in a modern comedy, there is in the short scene between them a simple pathos which, when the characters were played by good actors, no doubt touched the feelings of the audience as it was meant to do.
La. Well, well; we'll go into the country; there
You'll have to bear with me, and I with you.
Sos. (throwing Iter arms round her husband and sobbing).
Husband, I hope we may!
La. (disengaging himself awkwardly, and trying to hide
his emotion). There, there!—go in;
Get ready all you want—I've said the word.
Sos. I'll do your bidding—aye, and gladly.
Pamphilus (who has entered unperceived). Father!
La. Well, Pamphilus, what is it?
Pam. What means this?
My mother leave her home? It must not be.
La. Why not?
Pam. Because I am not yet resolved
As to my wife.
La. You bring her back, of course.
Pam. I wish it—it is hard to give her up;
But I must do that which I feel is best.
She and my mother will be friends—apart.
La. You can't tell that. Besides, what matters it?
Your mother will be gone. (Turns away from his son,
who tries to interrupt him.) We're getting old—
We're only troublesome to younger folk;
We'd best be moving on. (Turning again to Pamphilus
with a smile.) In short, my boy,
We're only "the old man and woman," now.
But everything is made right in the end. Philumena goes back to her husband a wife without reproach, and we are allowed to hope that Laches did not wait for Sostrata's death to repent of his injustice to her character. The dramatist had not altogether lost his pains, if he had done something to qualify the vulgar notion of a "mother-in-law." The play appears to have met with no success when first brought out, for it has come down to us with a "second prologue," written for what seems to have been its third representation, in which the author takes the opportunity to remark on its previous failures. He attributes these in both cases to the more powerful attractions of the rope-dancers and the gladiators. On the second occasion the audience were so impatient for the appearance of these latter, that they would not even sit out the comedy.
III.—THE SELF-TORMENTOR.
The comedy of 'The Self-Tormentor' is in great measure borrowed, as well as its Greek name of 'Heauton-timorumenos,' from a lost comedy of Menander, of which we have but some ten lines. It has very much the same kind of dramatis personæ as the preceding play. Two fathers and two sons,—a young lady for each, and a scheming slave, devoted to the interests of his young master—make up the leading characters. Chremes and Menedemus, the fathers, have for the last few months been neighbours in the country; engaged, as Roman gentlemen who preferred a country life commonly were, in farming; an occupation in which it must be confessed they were generally much more successful than the average English squire. Chremes has noticed that since Menedemus bought his present farm, he has worked upon it himself from morning till night, as hard as though he were a slave instead of a master; in fact, that he does more work than any of his slaves, and that the time which he spends himself in manual labour might, so far as the interests of the farm are concerned, be much more profitably employed in looking after them. He has no reason to suppose that his neighbour is poor; and he has a curiosity to learn the secret of this "self-tormenting." He succeeds in doing so in the opening scene, though not without some difficulty. Menedemus gruffly expresses his surprise that his neighbour should have so much leisure from his own affairs as to concern himself about those of others. Chremes makes answer in those famous words, which can only he inadequately given in any English translation; words at which, as St Augustine tells us, the whole audience, though many of them rude and ignorant, broke out into thunders of applause:—
"I am a man; nothing in human life
Can fail to have its interest for me."[3]
Menedemus then tells him that he had once (he almost fears he can no longer say he has) an only son, who had fallen in love with a young Corinthian stranger of humble fortunes, who had come to Athens (the "Maid of Andros," in fact, under another title), and had wished to marry her. The father's pride had refused to consent; almost any marriage with a foreigner was held, it must be remembered, to be a mésalliance for a citizen of Athens. He had spoken harshly to his son; and the young man, not choosing to be so dealt with, had entered upon that field of adventure which was open in those times to all young men of spirit: he had taken service with a body of mercenaries, and gone to seek his fortunes in the East. Distracted at the consequences of his own severity, and the loss of a son whom he deeply loved, Menedemus had sold his house in Athens, and retired into the country, determined to punish himself for what he considers his unnatural harshness by a life of rigid asceticism. He will live no life of ease after driving his son into exile and poverty; whatever he can save by self-denial shall be saved for him at his return—if ever that happy day should come.
It comes with the very next scene. Young Clinia has returned from the wars, and has just been received into the house of Chremes—introduced there by his son, Clitipho, who had been an intimate friend of the wanderer, though the father does not seem to have been aware of it. Clinia has begged his friend to send at once to his dear Antiphila, and,—if she has been asfaithful to him in his absence as he hopes,—to entreat her to pay him a visit in his temporary domicile. And now the complication begins. Syrus,—the slave to whom young Clitipho intrusts his friend's errand, his confidant in all business, lawful or unlawful—determines to take the opportunity of doing his young master a special kindness. Clitipho has also, as Syrus is well aware, a love affair of his own upon his hands, with a very dashing and extravagant lady indeed, to gratify whose expensive tastes in the way of presents he has already taxed his father's good-nature to the uttermost. Syrus has hit upon the brilliant idea of introducing this lady into his master's household as a visitor, instead of the modest and quiet Antiphila, as the object of Clinia's affections; that Clitipho may thus enjoy the pleasure of a few days in her society. Antiphila meanwhile is sent into the ladies' apartments—which were quite distinct from the other rooms in the house—there to be entertained by Sostrata, Chremes's wife. How Clinia is brought to consent to an arrangement which would give him very little opportunity for interviews with his dear Antiphila—or how husband and wife, in such a modest establishment as this seems to have been, could each have entertained a young lady guest for some days (as seems to have been contemplated by Syrus) without each other's knowledge, is not so clear as it might be. But even on our modern stage we are continually obliged, if we go to be amused, to swallow glaring improbabilities; and to expect to criticise the Athenian or the Roman stage by the light of our modern ignorance, is an occupation, perhaps, more tempting than profitable.
The hospitable Chremes is somewhat astonished at the ways of the dashing lady to whom—all to oblige his son's friend—he has given shelter. He meets Menedemus the next morning, and warns him in a friendly way that Clinia's wife that is to be seems an extremely fast young person.
Chr. First, she's brought with her half a score of maids,
Tricked out, the jades, with gold and jewellery;
Why, if her lover were an Eastern prince,
He couldn't stand it—how on earth can you?
Men. (mildly). Oh! is she here, too?
Chr. Is she here, do you ask?
(Ironically). Oh yes!—she's here. There's no doubt as to that.
I know it to my cost. They've had one dinner,
She and her party. If I give another
Such as last night, why—I'm a ruined man.
