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 Library 
 
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 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013480243 
 
ANDREA THE PAINTER. 
 
 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE 
 
 ORESTES. 
 
 PANDORA. 
 
ANDREA THE PAINTER. 
 
 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 
 
 ORESTES. 
 
 PANDORA. 
 
 PLAYS BY ROSS NEIL 
 
 AUTHOR OF I 
 
 ' LADY JANE GREY,' ' THE CID,' ' ELFINELLA,' ' TASSO,' ETC. 
 
 •^tWJ- 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 ELLIS AND WHITE, 
 
 29 NEW BOND STREET. 
 
 1883. 
 
ANDREA THE PAINTER. 
 
This play is founded on the well-known story, related 
 by Vasari and others, of the murder of Domenico 
 Veneziano, and his death in the arms of his fellow- 
 artist a,nd assassin ; but, beyond a few scatWed 
 incidents and allusions, it does not otherwise bear 
 an :historical character. 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Lorenzo the Magnificent. 
 Andrea del Castagno. 
 
 DOMENICO VeNEZIANO. 
 
 MoRELLO, a Pupil of Andrea, in love with Nina. 
 
 SiLVESTRO, Friend to Morello, betrothed to Margherita. 
 
 Ambrogio, an old Citizen. 
 
 Benedetto, Friend to Ambrogio. 
 
 Florio, \ 
 
 Lelio, ( Artists, Friends to Andrea and 
 
 Bernardo, [ Domenico. 
 
 Fabio, ) 
 
 Carlo, a Pupil of Domenico. 
 
 Francesco, Servant to Andrea. 
 
 Lorenzcfs Chamberlain. 
 
 An Officer. 
 
 Margherita,) „ , . , ■ 
 
 > Daughters to Ambrogio. 
 
 Rosa, 
 
 Lauretta, 
 
 Sibilla, an old Fortune-teller. 
 
 t Nieces to Benedetto. 
 
 Lords and Ladies of Lorenzo's Household, People, 
 Watchmen, Soldiers, Attendants, &r'c. 
 
 The Scene is laid in Florence. 
 
 A few weeks are supposed to pass between the Second 
 and Third Acts, and some years between the Third 
 and Fourth. 
 
ANDREA THE PAINTER. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene. — A Public Garden. 
 
 MoRELLo and Carlo discovered confronting each other 
 with drawn swords ; a crowd of people standing 
 round them, among others Silvestro aTid Mar- 
 
 GHERITA. 
 
 Mor. Well, have you found your breath ? I wait 
 you, sir. 
 
 Car. And I wait too. Again ! . 
 
 Silv. Hold, hold, I say. 
 
 Comrades, can this be earnest ? You are mad. 
 Put up your swords ; enough is done already 
 On either side for honour. 
 
 Marg. O Morello, 
 
 Hear him ; you know how much he is your friend. 
 Hear him, beseech you — [/a a lower voice] for my 
 sister's sake. 
 
10 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act i. 
 
 And one of you my pupil ! I had hoped, 
 Morello, you at least were better taught. 
 
 Mor. I am your pupil — yea — and therefore 'tis 
 His insults fired my blood. Dear master, think. 
 How could I tamely stand and hear him say 
 That you, your art, and fame, and all else yours. 
 Were cast in shadow by Domenico ? 
 
 And. Ay, said he thus ? 
 
 Car. He for his master stood, 
 
 And I for mine. 
 
 Mor. And said, besides, all men 
 
 Acknowledged him your better. 
 
 And. All ! indeed 
 
 I think not yet quite all. But certain 'tis 
 Messer Domenico hath won much praise. 
 And earned it wellj he seems to have stol'n his 
 
 colours 
 From the morning sky. 
 
 Mor. Ay, there again ; he bragged 
 
 That yon Venetian coxcomb had the art 
 Of colour, and you not — and called you hard, 
 And harsh, and cold, and chilling to the eye. 
 
 And. What an indictment 's here ! Well, it may be 
 That I am something hard — and if cold too. 
 Perchance so much the better. But, good youths, 
 Where is the cause of quarrel in all this ? 
 Messer Domenico and I — you see 
 We quarrel not ; you know he is my friend. 
 My best friend, dwelling with me in my house ; 
 
ACT I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. ii 
 
 Nor shall be less my friend for aught so small, 
 
 And paltry, and unworthy our regard, 
 
 As what the dull world thinks. And, we being friends. 
 
 You surely need not for our sake be foes. 
 
 Join hands, and make an end. What ! sullen still ? 
 
 Silv. When Messer Andrea bids you ! 
 
 And. Nay, it seems 
 
 My bidding is not strong enough to bind. 
 Silvestro, haste, and bring Domenico ; 
 You'll find him close at hand, in the cedar-walk. 
 
 Enter Domenico. 
 
 But lo, himself ! Now in good time you come, 
 Domenico ; your help is needed sore. 
 
 Dom. My help ! for what ? 
 
 And. For keeping whole the 
 
 skins 
 Of my poor pupil and yours — a foolish pair 
 Of froward hot-brained boys, who each would fain 
 Do surgeon's work on the other. 
 
 Dom. And what cause 
 
 Inflames their valour so ? 
 
 And. Why, you and I — 
 To prove you more than me, and me than you. 
 You are the greater, Carlo says, and thus 
 Acknowledged past all question by the world 
 
 Dom. No, said the fellow this ? 
 
 And. And furthermore 
 
 Upheld that I was hard and harsh and cold, 
 
12 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act i. 
 And chilling by my coldness 
 
 Dom. A pert knave — 
 
 Ha ! ha ! — so pert indeed I needs must laugh. 
 
 And. I knew you would — as I well-nigh did too. 
 But good Morello could not take it thus, 
 And grew as hot as ever I was cold. 
 So like two game-cocks have I found them here, 
 Pecking with ruffled feathers each at each. 
 I pray you help to tame them. 
 
 Dom. Carlo, come ; 
 
 You are a fool to fight in such a cause. 
 
 And. So say I too ; a cause to move the smiles 
 Of reasonable men. 
 
 Dom. Give him your hand, 
 
 You silly varlet, and be friends again ; 
 Else shall I chide in earnest. 
 
 Car. If Morello 
 
 Will give his first. 
 
 Mor. I first ? 
 
 And. Yes, you yours first 
 
 Because I bid you. 
 
 Mor. There then. 
 
 Car. There. 
 
 [Morello and Carlo shake hands. 
 
 Dom. 'Tis good. 
 
 Now hence ; let your hot blood have time to cool 
 Before you meet him next. \Exit Carlo. 
 
 A foolish lad — 
 But means no harm. 
 
ACT I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 13 
 
 xst Man. We may as well go too ; 
 
 There's nought to keep us here. 
 
 2nd Man. A likely quarrel 
 
 As e'er I looked on, spoiled. Come, let us see 
 What is astir elsewhere. 
 
 \The bystanders gradually disperse, and go. 
 And. We have marred their sport ; 
 
 They came for war, and will not stay for peace. 
 We'll vex them more, Domenico, and walk 
 Arm linked in arm through all the holiday crowd, 
 Who thus shall learn two artists may be friends. 
 Although their followers fight. Well, will you come ? 
 Unless indeed you fear I am so cold 
 That I should freeze you. 
 
 Dom. ^ Ha ! ha ! O forgive — 
 
 But thinking of the fellow's sauciness 
 I cannot choose but laugh. I am ready now. 
 And. Come then. 
 
 \Puts his arm through Domenico's, but pauses 
 as he passes Morello. 
 
 Crest-fall'n, Morello ? Be not so. 
 Good honest youth, I know you are my friend, 
 And, trust me, I am yours. 
 
 \Exeunt Andrea and Domenico, leaving none 
 on the stage but Morello, Silvestro, and 
 Margherita. 
 Mor. O how I loathe 
 
 To see my master like an equal paired 
 With yonder man Domenico ! the first 
 
14 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act i. 
 
 Of artists with the last — a feathered fop, 
 As gaudy in his pictures as himself. 
 
 Silv. You would forgive the pictures, good Morello, 
 Could you forgive the man. Nay, on my word, 
 You carry it too far, and though I know 
 Not without cause yon are bitter 
 
 Mor. With such cause 
 
 You would be bitter too. He hath made me poor 
 Where I was richest — robbed me of her love 
 That I so long had served for, and at last 
 Had earned a little of. For O methinks 
 Some love she gave me till he came between, 
 With his soft silv'ry voice, and smile-wreathed lips, 
 And easy patron swagger. 
 
 Marg. And perchance 
 Some love may give you still — more than you deem. 
 If any know what Nina is, 'tis I, 
 Her sister and companion all her life ; 
 And what I think is this — that though she is pleased 
 So great a man as yon Domenico, 
 So praised by all and courted 
 
 Mor. Ay, there 'tis ; 
 
 He a great artist — or accounted one — 
 And I an unknown student 
 
 Marg. Hear me out. 
 
 To be in public waited on by him, 
 And whispered to, and smiled at — this she likes, 
 And as a pastime takes her pleasure in ; 
 But if I have learned to read her heart aright, 
 
ACT I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 15 
 
 You are nearer it than he. 
 
 Mor. O say you this? 
 
 And in good sooth believe ? 
 
 Marg. But yet beware ; 
 
 Let her not know I said it, for so wild 
 And wilful that same childish untamed heart, 
 Rather than yield to a predicted sway 
 'Twould starve, as birds will starve with food in sight 
 If offered them by hands. She is to blame, 
 But blame her not ; my father and I both 
 Have spoiled her all her life, and fondled e'en 
 Her faults for being hers. 
 
 Mor. Kind Margherita ! 
 
 O were she but like you ! 
 
 Marg. And if she were, 
 
 She were not like herself, and in your eyes 
 No longer would be gracious ; while perchance. 
 Had she and I been like, Silvestro here 
 For me had ta'en her, and instead of me. 
 'Twould not have been so well. 
 
 Silv. [ Taking her hand and kissing it.] Not e'en your 
 likeness 
 Could make me false to you. 
 
 Marg. Beseech you now. 
 
 Be not so foolish. But how long she stays. 
 She and my father ! losing in the house 
 The gold of this fair day ; she promised me 
 That they should follow soon. 
 
 Mor. Once on a time 
 
1 6 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act i. 
 
 She would have hither come upon my arm. 
 I prayed it might be so to-day — but no ; 
 Her father was not ready, and for him 
 
 She needs must stay. Yet ere she knew that man 
 
 Marg. Hush, hush, she comes. Be wise. 
 
 Enter Ambrogio and Nina, the latter carrying 
 flowers. 
 Nina. What ! 
 
 found at last ! 
 I thought you had hid yourselves. 
 
 Mor. To us it seemed 
 
 You had forgot to think of us at all, 
 So long you have made us wait. 
 
 Nina. And if a little 
 
 We did forget, is there nought else in the world 
 To think of than you three ? — or I should say 
 You four, since now, as far as I can see, 
 You are beside yourself, and count for two. 
 
 Amb. A saucy child ! faith, I would pinch her ear, 
 If 'twould not hurt her. 
 
 Mor. If I now may be 
 
 Beside you, Nina, I am well again. 
 Nina. But not too close, or you will spoil my 
 flowers. 
 Smell them ; are they not sweet ? as though they had 
 
 caught, 
 And kept, the fragrance of the morning's kiss. 
 Mor. Ay, or of yours. 
 
ACT I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 17 
 
 Nina. I thought you would say that. 
 
 But of a truth more sweet they could not be ; 
 And very kind and very courteous 'twas 
 On the part of good Messer Domenico 
 To give me aught so choice. 
 
 Mor. Ha ! so ! from him ? 
 
 Nina. Did you not know ? He promised he would 
 bring 
 For me to carry in my hand to-day 
 The finest flowers he found in Florence through. 
 You see he has kept his word. 
 
 Mor. And see besides 
 
 You have kept yours, to wait until he came. 
 
 now I know why on a holiday 
 You stayed indoors so long. 
 
 Nina. You knew before. 
 
 1 told you that I stayed indoors because 
 My father was not ready. 
 
 Mor. Told me — ay. 
 
 Nina. And if I told, what right have you to doubt ? 
 Was 't not so, father ? to come forth till now 
 You were not ready ? 
 
 Amb. Was 't for me you stayed ? 
 
 Had I but known, I would have made more haste. 
 Silv. \Who has been speaking apart with Mar- 
 GHERiTA.] Messer Ambrogio, pray you come this 
 way; 
 There's somewhat I would say. 
 Amb. I'm for you, sir. 
 
 c 
 
1 8 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act i. 
 
 \To Nina.] I grieve I made you wait, my pretty one. 
 {Joins SiLVESTRO and Margherita, leaving 
 MoRELLO and Nina alone in front. 
 
 Mor. He may believe, not I. 
 
 Nina. Then disbelieve, 
 
 Since so it pleases you. And if indeed 
 I waited for these flowers, it seems at least 
 That I had something worth the waiting for. 
 
 [Looking at the flowers. 
 As fair and fresh as blue skies after rain — 
 Or meadows in the spring-time — or what else 
 May freshest be and fairest. Are you dumb ? 
 
 Mor. Better be dumb than burn you with such fire 
 As now burns here. 
 
 Nina. Much better. Be dumb still ; 
 
 Or else put out your fire. 
 
 Mor. Always the same ! 
 
 Have you no pity ? 
 
 Nina. Pity ? And for whom ? 
 
 Mor. For the most wretched man that Florence 
 holds, 
 Whom one slight word might make the joyfuUest. 
 O see Silvestro and your sister there — 
 How happy they ! And we might be as they, 
 If but you would. 
 
 Nina. And in each other's eyes 
 
 Stare by the hour, as though for want of knowing 
 What else to do, and in all eyes besides 
 Seem like a pair of fools ? 
 
ACT I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 19 
 
 Mor. What we might seem 
 
 We should not care, were we but blest as they. 
 What think you 'twas that to your father now 
 Silvestro had to say ? 
 
 Nina. How should I know ? 
 
 Mor. Then know from me. To ask him to ap- 
 point 
 Your sister's marriage-day. O if that day 
 Might be ours too ! Ah ! Nina, let it be ! 
 
 Nina. You say you are not happy, but as foolish 
 You are as the most blissful man alive — 
 More foolish than I deemed you. 
 
 Mor. Nay, I speak 
 
 Less wildly than you think, I have good hope 
 My days of poverty are near an end. 
 Kind Messer Andrea has passed his word 
 That if to him the city give the charge 
 (As who can doubt ?) to embellish the new church, 
 He will allot me work enough to do 
 To make me rich — or poor at least no more. 
 What say you now ? 
 
 Nina. And how are you so sure 
 
 The task will fall to him ? 
 
 Mor. Because the church 
 
 Is one whereon our Florence prides herself 
 And he her greatest artist. 
 
 Nina. So you think, 
 
 Mor. And because now in Florence one bears 
 power 
 
20 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act i. 
 
 Who hath the eye to know and hand to cherish 
 Whate'er in art is best — our lord Lorenzo, 
 Lorenzo the Magnificent well called. 
 His judgment will not err. 
 
 Nina. But peradventure 
 
 It will be found that his Magnificence 
 Will judge as you do not. I have heard some say 
 Messer Domenico doth far exceed 
 Your Messer Andrea, and I can see 
 ■His colours are as bright as summer flowers, 
 And Messer Andrea's like a winter mom. 
 
 Mor. Better be grey as winter than a fool, 
 Dressed in fool's motley. As for those who say 
 That yon Domenico exceeds in aught 
 (Save gaudiness) my master, they but move 
 Laughter, not anger.. 
 
 Ntna. Why so angry then ? 
 
 And Messer Andrea himself laughs not 
 E'en if you laugh. Domenico to-day 
 Told me he thinks him jealous. 
 
 Mor. Jealous ! What ! 
 
 Andrea jealous of Domenico ! 
 Greatness of littleness ! the head of the foot ! 
 Tell him next time that a Venetian dandy 
 Is a thing too mean and of too small account 
 To make an artist jealous. 
 
 Nina. But I think 
 
 He hath made Morello jealous. O sweet flowers ! 
 
 [Smelling the flowers. 
 
ACT I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 21 
 
 Mor. Ay, this he hath, you know it Yet in love 
 One may be jealous without shame, for love 
 Is as a stormy sea, whereon who sails 
 Must needs lose footing ; but true art is calm. 
 Peaceful, and holy, as a summer sky — 
 Too holy and too high e'er to be reached 
 By petty passions. Ah ! could I quit love, 
 And only live for art ! 
 
 Nina. Why can you not ? 
 
 Enter Sibilla. 
 Sib. \Chanting to herself^ 
 
 A light laughing glance 
 Is the lance that flies strongest ; 
 
 A fine silken hair 
 Is the snare that holds longest. 
 
 Nina. Who should she be ? Whence came she ? 
 Doth she speak 
 To us or to herself? Keep near — more near — 
 I am half afraid. So white and bleached a thing ! 
 
 Sib. What fear you, pretty maiden ? I am old ; 
 But the more wise for being old — so wise 
 That I can read your fortune in your palm. 
 If you will show, and give you counsel good. 
 
 Nina. You read my fortune ! — Father ! Mar- 
 gherita ! 
 Come quick, and hear my fortune. 
 
2 2 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act i. 
 
 Amb. \Coming forward with the others?^ What is 
 this? 
 Why, on my life, the same who years ago 
 Was called the old Sibilla, and sometimes 
 The Witch of Florence ! Can this be indeed 
 The old Sibilla still ? 
 
 Sib. Ay, older now ; 
 
 My art hath made me live. 
 
 Amb. 'Tis true enough 
 
 That by your art you have lived — your trade, that is, 
 Of telling fortunes. So the holiday 
 Hath brought you out — as summer doth the flies ! 
 Well, well, I can but marvel you find leave 
 To ply such trade — a trade, I fear, that owns 
 The master of its guild not upon earth, 
 Nor yet in heav'n. 
 