She's very curious, mind you, as to her wines;
Knows the best brands,—and drinks them. "Ha!" she'd say,
"This wine's not dry enough, old gentleman—
"Get us some better, there's a dear old soul!"
I had to tap my oldest casks. My servants
Are driven almost wild. And this, remember,
Was but one evening. What's your son to do,
And you, my friend, that will have to keep her always?
Men. Let him do what he will; let him take all,
Spend, squander it upon her; I'm content,
So I may keep my son.
Chremes sees that it is impossible to argue with the remorseful father in these first moments of his son's return. But it will be a very dangerous thing for young Clinia to know that his father is thus offering him carte blanche for all his own and his mistress's extravagances. He therefore begs his friend, instead of openly supplying the money, to allow himself to be made the victim of a kind of pious fraud. The amount of expenditure for the present may not be of so much importance, provided the son is not led to believe that he has unlimited command of his father's purse. Chremes will manage that the supplies required for the lady's demands shall be drawn from Menedemus on some specious pretext. He has evidently a great fancy for transacting other people's business; for though he has an arbitration case which he ought to attend to-day, he will go and have it put off, that he may have time to arrange this matter for his friend. The happy father willingly consents, and is all impatience to be cheated.
Syrus meanwhile is racking his wits to know how he is to get money for his young master to lavish upon the extravagant Bacchis. In this mood his elder master meets him; and knowing him to possess the talent for intrigue and deception which is common to his class, asks his help to impose some tale upon Menedemus—whom he affects to abuse as "a covetous old wretch"—in order to make him a little more liberal to his unfortunate son, whom he has once already driven from home by his harshness. "That poor young man ought to have had some clever servant," says Chremes, "who would have managed the old gentleman for him." Syrus is astonished, as he may well be, at such a proposal from such a quarter; but it suits his own purpose exactly.
Syr. Oh! I can do it, sir, if you insist—
I have, methinks, some modest gifts that way.
Chr. Egad! so much the better.
Syr. I'm not used
To so much lying—but
Chr. Do it—you'll oblige me.
Syr. But hark ye, sir, remember this, I pray you;
In case—I say in case—men are but men—
Your son should get in some such scrape hereafter.
Chr. That case won't happen, I trust.
Syr. Nay, heavens forefend!
I trust so too. Don't think, because I mention it,
That I have any suspicion—not the slightest;
But still—he's young, you see—such things will happen;
And if they should (bowing), I shall know how to act,
By following your excellent instructions.
Chr. (laughing). Well, well; we'll see to that, my worthy Syrus,
When the day comes; now go about this business.
Syr. I vow I never heard my master talk
More to the purpose—never had I before
Free leave and licence given to be a rascal!
The behaviour of his young guests is somewhat puzzling to Chremes, though he is quite unsuspicious as to the real state of affairs. Clinia and the supposed object of his affections conduct their love-passages in the most calm and decorous fashion; but young Clitipho, to the great annoyance of his father, who understands what is right and proper under such circumstances, insists upon thrusting his company upon them on all occasions. He naturally grudges his friend all the tête-à-têtes with his own beloved Bacchis, which his good-natured father is so anxious to secure for them. Clinia does not seem to mind these interruptions on the part of his friend; but Chremes is indignant at his son's want of ordinary tact and good manners, especially as he has detected little acts of glaring flirtation between him and Bacchis, which seem to imply gross disloyalty to his friend. He taxes him with this in an amusing scene, in the presence of Syrus, who is much alarmed lest his young master's want of self-command should lead to the detection of the imposture; for he, too, has seen him very distinctly toying with Bacchis's hand. Both of them beg him to go and leave the young couple to themselves.
Clitipho (helplessly). Wliere shall I go, sir?
Syrus. Go? why, bless my life,
Go anywhere—only leave them—go for a walk.
Clit. Where shall I walk to?
Syr. Zounds! why, anywhere—
There's plenty of walks—go this way—that way—any way.
Chremes. The man's quite right, sir,—go.
Clit. (moving off gloomily). Well, then—I'm going.
Syr. (aside to him). You keep your hands to yourself,
young man, hereafter. (Watching him as he goes
off with apparent interest, and turning to Chremes.)
Indeed, sir, he's too bad. What will he come to?
You had best give him very serious warning,
And keep him tight in hand.
Chr. I will, I will.
Syr. Before it is too late.
Chr. I will, I say.
Syr. I hope you will, sir. As for my advice,
(Shrugging his shoulders.) He minds it less and less, I grieve to say.
Chremes's wife has meanwhile made the discovery, by the common test of a family ring, that the girl Antiphila is a long-lost daughter whom she had sent away immediately after her birth, in obedience to her husband's threats that, in case one should be born to him, he would never bring up such a troublesome addition to his family. This, of course, makes everything clear for Clinia's marriage with her; and that young gentleman is accordingly made happy, by the consent of all parties. But not before the busy Chremes has been hoisted with his own petard, by Syrus's contrivance. Acting very much upon the principle recommended to him by his master himself, the cunning rascal has extracted from him fifty pounds as an imaginary ransom for his own daughter Antiphila, whom he declares to have been purchased in her infancy by Bacchis: and the gold is actually sent to that lady by the hands of his own son. There is some complication in this part of the plot, fairly amusing as worked out in detail in the original, but not worth analysis. It is very long before Chremes can be brought to believe that it is his own son, and not Clinia, who is the real lover of the dashing young lady whom he has been entertaining out of complaisance, as he considered, to his son's friend. Menedemus, no longer a "self-tormentor," is equally gratified to find that, after all, he is to have such a modest and highly respectable daughter-in-law, and amused at the collapse of his scheming friend.
Menedemus (solus, laughing to himself).
I don't profess myself to be a genius—
I'm not so sharp as some folk—that I know:
But this same Chremes—this my monitor,
My would-be guide, philosopher, and friend,—
He beats me hollow. Blockhead, donkey, dolt,
Fool, leaden-brains, and all those pretty names—
They might suit me; to him they don't apply:
His monstrous folly wants a name to itself.
Poor Chremes grows very crestfallen in the closing scenes, when he looks forward to the ruin which his son's extravagant tastes, with the fair Bacchis's assistance, will bring upon him. Menedemus retorts upon him his own advice,—not to be too hard upon his son—young men will be young men: but Chremes fails to take the same philosophical view of his own case as he had done of his friend's. He vows at first that he will disinherit his young prodigal, and settle all his property upon his new-found daughter and her husband; but he is persuaded at last to alter this determination,
Clitipho promises on his part to give up Bacchis altogether, and take to wife at once a neighbour's daughter, a most unobjectionable young lady—upon whom, with the facile affections of such young gentlemen, he seems to have had an eye already.