 Sib. No matter where he dwells, 
 
 If he but teach aright ; and many a man 
 And maid would stand more near to heav'n than now 
 Would they have let Sibilla be their guide. 
 But I am old, and age that long ago 
 Hath to white wisdom blanched my human heart 
 Hath blanched my outside too, and frighted off 
 The foolish young ones. 
 
 Nina. Frighted I am not. 
 
 Read me my fortune, come. 
 
 Marg. Let it not be. 
 
 Send her away, good father. 
 
 Amb. Woman, go. 
 
ACT I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 23 
 
 \To Nina.] Be content, little one. 
 
 Nina. [To Sibilla.] Stay yet, I pray. 
 
 If you may not read mine, here is a youth 
 You may do what you please with. Good Morello, 
 Give her a silver piece, and show your palm. 
 
 Mor. I ! Be it as you will. Here's for you, dame. 
 
 [Gives money. 
 Now look, and tell. 
 
 Sib. [Looking at his hand.'\ Beware. 
 
 Mor. Why, what is 
 
 this ? 
 
 Sib. Here is a line that says strange fate is yours, 
 For one that loves you well shall work you ilL 
 The rest is blurred, and more I cannot tell ; 
 But only this — Beware. 
 
 Nina. Now on my word 
 
 I think this scares him. I would not be scared. 
 Nay, I must try. See, dame, here is my hand. 
 Father, indeed I must. 
 
 Sib. [Looking at Nina's hand-l A tangled maze 
 Of crossing lines — as crabb'd and hard to read 
 As a maiden's heart. But here are two that go 
 Side by side evenly ; by them I see 
 You love one that loves you. 
 
 Nina. Now sure I am 
 
 You see not this. Enough. 
 
 Mor. Nay, nay, go on ; 
 
 Go on ; what more ? 
 
 Nina. No more, I say. Look there, 
 
24 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act i. 
 
 Where Messer Andrea comes. 
 
 Re-enter Andrea. 
 
 Good Messer Andrea, 
 Pray you, this way ; and have your fortune read. 
 
 And. My fortune, pretty one ! What have we here ? 
 Soothsaying, ha ? Fine sport for you young folk. 
 What hath she told you ? 
 
 Nina. Nought — nay, nought at all. 
 
 But try her for yourself; of fortune-tellers 
 She is thought to be the queen. \To Morello.J No, 
 
 I say, no; 
 I have had enough. \To Andrea.] Will you not try ? 
 
 And. My fortune, 
 
 Fair Nina, is already told by Time, 
 And lies behind me rather than before. 
 
 Sib. How know you that ? You have done maybe 
 with love. 
 But only silly youths and maidens think 
 That love is all. The last of the cup is oft 
 The strongest-tasted ; so perchance with what 
 Is left to you of life. 
 
 Nina. You can but try ; 
 
 No harm in trying. 
 
 And. Nay, but long ago 
 
 I learned what 'tis I have to hope and fear. 
 The planets once were questioned for my sake 
 By one that knew their lore — one who had found 
 In my father's cottage shelter from the storm. 
 
ACT I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 25 
 
 And who thus paid his debt. If in his art, 
 Or hers, there's aught of truth (as I think not), 
 I am forewarned enough. 
 
 Nina. 'Twere worth the pains 
 
 Of seeing if his art and hers agree. 
 
 And. Agree ! so would they doubtless if she knew 
 What he foretold ; but know it can she not — 
 And scarce will guess. Well, since it is to please 
 You youngsters, we will test her. First to pay ; 
 
 {Taking out his purse. 
 For that, I think, is what doth most import. 
 
 Sib. Put up your purse. 
 
 And. What now ! 
 
 Sih. You scorn my art; 
 
 I scorn your coin. Show me your hand. To you 
 I'll give, not sell, my counsel. 
 >> And. In good faith, 
 
 The witch is liberal. {Showing his handi\ Say, what 
 see you there ? 
 
 Sib. Honour and fame in life and after death. 
 Riches and friends, abundance of all good. 
 Fulfilment of each wish, these lines foretell — 
 Were't not for one that crosses all the rest, 
 And sets their gifts in peril. Have a care ; 
 Thou hast an enemy — one enemy. 
 But potent, and his hour is well-nigh come. 
 
 And. How mean you, woman ? 
 
 Sib. Canst thou conquer him. 
 
 Thou shalt be safe, and all with thee go well. 
 
26 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act i. 
 
 He is but one ; and yet enough to mar. 
 
 And. As I might mar thee, beldame, if I pleased. 
 
 Sib. He is more strong to mar thee than thou me. 
 Strong — and his triumph is at hand e'en now. 
 
 And. Ha! 
 
 Sib. Yet thou still mightst curb him if thou would ; 
 But wilt not — wilt not ; that I see writ there, 
 Upon thy face. 
 
 And. Off, hag ! 
 
 Sib. Wilt not, I say — 
 
 And if not, thou shalt serve him evermore. 
 This is thy doom. 
 
 And. Off, or I'll have thee haled 
 
 As a sorceress through the streets. 
 
 Sib. I go, I go. 
 
 But still shall truth be true and rue be rue. \Exit. 
 
 And. See how she sought to be revenged on me, 
 Because I mocked her art. But I care not. 
 
 Mor. Yet are you moved, dear master. Can it be 
 She said the same as what the stars once told ? 
 
 And. And if she did, what matters it ? The good 
 Hath come to pass long since, but not the ill — 
 Nor shall it now. 
 
 Nina. And was it then the same ? 
 
 And. Indeed the stars foretold me greatness, wealth. 
 Success in all things, fulness of desire. 
 And see how strong my planet must have been. 
 That I, who then was a poor nameless boy, 
 Herding my father's cattle in the fields. 
 
ACT I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 27 
 
 Have, with no help save Fortune's and mine own, 
 Athwart the dark and tangled undergrowth 
 Of want and hardship climbed my upward way 
 Into the sunshine of the highest height. 
 
 Nina. And were you then told of an enemy, 
 As you have been to-day ? 
 
 And. One enemy, 
 
 Whom if I conquered I should conquer all. 
 I fear him not ; for, having conquered all. 
 Him too I have conquered, be he who he may. 
 Besides, I have no enemy — friends plenty, 
 But not an enemy. Who should he be ? 
 What is his name ? 
 
 Re-enter Domenico. 
 
 Dom. Andrea ! 
 
 And. Who is there ? 
 
 You ! And what would you ? 
 
 Dom. News, good Andrea ! news ! 
 
 Our lord Lorenzo — may the Heavens grant 
 Health and long life to his Magnificence — 
 Hath to my charge giv'n over the new church 
 To deal with as I will ; sure, so he says. 
 That I, albeit not a Florentine, 
 Will to your Florence yet consent to lend 
 Some of my glory. He can turn, you see, 
 A compliment right deftly. Well ? How's this ? 
 No word ? Why, by my troth, did I not know 
 It could not be, I'd swear you were ill-pleased ; 
 
28 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act i. 
 
 You look ill-pleased. And yet so oft you have said 
 You cared not unto whom the task were given, 
 So oft have said no artist to a friend 
 Should grudge good fortune, I made sure of nought 
 But gratulation. 
 
 And. Ay, ay — to a friend — 
 
 And you are mine, I think — indeed I know. 
 There, I congratulate — congratulate — 
 With all my heart congratulate. 'Tis so ; 
 You are my friend. 
 
 Mor. What ! he ! he to be set 
 
 Above my master ! 
 
 Silv. Peace. 
 
 Dom. Thanks, thanks ; I knew 
 
 How glad 'twould make you. But the evening falls, 
 And you have not forgot, I hope, the guests 
 We have asked to supper in our house to-night. 
 'Tis time to go, and play our part of hosts. 
 
 And. True, 'tis well thought of. Fortunate our 
 friends 
 Are asked to-night ! in time to hear the news. 
 And wish you joy ! Now on my word, how much 
 Wishing of joy there'll be ! and turning up 
 Of empty glasses and of frothy mouths. 
 All in your honour ! Sir, when you are ready. 
 So will I be. 
 
 Dom. One moment first, I pray. 
 
 Here is a shrine I must pay homage to. 
 
ACT I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 29 
 
 Fair mistress Nina ! \Aside to her!\ Well, did I not 
 
 say ■ 
 He could be jealous ? 
 
 \Takes her to the side of the stage, where they 
 remain talking. 
 
 And. [To MoRELLc] Come you with us too. 
 You are to be, I think, among our guests ? 
 
 Mor. I was — but cannot now. How should I go 
 Gaping to watch his triumph whom I hate ? 
 
 And. Hate ! what a word is there ! 
 
 Mor. A true word, master. 
 
 And look, have I not cause ? See how he hangs 
 Over her beauty with his thirsty eyes, 
 Seeming to drink it up. I'll bear no more. 
 
 And. Stay, stay ! what would you ? 
 
 Mor. Tell him to his face 
 
 I hate him, and defy. 
 
 And. 'Twould serve you nought ; 
 
 He would but mock, and teach her too to mock. 
 Be not so headstrong, not so like a boy ; 
 But learn to rule yourself, and from the world 
 To hide what it but laughs at. 
 
 Mor. Let me go. 
 
 Master, I must. 
 
 And. What ! and make both of you 
 
 And me, the jest of Florence ! You shall not. — 
 Did you not hear me say he is my friend ? 
 
 [MoRELLO becomes calm. The Curtain falls. 
 
 End of Act I. 
 
30 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ii. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Room in the House of Andrea, and Domenico. 
 
 Guests discovered sitting round a table drinking, among 
 them Florio, Lelio, Bernardo, and Fabio. 
 Andrea and Domenico sit at the two ends of the 
 table — Andrea apparently lost in thought, with his 
 face turned aside from the others, and shaded with 
 his hand. Bernardo is standing up, holding a 
 glass. 
 
 Ber. Why do you laugh ? 
 
 Flo. Because you have said so oft, 
 
 ' One toast, and then no more.' 
 
 Ber. What's promised oft 
 
 Is likeliest to be performed at last. 
 'Tis late, I know, high time that we should part — 
 
 But first I'll give you There now, I forget 
 
 What 'tis I had to. give. Let's see — all here 
 Have long ago been drunk. 
 
 Dom. And none so soon 
 
 As you, Bernardo. 
 
 Ber. I ! how mean you that ? 
 
 I'm sure we drank you first — I know we did — 
 
SCENE I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 31 
 
 And we will drink you last. Yes, here's my toast — 
 Domenico ! 
 
 Lei. Nay, but that toast is stale. 
 
 I'll better it. Domenico — the pride 
 And envy of us all. 
 
 All {except Andrea.] Well said, well said ! 
 Domenico ! Domenico ! the pride 
 And envy of us all. \All drink except Andrea. 
 
 Eto. Do you not drink, 
 
 Good Messer Andrea ? 
 
 And. Speak you to me ? 
 
 Yes, yes, I'll drink. What is't ? Domenico ? 
 You see I guessed it was Domenico. 
 
 Lei. The toast was this — Domenico, the pride 
 And envy of us all. 
 
 And. A good toast too — 
 
 Fill up my glass. Domenico ! the pride 
 And envy [^Fauses.l of you all. [Drinks. 
 
 Fab. And now in earnest 
 
 We must b& gone. 
 
 Ber. First one more toast. 
 
 Fab. One more ! 
 
 Nay, but one more, and for to-night that table 
 Would have to be your roof. 
 
 Dom. And I would say 
 
 Let it be roof for him and all of us. 
 Only that I have bus'ness ere I sleep, 
 And' cannot therefore keep you as I would. 
 
 Eab. Bus'ness so late ! Aha ! I give you joy. 
 
32 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ii. 
 
 Dom. A little serenade that I have promised 
 To lull a certain fair one's dreams withal. 
 And Florio and Lelio here will help 
 With flute and viol. You have brought them, friends? 
 
 Flo. Ay, yonder 'neath our cloaks they lie asleep, 
 But ready to be waked. 
 
 Fab. Good luck to all. 
 
 And may your fingers and your breath be found 
 More steady than his legs. [Indicating Bernardo, 
 
 Lei. A fiddle-bow 
 
 Need not be grasped as tightly as a sword. 
 My fingers will suffice. 
 
 Dom. Nor need the frets 
 
 Of a poor lute be pressed as hard as though 
 We pressed a dagger home ; so I fear not 
 My fingers either. 
 
 Fab. If they fail you, man, 
 
 Kiss them ; maybe 'twill please the lady more. 
 
 Ber. And if his fingers cannot find his mouth. 
 Yet might his mouth find hers— if she would help. 
 
 Fab. Ha ! ha ! there's counsel for you. And now 
 bus'ness 
 We must not hinder more. Farewell. And you, 
 Farewell too, Messer Andrea. 
 
 And. [Rousing himself.'] Farewell; 
 I greet you all ; thanks for your company, 
 Which I have relished rarely. 
 
 [Exeunt Bernardo, Fabio, and all the other 
 Guests except Florio and Lelio. 
 
SCENE I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 33 
 
 Can I help ? 
 What is't you look for ? So — your lute ? And now 
 Yoii will set forth ? May Fortune go with you — 
 But she's your slave already. 
 
 Dom. Well, good-night; 
 
 When I return, 'tis like you will be wrapped 
 In sleep — and blankets ; if indeed, that is, 
 You will not bear us company. 
 
 And. What! I! 
 
 Nay, nay, too old for such gay ruffling I. 
 You'd find me but a blot upon your sport — 
 If truly you paid heed to me at all ; 
 Only methinks you would not. 
 
 Dom. Peevish still ? 
 
 And. Peevish ! after such night of wine and mirth I 
 What do you take me for ? 
 
 Dom. Why, this is "well ; 
 
 You are the man I hoped. So then, shake hands. 
 And say good-night, to show we still are friends. 
 
 And. [Shaking hands with him.] Nay, surely we 
 are friends ; what else than friends ? 
 There's nought to make us less. Good-night, good- 
 night 
 
 Dom. ' Now, Florio — Lelio — ready now. I hope 
 You well remember how the burden goes ? 
 
 [Sounds his lute, and sings. 
 
 Look forth, look forth, bright eyes. 
 And show your servant light 
 
34 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ii. 
 
 By the ladder of his sighs 
 To scale his wishes' height. 
 
 [Exeunt Domenico, Florio, and Lelio. 
 
 And. At last ! I thought he had bargained with 
 the devil 
 To leave me never more. Now can I breathe ; 
 When he is by, I stifle. 'Tis as though 
 His presence wove my body round with chains 
 Which cling and clog the more the more I heave — 
 E'en as his star with baleful influence clogs 
 The course of mine in heav'n. O surely here 
 Is the foe whereof they warned me. Foe ! Just now 
 I said he was my friend, and I was his. 
 And so I am — so will I strive to be, 
 As I have striv'n before — yea, striv'n well-nigh 
 From the day I knew him first I would not hate 
 My equal willingly — and much less him. 
 
 Enter Silvestro. 
 
 Silv. Sir, pardon me. — Good sir ! 
 
 And. Who calls? How now ! 
 
 Silvestro, as I think. Why came you not 
 To sup with us to-night ? — or did you come ? 
 
 Silv. To leave my poor Morello I'd no heart ; 
 And well it was I stayed, since thus I yet 
 May save him from the outstretched arms of death — 
 If you, sir, will but help. 
 
 And Say, what means this ? 
 
SCENE I.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 35 
 
 Silv. He hath found out Domenico to-night 
 Will play 'neath Nina's casement, and he swears 
 Sleep shall not touch his eyes till he hath fought 
 And conquered — or been conquered. 
 
 And. Well, why not ? 
 
 In such a cause the world will give him praise. 
 A lover for his mistress' sake hath leave 
 To hate his rival even as he will 
 
 Silv. Alas ! but you forget what heavy odds 
 Would weigh against him here — Domenico 
 A perfect swordsman, he unskilled and raw. 
 With one like Carlo he might hold his own, 
 But fighting with a master he must fall — 
 As waves must break in pieces 'gainst the rock. 
 
 And. Poor boy — 'twere pity that. 
 
 Silv. Then save him, sir. 
 
 Command him ; unto you he will give heed. 
 Come, pray you, come. 
 
 And. And to what end ? To see 
 
 My best-loved pupil murdered ? for no man 
 Can put asunder two the devil hath joined 
 In hate and deadly grip ; that bond will hold. 
 Let break what may. 
 
 Silv. Nay, yet they have not met. 
 
 He will not bring on Nina's name the shame 
 Of a brawl beneath her window, so keeps watch 
 Hard by the corner where the three ways cross. 
 There, shadowed by the statue, with impatience 
 So grim, it looks like patience, he awaits 
 
36 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ii. 
 
 The passing of Domenico, and there 
 
 Will the street-stones be reddened soon with blood, 
 
 Unless you hinder. 
 
 And. Blood ! Domenico's ? 
 
 Silv. Morello's ; 'tis Morello that must fall. 
 But e'en for him you'll give yourself some pains. 
 Haste then, O haste ! 
 
 And. Indeed I were full loth 
 
 The boy should come to harm. Show me the way ; 
 This triumph shall Domenico not have. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Comer of a Street, dimly lighted. In the middle of 
 the stage is the statue of a warrior on horseback. 
 Music heard at a little distance. 
 
 Enter Morello. 
 
 Mor. [Racing slowly to and fro.] How many times, 
 how many times to take 
 Measure of these dull stones ? O sure he knows 
 That here I wait, and thinks to make me mad 
 With counting mine own footsteps, till my brain 
 And senses all grow numb. Yet not so numb 
 But they can hear his music. O the discord 
 That I could make in it ! the clash and clang 
 Of steel among the strings ! But I must wait. 
 
SCENE II.J ANDREA THE PAINTER. 37 
 
 Enter Andrea and Silvestro. 
 
 Silv. Morello ! 
 
 Mor. Ha ! Who goes ? What ! you again ? 
 
 Silv. And with me Messer Andrea your friend, 
 Who comes to bid you for to-night go home, 
 And sleep yourself to calmness. 
 
 And. Even so ; 
 
 My good Morello, yes ; go home, and sleep. 
 