IV.—THE ETHIOPIAN SLAVE.
The comedy of 'The Ethiopian Slave,' which is partly taken, as the author tells us in his prologue, from Menander, introduces to us once more, under another name, our old friend Pyrgopolinices of Plautus. Captain Thraso, who has fought—or who says he has fought—under Seleucus in the East, and his toady Gnatho, are the most amusing characters in the play. The plot is more simple and well-defined than is usual in these comedies; and though it must be modified a little to suit either these pages or an English stage, it will not suffer much from such treatment. This Thraso,—a rich braggart, who takes Gnatho about with him everywhere to act as a kind of echo to his sentiments and to flatter his vanity,—is one of the suitors of a lady named Thais, who prefers a young gentleman named Phædria, though she does not care to discard altogether her rich lover. Poor Phædria is in despair, when the play opens, at having been refused admittance when he called on the lady the day before, because, as he understood, "the Captain" was with her. His slave Parmeno, who is much more of a philosopher than his master, gives him the very sensible advice to keep away altogether for a little while, when, if Thais really cares for him, she will soon call him back. It is advice which he is not very willing to follow, until Thais herself entreats him to do something of the same kind. She has particular reasons at this moment for not wishing to offend the Captain. He has just made her a very handsome present,—a slave-girl of exceeding beauty. But this is not her value in her new owner's eyes. Thais discovers that this poor girl, whom the Captain has bought in Caria, and brought home with him, was a child whom her mother had brought up, and who had been to herself as a younger sister. The story was, however, that she had been originally stolen by pirates from the coast of Attica. Upon her mother's recent death, the brother of Thais, intent only upon gain, had sold this girl—well-educated and very beautiful—once more into slavery; and so she had come into the hands of Thraso. Thais—who, though a heartless flirt of the worst description, still has her good points—is anxious to rescue her old companion, and, if possible, to restore her to her friends, to whom she hopes she has already found some clue. She fears that if her military lover believes her to prefer Phædria—as she assures that young gentleman she really does—he will break his promise, and not give her this girl. Phædria, who has himself just sent her a present of a pair of Ethiopian slaves, consents, under many protests: he will not call again "for two whole days:" he will go into the country: but Parmeno tells him that he fully believes he "will walk back to town in his sleep." The impassioned words in which the lover takes his unwilling leave, begging Thais not to forget him when in the company of his rival, have always been greatly admired, and often, consciously or unconsciously, imitated. Addison, in the 'Spectator,' calls them "inimitably beautiful:"—
Be, in his presence, as though absent still;
Still love me day and night; still long for me;
Dream of me, miss me, think of me alone;
Hope for me, dote on me, be wholly mine,
My very heart and life, as I am thine.
Gnatho is deputed by his magnificent friend to conduct the young slave girl to Thais's house. On the way he is met by Parmeno: and even that unimpressible old servitor is struck by the girl's wondrous beauty. The scene between the two officials of the rival powers is very good.
Gnatho (to himself as Parmeno comes up). I'll have a
little sport, now, with this knave.
(Aloud, making a low bow.) My excellent Parmeno, is it you?
Your most obedient.—How d'ye find yourself?
Parmeno (coolly). I hadn't lost myself.
Gna. You never do.[4]
Nothing unpleasant in this quarter—eh?
(Pointing over his shoulder to Thais's house.)
Par. There's you.
Gna. That I can fancy. Nothing else?
Par. What makes you ask?
Gna. You look so glum.
Par. (sulkily). Not I.
Gna. Don't—I can't bear to see it. But this girl,
(Whispering.) The Captain's present,—what d'ye think of her?
Par. (affecting to eye her carelessly). Oh! she's not bad.
Gna. (aside). I've hit my friend on the raw.
Par. (overhearing him). Oh no, you haven't!
Gna. But you must surely think
That Thais will be pleased with our new offering?
Par. You've cut us out, you mean? Well—wait a while;
Your turn to-day—it may be ours to-morrow.
Gna. For some six months, I promise you, Parmeno,
You shall have rest—no running to and fro
With notes and messages; no sitting up
Till late at night to wait for your young master;
Isn't that a comfort? Don't you feel obliged to me?
Par. Oh, vastly!
Gna. Well—I like to oblige my friends.
Par. Quite right.
Gna. But I detain you—perhaps you've business?
Par. Oh, not at all!
Gna. Be so good then, if you please,
To introduce me here—you know the party.
Par. Oh! such fine presents introduce themselves—
They're your credentials.
Gna. (as the door opens). Could I take a message?
Par. (shaking his fist after him).
Let me but see two days go by, my friend—
But two short days, I say—and this same door,
That opens now to your lightest finger-tap,
You may kick at all day, till you kick your legs off.
As he goes homewards, Parmeno meets the younger son of his master's family,—Chærea, an officer in the City Guard. He is in a great state of excitement, raving to himself about some young beauty whom he had seen in the street on his way from guard, and followed for some time, but has suddenly lost sight of. The family servant is in despair, for he knows the temperament of the young soldier. Phædria, the elder brother, is inflammable enough in such matters; but his is mere milk-and-water passion compared with Chærea's. It is love at first sight, in his case, with a vengeance. He confides his whole story—a very short one—to Parmeno; reminds him of all the tricks they played together when he was a boy; how he used to rob the housekeeper's room to bring his friend in the servants' hall good things for supper: and how Parmeno had promised what he would do for him when he grew up to be a man. Parmeno, with the usual inclination of his class to oblige his young master in such matters, asks him some questions about this interesting stranger: and from Chærea's description of her companions—Gnatho, and a maid-servant—and the fact of her having disappeared somewhere in this little by-street, he comes to the conclusion that she can be no other than the beautiful slave-girl whom he has just seen pass into the house of Thais. He begs Chærea to discontinue his pursuit: the object is unworthy of him. But when the young officer learns that Parmeno knows who she is, and where she is to be found, he becomes still more eager in his quest. At last Parmeno suggests a possible mode of introduction—if Chærea likes to black his face, and change clothes with the Ethiopian whom his brother is going to send as a present to Thais, he, Parmeno, who has instructions to convey the pair to her house on this very day, will venture to introduce Chærea in this disguise. He makes the proposal, as he declares, more in jest than earnest: but the young man, as may be supposed, catches at it eagerly, and insists upon it being carried at once into execution.
The next act of the play opens with a highly amusing scene between the Captain and his obsequious friend. Thraso wishes to know how the lady has received his present.
Thraso. I say—was Thais very much obliged?
Gnatho. Immensely.