 Mor. And leave him peering with his satyr eyes 
 Into her window — and perchance her face ? 
 Not so, the time has come that I must breathe 
 Full breath, or breathe no more. 
 
 Silv. This might be well 
 
 Could you but stand against him equal-matched. 
 But he so perfectly hath tamed his hand 
 And weapon to obedience, so excels 
 By acknowledgment of all, to cross your sword 
 With his were mere self-murder. \To Andrea.] Tell 
 him, sir. 
 
 And. 'Tis true, poor lad, 'tis true. 
 
 Mor. The worse for me ; 
 
 But I must take my chance. He hath done me 
 
 wrong — 
 I hate him — there an end. 
 
 And. That you should hate 
 
 I will not say but (with such cause as yours) 
 I understand — ay, even understand 
 
 That you should wish to move him from your 
 
 path. 
 
38 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ii. 
 
 But that you thus are willing to lay bare 
 Your own young life unto your foe's attack, 
 That he may woo your mistress o'er your grave — 
 Hereat I marvel much. 
 
 Mor. This that you say, 
 
 Were I to follow it, would make of me 
 What you would loathe — a murderer. No, no, 
 in would take my rival's life, my rival 
 Must have a chance of mine. 
 
 Silv. But not to-night. 
 
 Mor. How not to-night? Hark to his blandish- 
 ments ! [Listening to the music. 
 
 Silv. Because to-night hath passion heated you. 
 And wine, it may be, him. 
 
 And. Indeed that's so ; 
 
 Thereof I had not thought Ay, peradventure 
 So unequal as you think they will not be. 
 If e'er 'tis safe to engage Domenico, 
 "Twill be to-night, when he is garrisoned 
 With what may play him false. 
 
 Mor. But 'tis not thus 
 
 That I would conquer him. 
 
 Silv. No, surely, no. 
 
 You see, to measure swords with him to-night 
 Were borrowing help of wine. Wait this one night ; 
 Stay till to-morrow. \Aside.] And to Nina then 
 I will unfold his peril ; if she loves, 
 She yet may make all well. [Aloud, to Andrea.] Look, 
 he is moved ; 
 
SCENE II.] ANDREA THE FAINTER. 39 
 
 O help me, sir, bid him this one night wait. 
 
 And. Indeed, would he not hurt Domenico, 
 'Tis thus I would advise ; the man is drunk. 
 
 Silv. [To MoRELLO.J You hear, you hear ? 
 
 Mor. What shall I do? 
 
 Silv. Go home. 
 
 Mor. Perchance 'twere best. But only for this timg; 
 And to his drunkenness, I yield. To-morrow — 
 O you shall see — to-morrow 
 
 Silv. Friend, good-night. 
 
 For the morrow, it must be as Heaven will 
 
 [Exit MORELLO. 
 
 O take my thanks, kind sir, and more than mine — 
 The thanks of all the saints — for this night's work ; 
 One life at least you have saved from timeless end. 
 Farewell ; all good be with you. \Exit. 
 
 And. One life saved ! 
 
 Which life ? Morello's ? if 'tis so, I am glad. 
 But if Domenico's ? I should be glad. 
 And yet — had he been ta'en away to-night, 
 How diff'rent were to-morrow from to-day ! 
 How largely had I quaffed the free purged air, 
 How bared my breast to feel the unclouded sun, 
 Being delivered from the power of ill. 
 Having no enemy ! Yon woman said 
 His triumph was at hand — and so it seems ; 
 But this had proved her false, and made me safe. 
 My star would then have ruled. What mighty change 
 How slight a thing may work ! A piece of steel 
 
40 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ii. 
 
 Scarce longer than my hand — \Taking a dagger from 
 
 his bosom, and looking at it] less were enough, 
 Two inches, three at most — could turn defeat 
 To victory, dull servitude to hope, 
 
 And hatred to contentment. Sure it is 
 
 Morello carries not a blade like this — 
 
 Or else He said he hated. There, no more ; 
 
 [Fuiting back the dagger. 
 I have no cause to hate, and so hate not. 
 None wrongs me with my mistress. Ha ! but Art, 
 Is Art not mine ? mine in whose sight I am shamed, 
 And she with me. Is this not wrong enough ? 
 Yes, some would say I have as good a right 
 To hate as any love-sick swain that lives. 
 
 [ Voices and latighter heard behind the scene, the 
 music having by this time ceased. 
 What is 't ? They — he ! [ Withdraws behind stattie. 
 
 Enter Domenico, Florid, and Lelio. 
 
 Dom. Nay, not another step. 
 
 Go home ; you are late enough. 
 
 Flo. But you are one. 
 
 And we are two 
 
 Dom. That do I not deny. 
 
 Some would say four maybe, but I say two. 
 
 Flo, You one, we two — and the night air hath 
 wrought 
 With the good wine to make you on your feet 
 Something unsteady. 
 
SCENE a.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 41 
 
 Dom. 'Tis the air alone. 
 
 I know — because I oft before have found 
 The air of night too strong. 
 
 Lei. Faith, so have I. 
 
 Indeed there's nought that goes so much to the head. 
 
 Flo. Still we being two, you one, we two are bound 
 To see you one safe home. 
 
 Dom. No need ; one man 
 
 Can walk as straight as two — especially 
 If the two go crooked. 
 
 Mo. Ha ! ha ! Why, there now — 
 
 You have made me laugh, and when I laugh you know 
 I cannot stop myself. Ha I ha ! In earnest. 
 Shall we not go with you ? 
 
 Dom. In earnest no j 
 
 I'll reach my home as safely as you yours. 
 It may be that my legs will try to slide 
 Away from the rest of me, but if they do, 
 I can myself put myself up again. 
 And as for other dangers of the night. 
 The city watch are bound to care, not I. 
 
 Flo. Ha! hal you still are bent to make me 
 laugh. 
 So then good-night. Commend me to his Gruffness, 
 The most exalted Messer Andrea, 
 If still you find him waking. 
 
 Dom. Nay, long since. 
 
 The worthy decent man, he lies asleep. 
 
 Lei. Dreaming perchance of you. 
 
 [Florio goes on laughing. 
 
42 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ii. 
 
 Dom. More likely yet 
 
 Of his own self, if it be true that dreams 
 Are the cold dishes of the day warmed up. 
 
 Lei. And is he his own favourite dish ? 
 
 Dom. Or stay — 
 
 He dreams of a solemn deputation sent 
 By his Magnificence, to beg and pray 
 Great Andrea the Indispensable 
 To embellish the new church, that by mistake 
 Was given to Domenico. Ha ! ha ! 
 I needs must laugh like Florio. 
 
 Lei. Poor soul ! 
 
 'Tis well he tastes such dishes in his sleep. 
 For they will ne'er be served to him awake. 
 
 \To Florio.] Come, haste you home, or you will 
 laugh yourself 
 Into a jelly. 
 
 Dom. On my life I too. 
 
 Poor soul ! poor Andrea ! he'll not grow fat 
 Upon such fare, belike. 
 
 Flo. Good-night. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Lelio, your arm. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 \Exit, laughing, with Lelio. 
 
 Dom. Not fat indeed- 
 
 Poor honest Andrea — not fat. Come, lute. 
 Give me your music home. How goes the tune ? 
 
 \Sings.\ Look forth, look forth, bright eyes, 
 And show your servant light 
 
SCENE II.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 43 
 
 By the ladder of his sighs 
 To scale his wished height. 
 
 [Exit, on the side opposite to that on which 
 Florio and Lelio have gone out, sounding 
 on his lute the air of the serenade. 
 
 And. [Coming forward.'] And if both Heav'n and 
 Hell, with voices joined 
 In echoing thunder, bade me now not hate, 
 I would but answer back, ' I hate, and hate, 
 And hate.' [Drawing his dagger.] Go on, go on, 
 
 Domenico, 
 But Andrea follows. 
 
 [Exit, in the same direction as Domenico. 
 
 Re-enter Florio and Lelio, in custody of Watchmen. 
 
 Flo. Nay, friends, on my word. 
 
 We're but a pair of peaceful citizens 
 Quietly going home. 
 
 \st Watch. Quietly ! ay — 
 
 We'll teach you to go yet more quietly 
 Another time. Shall all the town be waked 
 By such as you ? 
 
 Lei. More quiet we will be. 
 
 But let us now go home. 
 
 \st Watch. To the watch-house, sir ; 
 
 No other home to-night. 
 
 Dom. [Behind the scene.] Help! murder! 
 
44 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ii. 
 
 2nd Watch. Hark! 
 
 What cry ? 
 
 Flo. Domenico ! I know his voice. 
 
 Dom. Help ! help ! 
 
 \st Watch. We are needed yonder, sure 
 
 enough. 
 Quick— shoulder pikes — and march. 
 
 pio_ Alas ! what is't ? 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The same as Scene /, the supper-table and everything 
 else as at the end of that scene. 
 
 Enter Andrea, locking the door behind him. 
 
 And. At home — at home — safe now— where he 
 ne'er more 
 Can follow — no — ne'er more ; mine enemy 
 Is gone — ^made nought — my one great enemy, 
 Who was to conquer me, by me made nought. 
 So much for lying prophets. But this sword — 
 
 \Looking at a drawn sword which he holds in 
 his hand. 
 His — wherefore here ? Yea, I remember now j 
 But to have brought it home I did amiss. 
 And straight must hide it; men would know this 
 
 sword. 
 With hilt all plastered o'er like him with jewels. 
 
SCENE HI.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 45 
 
 I'll lock the gewgaw by ; no eye shall see. 
 
 \Goes to a closet, which he unlocks. 
 How my hand shakes ! But what now seems so 
 
 strange 
 Will seem less strange ere long — unless I wake, 
 And find 'tis all a dream. A dream ! And this ? 
 
 [Looking at the sword. 
 There, there— no more of it. 
 
 \Locks it up in the closet. 
 Now who shall say 
 It hath not been a dream ? Some talk of dreams 
 I heard not long ago. {Knocking is heard at the door. 
 
 Flo. {Without?^ What ho ! what ho 1 
 Andrea ! Messer Andrea ! \Knocks again. 
 
 And. My name ! 
 
 How should they know ? 
 
 Flo. [ Without?^ Good Messer Andrea — 
 
 For Heaven's love ! 
 
 And. Good Messer Andrea — 
 
 Good was the word — they know not then. Yes, 
 
 friend, 
 What would you ? I am here. 
 Flo. [ WithoutI\ Make haste ! make 
 
 haste ! 
 
 Andrea opens the door, and enter Florio. 
 
 Messer Andrea ! 
 
 .^nd. You have come to tell 
 
 Of some ill chance ? — or peradventure good ? 
 
46 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ii. 
 
 Flo. Ill — ill. O would 'twere not ! Domenico — 
 Our poor Domenico 
 
 And. So — what of him ? 
 
 Flo. Hath by some treach'rous stabber in the dark 
 Been fall'n upon, and wounded. 
 
 And. What ! not killed ? 
 
 Flo. But with so faint a spark of life yet left 
 That e'en the tenderest care must be too rough, 
 And only help to quench. They bring him now — 
 Or what was he ; for he already seems 
 No more than his own corse. 
 
 And. Bring! said you bring? 
 
 Not hither — to this house ? 
 
 Flo. Nay, whither else 
 
 But to his home, and yours that are his friend ? 
 Hark ! listen there ; they come. 
 
 Enter Lelio and Watchmen, carrying Domenico — 
 motionless and insensible. They lay him down. 
 Andrea stands apart. Florio joins Lelio, who 
 is kneeling by Domenico. 
 
 How fares he now ? 
 Lei. Lives still. But O I fear. 
 
 ^^o- Domenico ! 
 
 Speak, good Domenico ! 
 
 Lei- Ha ! stirred he not ? 
 
 A cordial— quick. O Messer Andrea, 
 Will you not help ? — a cordial. 
 
SCENE in.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 47 
 
 And. \Without looking round!\ Yonder 'tis — 
 The flask — there — on the table. 
 
 [Florio takes a flask from the table, and gives 
 it to Lelio, then approaches Andrea. 
 Flo. Sir! Nay, sir, 
 
 Must you be thus unmanned ? Will you not come 
 And look upon your friend, while still 'tis he ? — 
 Poor Messer Andrea ! 
 And. Is there blood ? 
 
 JFlo. Methinks 
 
 On his face not. Come then. 
 And. I will not. Hence ! 
 
 DoM. [Who has meantime tnade one or two slight 
 movements, and now speaks very faintly. , 
 Help ! murder ! help ! 
 Flo. He speaks ! Domenico ! 
 
 Dom. Ah ! villain ! Hold him— hold. What ! is 
 
 he 'scaped? 
 1st Watch. But not for long, sir. Say which way 
 
 he took. 
 Dom. Which way ? Where am I then ? Home ? 
 
 is this home ? 
 Lei. Yes, home, and here are friends — see, none 
 
 but friends. 
 \st Watch. Who was it? which way went he? 
 
 Think, and say. 
 Dom. He that hath slain me ? For 'tis slain I am, 
 
 Albeit still 
 
 Lei. Who then ? 
 
48 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ii. 
 
 Dom. How should I know ? 
 
 'Twas from behind he smote — how should I know ? 
 Andrea ! 
 
 Flo. He is here — but by his grief 
 Bereft of power to show it. 
 
 Dom. Bid him come. 
 
 Where ? Andrea ! Where ? 
 
 Flo. [To Andrea.] Deny him can you not. 
 
 Nay, courage, courage, man. 
 
 [Leads him to where Domenico lies. 
 
 Dom. This pain ! Ah ! traitor ! 
 
 Heav'n shall requite thee yet. [&««^ Andrea.] What ! 
 
 Andrea ! 
 Kind Andrea ! Indeed 'tis plain to see 
 You are sorry for your friend — your friend that now 
 Can be your friend no more. 
 
 xst Watch. Sir, think awhile, 
 
 And tell us all that chanced ; it much imports. 
 
 Dom. Tell ! what should be to tell ? One moment 
 nought 
 Save but a following footstep — and the next 
 The sharp steel in my flesh. 
 
 \st Watch. Is't all ? 
 
 Dom. Meseems 
 
 I drew my sword — yea, I bethink me now — 
 I drew my sword ; but from my hand 'twas wrenched, 
 And plunged in me ; then I and all things fell 
 Into the vault of the dark. I can no more — 
 Air — give me air ! 
 
SCENE iii.J ANDREA THE PAINTER. 49 
 
 xst Watch. [To the Others?^ Where is that sword? 
 
 2nd Watch. I threw 
 
 The light of my lantern over all the ground, 
 But saw no sword. 
 
 Lei. [Feeling at Domenico's side.] The scabbard's 
 empty still. 
 
 ist Watch. Let all remember this ; that sword one 
 day 
 May help us to the truth. 
 
 Dom. And now the pain 
 
 Is over — and I well-nigh over too. 
 Be not so grieved, good Andrea. Stoop down, 
 And say farewell. What ! is't so hard to look 
 A dying man in the face ? 
 
 And. You see I look. 
 
 What would you next ? 
 
 Dom. Kneel down. 
 
 And. I kneel. 
 
 Dom. For all 
 
 Past kindness take my thanks ; you have shown me 
 
 much. 
 I you a little too, I hope ; my secret 
 For mixing colours should be something worth. 
 May it so prove ; for I perchance have said 
 And thought oft-times what I should not — but now 
 We have forgiv'n each other all offence 
 We e'er have done each other, is't not so ? 
 
 And. I'll call more help. 
 
 E 
 
so ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ii. 
 
 Dom. {Clutching his arm.] No, no j keep near me 
 still. 
 Too late for help ; I am going — by cold death 
 
 Thrust forth 1 know not whither. 
 
 isi Watch. And nought more 
 
 You have to tell us of the height, the gait, 
 The voice of him that struck ? 
 
 Dom. Nought more — all's told 
 
 That I can ever tell — the rest I leave — 
 The task of vengeance — unto Andrea, 
 My brother Andrea — he will avenge — 
 Avenge — fear not. Where is he ? Lift my head, 
 And lay it on his arm — his, none but his — 
 Ay, that is well^ — he will avenge — 'tis well. 
 
 \Dies, his head resting on Andrea's arm, on 
 which the others have laid it. The Curtain 
 falls. 
 
 End of Act II. 
 
ACT III.] ANDREA THE PAINTER, 51 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene. — A Room in Ambrogio's House. 
 
 A Party of Wedding-guests discovered, among them 
 Benedetto. As the Curtain rises, Ambrogio enters 
 by a'door at the side, coming from an inner room. 
 
 Ami. You'll not have long to wait ; they say the 
 bride 
 Is all- but ready now ; they fasten on 
 The wreath, or veil, or some such frippery. 
 
 Ben. 'Twill be the wreath ; the day that I was wed, 
 They made me wait, and said it Was the wreath. 
 But if not that, 'twould have been something else ; 
 Being waited for is what a woman likes. 
 
 Amb. I can remember too my wedding-day — : — 
 Ah ! neighbour Benedetto, since those times 
 The world has changed. 
 
 Ben. So much the worse for the world. 
 
 Amb. Ay, so I think. The young ones now know 
 not 
 How 'twas when we were young. 
 
 Ben. No, poor things, no. 
 
 \Music sounds without. 
 
52 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act hi. 
 
 Amb. What music's that ? Go one of you, I pray, 
 And bid them cease ; tell them that in this house 
 Is grief as well as joy. \One of the younger Guests goes 
 to a door at the back of the stage, and speaks to those 
 without.'] 'Tis kindly meant ; 
 
 But they forget our Nina. 
 
 Ben. And is Nina 
 
 No better then to-day ? 
 
 Amb. Alack ! half dead 
 
 With pining sorrow. We seem hard of heart 
 To think of weddings while she sits and weeps ; 
 But 'twas her wish ; she prayed that for her sake 
 Silvestro and her sister should not lose 
 One single day of looked-for happiness. 
 If in the house was feast or fast, she said, 
 It mattered not to her. And truth she spoke ; 
 Her sorrow wraps her round as with a cloak. 
 That keeps out good and ill. 
 