Thra. She was really pleased, you think?
Gna. Not with the gift so much as that you gave it;
'Tis that she's proud of.
Thra. I've a happy way—
I don't know how—but everything I do
Is well received.
Gna. I've noticed it myself.
Thra. Yes. Even the King himself, after an action,
Would always thank me in person. 'Twas a thing
He never did to others.
Gna. Well, with gifts like yours,
A man gets double credit, while poor souls
Like us work hard, with nobody to thank us.
Thra. Egad, you have it!
Gna. Ah! no doubt his Majesty
Had his eye on you, always.
Thra. Well,—he had.
I may tell you—I was in all his secrets—
Had the whole army under me, in fact.
Gna. (with deep interest). No—really!
Thra. Yes. And then, when he was tired
Of seeing people, or grew sick of business,
And wanted to unbend him, as it were,—
You understand?
Gna. I know—something, you mean,
In what we call the free-and-easy line?
Thra. Just so—he'd ask me to a quiet dinner.
Gna. Indeed! his Majesty showed fine discernment.
Thra. That's just the man he is—one in a thousand—
There are few like him.
Gna. (aside). Very few, I fancy,
If he could stand your company.[5]
Thraso goes on to relate to his friend some of the excellent jokes which he made during the time he enjoyed this intimacy with royalty; jokes at which the parasite (who was paid for it in good dinners) laughs more perhaps than the reader would. Here is a specimen.
Thraso. Did I ever tell you
How I touched up the Rhodian once at dinner?
Gna. Never! pray tell me—(aside) for the hundredth time.
Thra. This youth was dining with us; as it chanced,
There was a lady there, a friend of mine;
He made some joke about it; "What," said I—
"What, you young puppy, have you learnt to bark?"
Gna. (laughing). Ha, ha,—ho, ho! O dear!
Thra. You seem amused.
Gna. (roaring still louder). Oh! good indeed! delicious! excellent!
Nothing can beat it!—Tell me now, though, really—
Was that your own? I thought it had been older?
Thra. (somewhat disconcerted). What?—had you heard it?
Gna. Often; why, it's reckoned
The best thing out.
Thra. (complacently). It's mine.
The new Ethiopian slave, Phædria's gift, is introduced by Parmeno, and even Thraso, who is present, is obliged to confess that, black man as he is, he is a very good-looking young fellow. Parmeno assures them that his person is his least recommendation; let them test his accomplishments in literature, in music, in fencing—they will find them such as will make him a most valuable addition to a lady's retinue.[6] And Parmeno hopes that Thais will show a little kindness to his young master in return for his well-chosen present; which, however, in the Captain's presence, she will by no means profess herself inclined to do.
But this new servitor soon causes a terrible scandal in the household. Before morning it is discovered that the fair slave whom Thraso had so recently presented to Thais has eloped with the Ethiopian. The virtuous indignation of every waiting-gentlewoman in the establishment is roused by such an outrageous breach of all the proprieties, and they rush on the stage with voluble outcries—"Eloped! and with a black man!" A friend of Chærea's has been considerably astonished at meeting him hurrying along the street in a strange costume and with his face blacked; but the young man makes him his confidant, and obtains from him a change of clothes. Phædria,—who, as his slave Parmeno had foretold, has found it impossible to remain even two days in the country away from the object of his affections, and who has returned to the city and is lingering about Thais's door,—hears the story, and goes off to his own house to see if anything has been heard there of the fugitives. He finds the real Ethiopian hidden there in Chærea's clothes, and hauls him off, under a shower of blows, to be cross-examined by Thais and her domestics. But they all agree that this is not at all like their Ethiopian, who was a much better-looking fellow: and Phædria extracts at last from the terrified man that this is some trick, which promises to have serious consequences, of his madcap brother's.
The Captain meanwhile has quarrelled with Thais, believing that after all she prefers Phædria to himself; and not altogether satisfied with the private interviews which she has lately been holding with a young gentleman from the country—a somewhat rustic sort of personage, but whom Thais seems for some reason to treat with very marked attention. As niggardly as he is jealous, Thraso comes to demand back again from his lady-love the expensive present he has made to her,—this young slave, whom it is not agreeable or convenient, for more reasons than one, for Thais to give up. She flatly refuses; and Thraso determines to take her from the house by force. The "young man from the country," who is at this moment paying a visit to Thais, is really the brother of this girl, who has been stolen in her infancy; and Thais now calls upon him to stand by her in defence of his sister. He would much prefer to go and fetch the police; but there is little time for that, for Thraso is seen approaching with a party of followers, and Thais, who with all her faults has plenty of spirit, barricades her door and defies him.
The scene must have been sufficiently effective, especially if artistically arranged, upon so wide a stage, when the gallant Captain leads his forces to the attack.
Enter Thraso, with his sword drawn, at the head of a
motley retinue of hangers-on and household slaves.
Thra. You, Donax, with the crow-bar, lead the centre;
Simalio, you command on the left wing;
Syriscus, you the right. Bring up the reserve!
Where's our lieutenant, Sanga, and his rascals?
They can steal anything—from a loaf to a woman.
Sanga. Here, Captain, here am I!
Thra. Why, zounds! you dolt,
Have you come out to battle with a dish-clout?
San. Brave sir, I knew the mettle of my Captain—
I knew his gallant men; this fight, quoth I,
May not be without blood—I'll stanch the wounds.
Thra. (looking round doubtfully on his troops).
Where are the rest of ye?
San. Rest? we're all here—
We've only left the scullion, to keep house.
Thra. (to Gnatho). Form them in line; my post is in the rear;
Thence will I give command, and rule the fight.
Gna. (half-aside to the others). Most admirable tactics!
we to the front;
He takes the rear-guard—to secure retreat.
Thra. It was the plan great Pyrrhus always practised.
Thais soon discovers, as she says, that the champion whom she has called in as her protector has more need of a protector himself—for he is a fair match for Thraso in cowardice. However, he plucks up spirit enough to threaten that gallant officer, from the safe vantage of an upper window, with all the terrors of Athenian law, if he ventures to lay a hand upon his sister Pamphila—a free-born woman of Athens, as he openly asserts her to be; and since Thraso, somewhat daunted by this double peril, confines his hostile operations to a battle of words, the lady and her party very naturally get the best of it. By the advice of Gnatho—who has also more appetite for dinners than for fighting—the Captain determines to await the surrender of his enemy, which Gnatho assures him will follow next day, and withdraws his army; reminding his lieutenant, the cook, that for him, as for all good soldiers, as there is a time to fight, so also
"There is a time to think of hearth and home;"
a sentiment which Sanga fully reciprocates—
"My heart has been in the stew-pan long ago;"
and which, appealing to their business and their bosoms, the whole body cheer vociferously as they move off.