 Ben. But is it still 
 
 For him — that villain — that her sorrow is ? 
 
 Amb. Her only thought is he, by night and day. 
 
 Ben. [To one of the Guests !\ And you that used to 
 be so sure her heart 
 Was giv'n unto the other. 
 
 Amb. As for that, 
 
 I was sure too, but a girl's heart is like 
 A skein of tangled silk, that even he 
 Who holds it cannot trace the windings of. 
 
 Ben. But 'tis your place to argue with her, friend, 
 
ACT II1.J ANDREA THE PAINTER. 53 
 
 To show her that to spend her thoughts on one 
 Who is proved a traitor and a murderer 
 Is a grave fault 
 
 Amb. Murderer ! even there 
 
 The question lies. 
 
 Ben. A question ! call you it ? 
 
 A question ! when we know that he had sworn 
 Vengeance upon Domenico that night ! 
 
 Amb. Ay, that makes much against him. 
 
 Ben. So thought he, 
 
 Or had not saved himself by timely flight. 
 
 Amb. Yet might he fly to 'scape an unjust charge ; 
 All fly that feel the hunters at their back. 
 
 Ben. Well, but this charge, you see, was not unjust. 
 After full trial his guilt hath been decreed. 
 
 Ami. That's true enough. 
 
 Ben. And sentence passed of death, 
 
 Which, if he e'er be found on soil that owns 
 The rule of Florence, nought can save him from. 
 
 Amb. All this looks bad, no doubt — looks very 
 bad. 
 
 Enter Nina, at the side-door. She pauses a moment, 
 listening. 
 
 Ben. Looks ! I say is — and that Morello's bad. 
 And all are bad who murder in the dark. 
 
 Nina. Who says Morello murders in the dark? 
 Who says it ? 
 
 Ben. [Confusedly.] What? 
 
54 ANDREA THE PATNTER. [act hi. 
 
 Nina. You ! Then now learn from me, 
 
 You that so little know him, learn from me, 
 Whose heart is one with his, that of this deed 
 He is as guiltless as the new-fall'n snow 
 Of the blood that murder marks it with — as free 
 To lift his eye to the eye above us all 
 As the best here. 
 
 Ben. To have so offended you 
 
 I grieve, but 
 
 Nina. Grieve to have oifended Heaven, 
 
 Which he that slanders innocence slanders too. 
 
 Antb. [To Benedetto.] There now — no more. 
 
 -Ben. Nay, I must speak my mind. 
 
 Your pardon, mistress Nina, but I hoped 
 To find you spared more sorrow than you do 
 Eor poor Domenico. 
 
 Nina. Domenico ! 
 
 To him I give my sorrow; but Morello — 
 To him my love, my love ; for him I weep 
 Not tears, but scalding blood-drops from my heart 
 
 Affili. Nina ! 
 
 Nina. Was love my word ? had I said it 
 
 While he was there to hear, with eyes and lips 
 And heart all pleading for a crumb of hope — 
 And I would give him none ; and to starve him 
 Starved myself too. I say it now, though now 
 It gladdens not him, nor me. 
 
 Ami. Alas ! poor child ! 
 
 Nina. But true^ it is, I love him — yea, and loved ; 
 
ACT III.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 55 
 
 Albeit it seems not true, when all I did 
 
 Was done to give him pain. And worse than pain 
 
 I have worked him now — hunted him forth from 
 
 home 
 With a price upon his head, his guiltless head, 
 That I have plucked down shame and ruin on. 
 Is not my love rare love ? 
 
 Amb. You cannot say 
 
 That this was through your fault. 
 
 Nina. Nay, but it was — 
 
 All through my fault — who spurned and trampled 
 
 down 
 AVhat most I prized, for the mere sake of seeing 
 How much 'twas mine — all through my wicked iault. 
 
 Ben. [To Ambrogio.] You yield to her too much. 
 [To Nina.] 'Twas not your fault 
 That there were murd'rous passions in his heart 
 For jealousy to set on fire. 
 
 Nina. Again ! 
 
 Again you call him murd'rer ! O to think 
 How I have murdered him ! to make his name 
 Thus in men's mouths blasphemed — ^he, raised as far 
 Above all guile as the sun above the clouds. 
 
 Ben. How will you say this when you know 'tis 
 proved 
 He had sworn to be avenged that very night ? 
 
56 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act hi. 
 
 Enter, at the door at the lack, Andrea. He advances,^ 
 unobserved by the others, who are grouped round 
 
 Nina. 
 
 Nina. Avenged with hand 'gainst hand, and sword 
 'gainst sword ; 
 No other vengeance could Morello's be. 
 Morello — my Morello — he was brave, 
 And not a coward ; therefore do I know 
 It was not he who stabbed his foe in the back. 
 For that's a coward's deed. [Andrea lets fall a small 
 casket which he carries. 
 
 Amb. What is't ? — How now ! 
 
 Good Messer Andrea — you ! I greet you well. 
 
 And. [ Who has meanwhile lifted the casket.^ And 
 I greet you — and you — and all else here. 
 A little token for the bride — some pearls 
 To deck her hair ; her sister will, I pray, 
 Present them, with my homage. . [Offering the casket to 
 Nina. 
 
 Nina. Rather let 
 
 My father give them, lest my hand should chance 
 To taint them with my fortune. 
 
 And. Ay ? your logic, 
 
 I see, is like most women's — something foggy 
 In premiss and conclusion. [To Ambrogio.] To your 
 
 charge 
 I give them then, since your fair daughter here 
 So strangely argues. 
 
ACT III. J ANDSEA THE PAINTER. 57 
 
 Amb. How shall Margherita 
 
 Thank you enough ? Such pearls ! We always knew 
 That Messer Andrea was kind, but now 
 'Tis tenfold proved. Well, you will be sore missed 
 At church by all of us. Silvestro said 
 To the church you would not come — but it may be 
 Your purpose now is changed ? 
 
 And. Though I come not. 
 
 Yet my best wishes shall. 
 
 Amb. You will not come ? 
 
 Nor would I press you, sir, since well I know 
 The cause that stays you. 
 
 Ben. May one ask what cause ? 
 
 Amb. Ah ! well I know. When last you saw that 
 church. 
 You went a mourner thither, following 
 Your poor friend's funeral. Ah ! what friends you 
 were ! 
 
 And. We'll speak no more of that. 
 
 Amb. True, I was wrong 
 
 To speak of it at all ; for easy 'tis 
 To see the wound bleeds still ; you have not looked 
 The same man since you lost him. Yet sure now. 
 At end of all these weeks, to think how close 
 You were together linked should comfort you. 
 
 And. The link is severed now. 
 
 Amb. Nay, say not so. 
 
 Perchance in death he is bound to you more fast 
 Than e'en in life — since now he better knows 
 
S8 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act hi. 
 
 How much you were his friend. Indeed a friend 
 Among ten thousand. 
 
 Ben. Thus I oft have said — 
 
 A friend among ten thousand. 
 
 Amb. Look — our bride. 
 
 Enter, at the side-door, a company of young girls, among 
 them Margherita, dressed as a bride. 
 
 What ! ready now for church ? I warrant you 
 Silvestro's there long since. But come, at last 
 We'll bring him what he waits for. 
 
 Marg. [Holding out her arms to Nina, who throws 
 herself into them.] Nina ! 
 
 Amb. Nay — 
 
 I had forgot — poor child ! 
 
 Marg. O can you e'er 
 
 Forgive me that I am happy ? Yet methinks 
 Not happy now — not now. 
 
 Nina. Yes, happy now — 
 
 E'en now ; you are, and should be. O 'tis strange 
 How near together sorrow and joy may come. 
 And neither take infection. — But I know 
 You love me, love me well as I love you. 
 
 Marg. My little sister, yes. How shall I go, 
 And leave you thus ? 
 
 Nina. But go you must. Farewell, 
 
 Nor grudge yourself your gladness ; I might be 
 As glad as you to-day had I been wise. 
 
ACT III.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 59 
 
 One marriage-day for both — 'twas thus he prayed ; 
 But I was hard as stone. And now enough ; 
 You make Silvestro wait. 
 
 Anib. Indeed 'tis so ; 
 
 No time for further tarrying. 
 
 Nina. Alas ! 
 
 She cannot say farewell — so then must I. 
 Take her, good father, and with tenderness 
 Give her to him who soon will dry her tears. 
 God speed you all. Let none be sad for me ; 
 I'll to my chamber, and there put up prayers 
 For her and my new brother, and all here — 
 And one besides who is- not. 
 
 \Be^ns to ascend a staircase leading to an upper 
 room. The wedding-guests form themselves in 
 procession, and go out at the door at the back, 
 Ambrogio leading Margherita. All being 
 gone, Andrea is about to follow, when Nina calls 
 him. 
 
 Sir! 
 And. Who speaks ? 
 
 Nina. \Coming downstair s.\ By your good leave, 
 there's somewhat I would say. 
 Somewhat I fain would hear. You are his friend-^ 
 Not like the others, but his friend. 
 
 And. Whose friend? 
 