There is not much worth notice in the comedy after this scene. If this girl Pamphila, whom Chærea has carried off, is really an Athenian citizen, as she is soon proved to be, there is no difficulty as to his marrying her, and he does so with his father's full consent. Indeed we are allowed to suppose that the quiet old gentleman, as well as the trusty Parmeno, must have been glad to see such a scapegrace respectably settled in any way. Phædria and the Captain are left rivals for the good graces of Thais as before, but Gnatho contrives to patch up the quarrel between them for the present; doing this good office, as he assures them, from the most unimpeachable motives—his own personal interest, inasmuch as he hopes to get many a dinner from both of them.
This is said to have been the most popular of all the author's productions; he received for it from the Ædiles (who had to provide the dramatic entertainments for the people) something like sixty pounds. Not a large sum, but more, it is said, than had been paid for any comedy before. It must be remembered that the ancient theatres were open only at festivals, for a few days at a time, and therefore no piece could have a long "run," as on the modern stage.[7]
V.—PHORMIO.
The play called 'Phormio' is taken also from a Greek original, not, however, by Menander, but by Apollodorus, a prolific writer of the same school. Here the principal character is the parasite—Phormio; a fellow with an enormous appetite, consummate impudence, a keen eye to his own interest, and a not over-scrupulous conscience, but by no means a bad heart. He and the slave Geta have between them all the brains which carry on the plot; for these gilded youth of Athens, who are the lovers in these comedies, are not, it will be observed, more largely furnished in this particular than their modern successors, and the fathers are commonly the easy prey of the adroit and unscrupulous slave who—from pure love of mischief, it would seem, and often at the risk of his skin—assists the young heir in his attack upon the paternal purse. The respectable victims in this play are two brothers—Chremes and Demipho—who have both gone abroad on business, and left their sons under the guardianship of Geta, the confidential slave of the younger brother. Their confidence is not very well repaid. The youths give the old man so much trouble, that he soon grows tired of asserting an authority which in his position he has no means of enforcing; in fact, as he complains in the opening scene, his wards lay the whip about his back whenever he interferes. He finds it more to his interest to humour them in everything to the top of their bent. And it has come to this; that Phædria, the son of Chremes, has taken a fancy to a little music-girl whom he insists on ransoming from her rascally master, who of course raises his price to an exorbitant figure as soon as he finds out the young gentleman's infatuation. Antipho, his cousin, had for a long time given promise of great steadiness: but these still waters run deep, and he plunges all at once into a romantic passion for a beautiful Cinderella, whom he discovers with bare feet and in a shabby dress, mourning over a dead mother who has left her a portionless orphan. And, finding that she is of free birth, he actually marries her. His acquaintance Phormio—whose friendship is at any young man's service who can give a good dinner—has suggested to him a plan by which he may in some degree escape his father's anger at this very imprudent match. There is a law at Athens which, like the old Levitical law, obliges the next of kin who is available to marry an orphan of the family. Phormio undertakes to appear before the proper court on behalf of the girl, and to bring evidence that Antipho is her nearest unmarried male relative: and, since the young lover of course makes no attempt to disprove it, the court gives judgment that he is to make her his wife, which he does forthwith.
All this has taken place before the action of the piece begins. And now a letter has arrived from Demipho to say that he is coming home, and both the son and Geta are in great alarm as to how he will take the news which awaits him. Antipho, like others who have married in haste, is beginning to feel something very like repentance at leisure; he feels, he says, in the position of the man in the proverb who has "got a wolf by the ears—he can neither hold her nor let her go." Geta is conscious that he has no very satisfactory account to render of his stewardship, and has prophetic visions of the stocks and the mill-prison. The son has made up his mind, by Geta's advice, to meet his father with something very much like bluster; but the moment the old gentleman makes his actual appearance, his courage evaporates, and he makes off, leaving his cousin Phædria, with Geta's assistance, to make such apologies on his behalf as they can.
The father's indignation, though it does not spare either Geta or Antipho, is chiefly directed against the parasite Phormio,—this disreputable Mentor of youth, who has trumped up such an imposture. But Phormio is equal to the occasion; indeed, his nature is rather to rejoice in these kind of encounters with his angry dupes, in which he feels confident his natural audacity and shrewdness will carry him through. "It is a tough morsel," he says—drawing his metaphor from his familiar sphere of the dinner-table—"but I'll make a shift to bolt it." Geta, who regards him with a kind of respectful envy, as a knave of higher mark than himself, wonders how, considering all the more than doubtful transactions he has been engaged in, he has hitherto escaped the meshes of the law.
Phormio. Because, my friend, no fowler spreads his net
For hawk or kite, or such-like birds of prey;
'Tis for the innocent flock, who do no harm;
They are fat morsels, full of juice and flavour,
Well worth the catching. Men who've aught to lose,
Such are in danger from the law; for me—
They know I've nothing. "Nay, but then," you'll say,
"They'll clap you up in jail." Oh! will they?Ah!
(Laughing and patting himself.) They'd have to keep me
—and they know my appetite.[8]
No—they're too wise, and not so self-denying,
As to return me so much good for evil.
The father has taken the precaution to provide himself with no less than three lawyers to back him in his interview with Phormio. It must be remembered that all interviews, even of the most private character, according to the conventionalities of the classic stage, take place in the public street. Should this seem to shock our notions of the fitness of things, we have only to remember the absurd anomalies of our own attempts at realistic scenery,—where the romantic forest which forms the "set" at the back has a boarded floor and a row of footlights in the front. Phormio and Geta see their adversaries coming round the corner of the street, and at once engage in a spirited controversy between themselves, purposely intended for the other party to overhear. Phormio professes to be shocked at the want of common honesty on the part of his friend's father. What! will he really repudiate the connection? disown his excellent relative Stilpho (which is the name of the pretty Phanium's father), merely because he died poor? Well! what will not avarice lead to! Geta, like a faithful servant, defends the character of his absent master: and the pair appear to be coming to actual blows on the question, when Demipho steps forward and interrupts them. Phormio meets the old gentleman's remonstrances with perfect coolness. It is no use to tell him, that a man does not remember his first cousin; Demipho has evidently a convenient memory. If poor old Stilpho had left a large fortune behind him, he would have routed out the whole family pedigree. If he is not satisfied with the award of the court, he can appeal, and have the cause tried over again. But law, he must remember, is an expensive luxury; his own advice would be, that Demipho should try to make himself comfortable with his new daughter-in-law—who is really a very nice young person. If he turns her out of his house, he, Phormio, as her father's friend, will feel it to be his duty to bring an action against him. And so he wishes him a very good-morning.
When Demipho turns to his legal friends for advice, he scarcely finds wisdom in the multitude of counsellors. For these counsellors by no means agree. The first delivers it as his opinion that what the son did in such a matter, in the absence of the head of the family, is void in law. The second holds that the judgment of the court cannot now be overruled, and that it would not be for Demipho's credit to attempt it. The third, the oldest, and as cautious as the most doubting of English Lord Chancellors, wishes to take time to consider. So the client dismisses them, each with their fee, declaring that their valuable advice has left him more bewildered than ever.[9]
Young Phædria adds to Geta's troubles by coming to beg him to extract from his uncle Demipho, by some contrivance or other, the sum needful for the purchase of his dear music-girl from her master—only a poor hundred guineas. "She's a very dear bargain," remarks the old servitor. Phædria insists, of course, that she is cheap at any price; and Geta promises to do his best to get the money.
The return of Phædria's father—Chremes, the elder of the two brothers—from the island of Lemnos, threatens to complicate matters: but it turns out that he brings with him the key to at least the great difficulty. He has been to the island on some private business, the nature of which is known to his brother Demipho, but which is kept a strict secret from his wife Nausistrata, of whom he stands in considerable awe. The secret is partly disclosed in the scene between the two brothers on his return. Chremes had contracted, in his younger and more imprudent days, while visiting Lemnos, a private marriage (under another name) with a person in that island, the issue of which was a daughter. He had broken off this connection for some years; but the object of this last voyage had been to make some inquiries about this duplicate family. He has formed a plan, with his brother's approval, to marry this unacknowledged daughter, now grown up to womanhood, to her cousin Antipho; and is therefore as anxious as his brother to get this present unfortunate marriage, which they both look upon as contracted under false pretences, annulled if possible. So when Phormio comes and offers to take the young lady off everybody's hands and marry her himself, if Demipho will give her a dowry of a hundred guineas, Chremes persuades his brother to close with the offer, and even advances great part of the sum: which Phormio hands over to his young friend Phædria for the ransom of his mistress.
Chremes has learned that, while he was on his voyage to Lemnos, his deserted wife has meanwhile come over to Athens in search of him, and brought the daughter with her. He is soon further enlightened upon this subject. As he is crossing the street from his own house to his brother's, he sees a woman coming from it. It is Sophrona, the old nurse of this foreign girl whom his nephew has married, and who is now stowed away somewhere in her unwilling father-in-law's house. The nurse has been there to try to discover what turn affairs are likely to take, now that the old gentleman has come home.
Chremes (looking at her stealthily). Eh! bless me!
Yes—or do my eyes deceive me?
Yes—this is certainly my daughter's nurse!
Sophrona (to herself, not seeing Chremes). And then,
to think' the father can't be found!
Chr. What shall I do? Shall I speak first, or wait
Till I hear more?
Soph. Oh! if we could but find him,
All might go well!
Chr. (coming forward). 'Tis she, no doubt; I'll speak.
Soph. (hearing his voice). Who's that? I heard a voice there!
Chr. Sophrona!
Soph. He knows my name!
Chr. Look at me, Sophrona.
Soph. (looking close at him). Oh! gracious heavens!
What! are you Stilpho?
Chr. (making signs to her to he silent). No.
Soph. Can you deny it?
Chr. Hush-sh! come further off!—
A little further from the door, good Sophrona—
And never call me by that name again!
Soph. Why, by that name we always knew you!
Chr. (pointing to the door opposite). —Sh!
Soph. What makes you afraid of that door?
Chr. (coming near her, in a half-whisper). Why, because
It's got my wife inside—an awful woman!
That's why I took another name, you see.
For fear lest you might blab my real one,
And she (pointing to the door) should hear it.
Soph. 'Twas no wonder, then,
We could hear nothing of you here in Athens.
He learns from the old nurse that his Lemnian wife is dead, and that his daughter is just married to his nephew Antipho. In the bewilderment of the moment he fails to identify the fair subject of the lawsuit with his own daughter: and perhaps only those who have seen this play acted by Westminster scholars can appreciate the comic earnestness with which the uncle, with his own double relations strong in his mind, and fancying that bis young nephew is in the same predicament, asks of Sophrona—
"What—has he two wives?"
When he finds out that the two wives are one and the same, and that his Lemnian daughter is really married, by a happy accident, to the very husband he had designed for her, he blesses the gods for his good fortune, and it is plain that all Antipho's difficulties are over.
But Chremes, unluckily, joins his brother in an attempt to recover from Phormio the gold pieces which he has got from them under pretence of dowry. They don't want him to marry Phanium now, of course; and they see no reason for his not returning the money. But Phormio, with his usual cleverness, has made himself master of the whole story. He declares his willingness to complete at once his part of the bargain, and protests, with considerable show of justice, that he will not be cheated out of wife and dowry too. He threatens Chremes that unless he holds his tongue about the money, he will tell his wife Nausistrata all about that little establishment at Lemnos. This impudence is more than Demipho can stand, and he calls his slaves to carry off the parasite to jail. The noise he makes brings in Nausistrata, and though both the brothers try to stop his mouth, he carries his threat into execution. Nausistrata, of course, is in a considerable fury at first: but as her rival is dead, and this unnecessary daughter safely disposed of, she is satisfied with the rod which Phormio has put into her hands to be wielded over her husband in any future connubial disagreement; and, partly out of gratitude for this acquisition of power, and partly to annoy her husband, invites him at once to supper. The parasite foresees that there will always be a knife and fork ready for him at her table as well as at Phanium's.
VI.—THE BROTHERS.
This comedy, like 'Phormio,' has always been a favourite with the Westminster actors. It is taken partly from a play of Menander, and partly from one by another Greek dramatist, Diphilus. It was acted lately at Westminster with great success, and it may be permissible to borrow, as a familiar rendering of the early portion of the story, a few verses from the clever sketch of the "Plot" which was handed round on that occasion for the enlightenment of the less classical among the audience:—
"Two brothers once in Athens dwelt of old,
Though widely did their dispositions differ;
One loved the country, was a churl and scold,
The other bland and gentle as a zephyr.
Demea, the churl, had once a wife, since dead,
And, as it seems, he did not much regret her;
Micio, the bland, had not been so miss-led,
And never took a wife, for worse or better.
Now Demea had two sons; but he did predicate
That one was quite enough; and gave the other—
The elder of the two—to rear and educate,
In short, to be adopted, by his brother.
The youngest, Ctesipho, at home was taught,
Was duly lectured, disciplined, and scolded;
Rose early—read—walked—and, as Demea thought,
Into a rural innocent was moulded.
But Micio loved the city, and, forsooth!
Ne'er thought of looking after his adopted;
But if he told the truth, and all the truth,
Whatever prank was played, he never stopped it."
Demea has protested from time to time against his brother's very lax system of discipline; and when he finds that young Æschinus's not very steady course has just culminated in a tremendous and notorious row—that he has broken open the house of a slave-dealer, beaten the master, and carried off a young woman—he lectures his brother severely on the results of his ill-judged indulgence.
But Ctesipho, who has been kept in stricter leading-strings by the father, is not quite the pattern youth that the old gentleman thinks him. He is really the person most concerned in the brawl which caused so much scandal; for the girl who has been thus forcibly carried off from her owner is a young music-girl with whom he has fallen in love—who claims, however, as usual, to be free-born and entitled to all the rights of citizenship, Æschinus, not standing so much in fear of his good-natured guardian as the other does of his father, and having, besides, no great reputation to lose, is content to take upon himself all the blame of the late burglary and abduction; though Ctesipho has been really the principal in the affair, in which his brother has only aided and abetted out of pure fraternal affection. There is the usual intriguing slave, Syrus, who is of course in the secret; and who persuades the father that Ctesipho is gone down to the country grange, whither Demea follows him, quite persuaded that he shall find his exemplary son deep in farming operations. He is, in fact, at this moment taking care of his prize in Æschinus's apartments in his uncle's house, whither she has been conducted.
Syrus, delighted to have such an opportunity of exercising his wit upon Demea, whose principles of education he altogether dislikes, compliments him highly upon his son Ctesipho's irreproachable conduct. He declares that the good youth has been quite shocked at his elder brother's iniquity, and has reproached him with the discredit he was bringing on the family.
Syrus. Æschinus, quoth he, I am ashamed of you—
You waste not money only, but your life.
Demea. Heaven bless him! he'll be worthy of his forefathers.
Syr. I'm sure he will.
Dem. Syrus, he's had good teaching.
Syr. Ah! he had those at home who understood it.
Dem. I do take pains; I omit no single item:
I train him well; in fact, I bid him study,
As in a mirror, all the characters
He sees around him, and draw from them lessons
For his own guidance: copy this, I say—
Syr. Ah! capital!
Dem. This, again, avoid—
Syr. Just so.
Dem. This act, I say, is praiseworthy—
Syr. Quite right.
Dem. That was a fault—
Syr. I see.
Dem. And then, besides—
Syr. I beg your pardon—I could listen all day—
But I'm so busy: there's some splendid fish—
I must not let them spoil: for this, you see,
In my vocation, sir, would be a sin,
Just as, with gentlefolks, neglect of morals:
Indeed, in my poor sphere, I train my knavees
Exactly on your worship's principle. Look here,
I say, that dish 's too salt; this roast is burned—
That's not washed clean; that fricassee is good—
Just the right thing—be sure the next is like it.
The best advice that my poor wit affords
I strive to give (looking gravely at Demea, and copying
his manner). In short, I bid them study
As in a mirror, every dish I make,
Thus to draw lessons for their own instruction.
'Tis but a humble school, I feel, I train them in;
But we must do our best—man can't do more.—
(Bowing demurely). Can I oblige you, sir, in any way?
Dem. (angrily). Yes—mend your manners.[10]
The elder of the young men has in truth perplexities enough of his own to have justified him, if he had been less good-natured, in declining to involve himself in those of his brother. He has an unacknowledged wife, and just at this time the not very welcome addition of a baby. The news of his having been engaged in this brawl, and having carried off the singing-girl to his uncle's house, soon reaches the ears of Sostrata, his very respectable mother-in-law: who comes to the natural conclusion that Æschinus is faithless to his poor wife at this interesting crisis, and intends to repudiate her altogether, instead of presenting her to his uncle, as he had promised, and obtaining his sanction to their public union. By the advice of Geta, an old and trusty servant, who has remained with them in their reduced fortunes (for there are faithful slaves, in these comedies, as well as the more common type of dishonest ones), they lay the case before an old friend of the family, the excellent Hegio, who undertakes to represent to Micio the great wrong which is being done by his ward to his unfortunate young relative. On his way to Micio's house he falls in with Demea, who is an old acquaintance, and informs him of this new enormity on the part of young Æschinus, at which the father can only lift up his hands and eyes, and lament over this still more convincing proof of the sad results of such a training as the youth has had from his uncle.
But on his way to his country-house he meets a workman who tells him that his own dear Ctesipho has not been seen there since he left. So he goes back to make inquiry about him at his brother's,—inquiry which, under present circumstances, is somewhat awkward to meet. Yes,—he has been there, Syrus tells him, and points to his own bandaged head as evidence. The good youth was so indignant at his brother's conduct that he took him to task roundly, and ended by beating the music-wench, and breaking poor Syrus's head. "He ought to be ashamed of himself," says the latter whimpering,—"a poor old man like me, that nursed him!"—"Not at all," replies the unsympathetic Demea; "'tis you ought to be ashamed of yourself—you nursed his brother in wickedness!" He next inquires of the slave where his brother Micio is; for he wants to expostulate with him about this unfortunate business. He is not at home, Syrus assures him; but he will give him full directions where to find him. He must go through the portico behind the shambles, down the next street, then to the right, then up the next, then to the left, past the chapel, through the narrow lane where the wild fig-tree stands, straight on to Diana's temple, then to the right; then he will see a mill, with a joiner's shop opposite, where his brother is gone to order an oak table: and with these very particular directions, which will give the old gentleman a good long afternoon's walk through the suburbs, he gets rid of him for the present. The two young men are in the house all the time, having a little dinner in celebration of the successful rescue of Ctesipho's fair friend; and Syrus, having got rid, for some hours at least, of this inconvenient visitor, will take the opportunity of this festive occasion to get royally drunk.
Æschinus soon learns the misconstruction which has been put upon his conduct; for when he next goes to his lodgings to visit his young wife, he is refused admittance. Neither she nor her mother will have anything more to do with such a villain. But in the crisis of his distress he is encountered by his good-natured guardian, to whom Hegio has told the whole story, and who has gone at once to see for himself what kind of people these new connections are: and he—after playing for a little while with the young man's anxiety—throws him at last into ecstasies of joy and gratitude by magnanimously promising to recognise his wife, and desiring him to bring her home to his house as soon as he thinks proper.
Demea returns from his long walk in search of his brother, very hot and very angry. He has not been able to find the "joiner's shop," and half suspects that Syrus has been fooling him: for he meets Micio Just coming out of his own house. He attacks him with the story of this new escapade of his precious ward Æschinus; but his brother listens with a composure which is exceedingly irritating.
Demea. He's got a wife!
Micio. Well—better he than I.
Dem. She's got a baby!
Mic. Doing well, I hope?
Dem. The jade's an absolute beggar!
Mic. So I hear.
Dem. You mean you'll take her in without a sixpence?
Mic. I do.
Dem. What's to become of them?
Mic. Of course
They must come here.
Dem. (ironically). Why, you seem quite delighted!
Mic. No—not if I could alter it. Look ye, brother,
Man's life is as it were a game of tables;
If that the throw we want will not turn up,
Skill must correct such luck as fortune gives us.
It is the better side of the Epicurean philosophy, put into few and terse words; and we shall probably not be wrong in assuming the lines to be pretty closely translated from Menander, who may not improbably have had the idea from Epicurus himself.
Another precious example of his brother's domestic discipline meets Demea as he comes away from this unsatisfactory interview. It is Syrus, so drunk as to have lost even the semblance of respectful demeanour.
Syr. (staggering up against Demea). Oho! you're back
again, are you, Mr Wisdom?
Dem. (pushing him away). If you were my slave, sirrah—
Syr. You'd be lucky—
You'd have a (hiccup) treasure—save you half your income.
Dem. (shaking his stick at him). I'd make an example of ye!
(Enter Dromo, another slave, running from the house.)
Dro. Hallo—Syrus!
Ctesipho wants ye!
Syr. (aside to him). Hush-sh! away, you fool!
Dem. Ctesipho!—here?
Syr. N-no, n-no, sir!—it's not him,
It's—it's—another young man—a little parasite—
Of the same name.—You know him, don't you, sir?
Dem. I very soon will, at any rate (making for the house).
Syr. (trying to hold him back). Stop, sir, stop!
But the father has heard enough to open his eyes. He rushes in, spite of Syrus's drunken efforts to stop him, and makes at last full discovery of how he has been deceived. Micio succeeds in soothing him in some degree, by assuring him that his own fortune is ample enough to supply both the young men's wants; that he will give a dowry also to Ctesipho with his beloved, and see him married respectably.
The failure of his own system, and the placid triumph of his easy brother, work an odd transformation in Demea's behaviour. He meets this "irony of events" by a curious irony of his own. Since easy temper is the mode, he will at once adopt it. He begins by shaking hands with Syrus, and thanking him for his admirable conduct—he will certainly do something for him. Then he meets Geta, and shakes hands with him (who certainly deserves it better); he will do something for him too. He persuades his brother to give Syrus his freedom, with a sum of money to set him up in life, "by way of encouragement to honest servants," as he ironically puts it. He will have him make a deed of gift of a snug farm to Hegio, who has acted the part of a good relation so manfully; and he ends by persuading the old bachelor himself to marry the excellent Sostrata, his ward's mother-in-law—a lone woman, much in want of a protector. The good-natured Micio does make some wry faces at this last item in the arrangements, but his brother's arguments as to the great duty of pleasing everybody are too strong for him. If complaisance with other people's fancies, and reckless liberality, are the right thing, Demea is determined to give his brother full opportunity to put in practice this new-fangled virtue.
In obedience to an ordinance contained in the Charter of Queen Elizabeth, the Westminster Scholars present every year, on three nights just before Christmas, a Latin play. The performance, which takes place in the Dormitory of the College, with appropriate scenery and costume, is perfectly unique of its kind, and is the only relic of an ancient custom once common to all our great schools. Although, as has already been noticed, a comedy of Plautus has occasionally been selected, Terence has always been the favourite. Four of his comedies—'The Maid of Andros,''The Ethiopian Slave,''Phormio,' and 'The Brothers'—are usually taken in rotation; and a Queen's Scholar who shows any dramatic talent is not unfrequently an actor in two or three of these plays successively. The performance is preceded by a Latin prologue, in which such events of the year as have affected the school are briefly touched upon: and followed by an epilogue in elegiac verse, which of late years has assumed almost the dimensions of a farce, in which the current topics or follies of the day are satirised under an amusing disguise of classical names and associations.
END OF PLAUTUS AND TERENCE.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
- ↑ See p. 15.
- ↑ Upon this play Michel Baron, the French dramatist, founded his comedy of 'L'Andrienne,' the two first acts being little more than a translation. Steele's 'Conscious Lovers' is also borrowed from it.
- ↑ "Homo sum; humani nihil a me alienum puto."
- ↑ This is not the literal joke in the original, but may serve to express it. Colman quotes an illustration of the same kind of humour from 'The Merry "Wives of Windsor:'—
"Falstaff. My honest lads, I'll tell you what I am about.
Pistol. Two yards, or more." - ↑ A fragment preserved by Athenæus from a lost comedy of Menander—'The Flatterer'—from which this play is partly taken, has the following passage. [Bias is the original of Thraso, and Strouthias is his "flatterer."]
Bias. I have drunk off, in Cappadocia, Strouthias,
A golden goblet that held full ten quarts—
And three times filled.
Strouthias. Why, sir, you must have drunk
More than the great King Alexander could!
Bias. Well—perhaps not less—by Pallas, no!
Str. Prodigious! - ↑ "Viola. I'll serve this duke;
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him:
It may he worth thy pains; for I can sing,
And speak to him. in many sorts of music."
—Twelfth Night, act i. sc. 2. - ↑ Upon this comedy were founded 'Le Muet' of Brueys, 'L'Eunuque' of Fontaine, and Sir Charles Sedley's 'Bellamira.' It has furnished Shakspeare with a quotation which he puts into the mouth of Tranio, in the 'Taming of the Shrew,' act i. sc. 1,—"Redime te captum quam queas minimo." Johnson, however, thinks that he went no farther for it than Lilly's Grammar.
- ↑ The creditor, both at Athens and at Rome, though he had the right to imprison a debtor who failed to pay, was bound to maintain him while in confinement.
- ↑ This scene with the three lawyers seems to have given Molière the hint for several scenes in which he has introduced legal consultations, —e. g., 'Le Mariage Forcé,' sc. ix., where he makes Sganarelle say, "L'on est aussi savant à la fin qu'au commencement;" and in 'M. de Pourceaugnac,' act ii. sc. 13, where the "Deux Avocats" chant their opinions.
- ↑ Horace had probably this dialogue in his mind, Sat. I. iv. 103.