 Nina. . Morello's. They are all against him — all. 
 But you — you cannot be. Say, you judge not 
 As they ? you know him guiltless ? is't not so ? 
 
6o ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act in. 
 
 You know it — e'en as I. 
 
 And. How should I know ? 
 
 Nina. Because you have seen his heart to the 
 inmost fold, 
 Arid that no evil lurked there. This I know 
 Whether you know or not, yet from your lips 
 I crave to hear that he hath one friend left 
 More potent than myself. Whoever doubts. 
 You doubt him not ? nay, speak. 
 
 And. He hath been judged 
 
 Guilty in open court. 
 
 Nina. 'Tis not the voice 
 
 Of men can make him guilty. 
 
 And. His own words 
 
 More than aught else condemned him ; he must bear 
 The blame of his own words. 
 
 Nina. You ! even you 
 
 Against him too ! He always took your part. 
 We well-nigh quarrelled once, because I said 
 Domenico called you jealous. 
 
 And. Ay, was't so ? 
 
 Domenico called me jealous ? 
 
 Nina. But Morello 
 
 Flew into rage, and said you were too great 
 E'er to be touched with jealousy. You see 
 He was more just to you than you to him. 
 
 And. I would not be unjust. But he spoke 
 words 
 That others needs must deem sure proof of guilt. 
 
ACT III.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 6i 
 
 Nina. Others ! O then not you ? you hold him 
 
 clear ? 
 And. Perchance — I cannot tell. 
 Nina. You hold him clear? 
 
 say it — say ! 
 
 And. If 'tis to do you good 
 
 Yes, yes, I hold him clear ; that is, so far 
 As 'tis for me to know. 
 
 Nina. Heav'n bless you, sir. 
 
 You are like Heav'n, and love the innocent. 
 So then at last I have found a friend ; at last 
 
 1 know who'll give me help. 
 
 And. Ay, and what help ? 
 
 Nina. You ask what help when even now Morello 
 Roams the cold earth an outcast ? help to lay 
 The guilt on the guilty head, and from the guiltless 
 To take the burden off; to this one end 
 I have vowed henceforth my life. 
 
 And. Thy wits are crazed. 
 
 Nina. Maybe. But you will help me, sir? the 
 cause 
 Is yours as well as mine — mine for the sake 
 Of my Morello, yours for his sake too. 
 And your poor friend Domenico's ; they say 
 He charged you to avenge him. Come, a pact — 
 Let's make a pact. 
 
 And. What senseless talk is this ? 
 
 Nina. Not senseless — no ; you promise on your 
 side 
 
62 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act hi. 
 
 To help me in my quest, and I on mine 
 That when at last I find the man I seek — 
 And find I shall, doubt not 
 
 And. You think? 
 
 Nina. I know — 
 
 And you shall help. Well, sir, the pact is this — 
 I'll find, and you shall punish ; since for vengeance 
 I care not^I — but only iox my love. 
 Yet that he should be punished is most sure ; 
 The least of all his harms is that he hath done 
 To me — and he hath made me what you see. 
 
 And. I see that you are fevered, and in need 
 Of rest and quiet. Best lie down awhile. 
 
 Nina. Indeed sometimes such thoughts are in my 
 brain 
 As seem to parch it up — and thus 'tis now. 
 I'll go lie down, and rest, as you have said — 
 Or, if not rest, then pray. Farewell. Our pact — 
 You'll not forget our pact ? • 
 
 And. Girl, give me peace — 
 
 No, no, I'll not forget. 
 
 Nina. May Heaven help 
 
 Your help of me, kind sir. I will go pray ; 
 I have need of prayer. Morello — my Morello ! 
 
 \Goes upstairs weeping, and Exit by an upper 
 door. 
 
 And. 'Twould well-nigh seem he lives again in her. 
 And through her wreaks his hate. Ay, ev'rywhere — 
 In the things I stop to pity as I pass. 
 
ACT in.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 63 
 
 Even as her I pitied — he lies hid, 
 And springs at me from ambush. Who would think 
 Upon a wedding-day, 'mong wedding-guests, 
 His name had been so oft hurled at my head? 
 To be alone is dreary, but alone 
 At least I have power to choose what theme I will, 
 And think of somewhat else than only him — 
 Or try to think. O fool — can I not set 
 My thoughts free now, not now I am alone ? 
 Must they be always chained ? must I, alive. 
 Be bound to a dead man ? — bound, as they said. 
 Tush, tush, no more. He was mine enemy, 
 My destined enemy, who hated me 
 E'en as I him — in spite of all my pains 
 To be his friend ; one only way was left 
 To cure his hate — I took it, and am free, 
 And will be free — yea, free. \A knock is heard. 
 
 What noise is there ? 
 The door at the back is thrown open, and Enter 
 Lorenzo's Chamberlain, followed by two 
 Attendants. 
 Cham. In the high name of his Magnificence, 
 And of the State, I enter. 
 
 And. And what is't 
 
 That in such name you seek ? 
 
 Cham. We seek the painter 
 
 Andrea del Castagno, whom in his home 
 We find not, and so come to look for here. 
 Since, as they tell us, here his errand lay. 
 
64 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act hi. 
 
 And. And what would you with him ? 
 
 1st Ait. [To Chamberlain.\ Sir, this is he — 
 I know it — he himself. 
 
 And. You know ? 
 
 Cham. Why then, 
 
 \Makes a profound reverence to Andrea. 
 The greatest painter that our Florence hath 
 By me doth his Magnificence salute. 
 
 And. Ay, ay, is't so ? Your pardon if such honour 
 Hath something fluttered me. 
 
 Cham. And furthermore 
 
 Sends you in gift this chain, wherewith he prays 
 That you will let me fetter your good-will 
 To him and to the city that he loves. 
 
 [Throwing a gold chain round Andrea's neck. 
 
 And. My humble thanks to his Magnificence, 
 Who hath filled my fortune fuller than e'er yet. 
 I was already his, but now am bound 
 Yet closer to his service, kissing thus 
 The chain that binds me. 
 
 Cham. He will joy to hear 
 
 I have found you so compliant, for e'en now 
 He seeks your help in what doth much concern 
 His and the city's fame — the embellishing 
 Of the new church, whereof you are prayed by both 
 To take sole charge. 
 
 And. That church ! 
 
 Cham. On your poor friend 
 
 Messer Domenico the choice first fell — 
 
ACT III.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 65 
 
 Not that he seemed the worthiest by his art, 
 But to entice him still to keep for us 
 The allegiance that by birth he owed elsewhere, 
 And bind him fast to Florence — your desire 
 No less than ours, you being to him a friend 
 Of such rare friendship. 
 
 And. I had known him long. 
 
 And knew him well. 
 
 Cham. But as an unkind fate 
 
 Hath crossed that purpose, his Magnificence 
 Is now set free to choose for worth alone, 
 And chooses you, if you will do to him 
 And to your native Florence so much honour 
 As let yourself be chosen. 
 
 And. I must needs 
 
 Unto command so high submit myself. 
 
 Cham. Since thus it stands, as glad I am to find, 
 My task is next to bring you with all speed 
 To the palace, there to take from his own lips 
 Our lord Lorenzo's thanks. \Music heard without. 
 
 Music ! how now ! 
 
 And. The daughter of the house returning home 
 A newly wedded bride. I will but stay 
 To wish her well, and then am wholly yours. 
 
(>(i ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act hi. 
 
 Music. Re-enter, at the door at the back, Margherita, 
 led by Silvestro, with Ambrogio, Benedetto, 
 and the other Guests, ^ivullk follows. 
 
 Sib. Who will have counsel? coiansel true and 
 wise? 
 Of all these young ones who ? 
 
 Amb. What ! she again ? 
 
 Hence, woman ; no need here of such as you. 
 
 Sib. No need ! So many youths and maidens met, 
 And warning and good guidance needed not ! 
 Be not afraid ; I am old, but age is wise. 
 
 And. Or sometimes foolish. Lo, this crone is she 
 Who tried her skill on me not long ago. 
 A foolish crone indeed ! I was to fall 
 Into the power of some great enemy. 
 And serve him evermore ; the hour, she said, 
 Was even then at hand — but, as I think, 
 'Tis not come yet. A foolish, lying crone ! 
 
 Sib. 'Tis you that lie, not I. All that I read 
 Was written plain and clear ; the lines lie not. 
 
 And. I tell thee, hag, I have no enemy. 
 
 Sib. Give me your palm again, and I will see 
 Whether you have or not. Aha ! you fear ? 
 
 And. No, no, too poor a prophet art thou proved 
 That I should fear thee. Look. 
 
 [Showing her his hand. 
 
 Sib. Ay, said I not ? 
 
 An enemy that holds thee in his grip. 
 
ACT III.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 67 
 
 He is the master now, and thou the slave. 
 
 And. 'Tis false — I know 'tis false. 
 
 Sib. I know 'tis true. 
 
 See here this line — how deeply is it graved 
 Since last I looked ! thou ne'er shalt smooth it out. 
 The day of his power is come, and shall not cease. 
 
 And. A fool and liai both ! Begone, begone ! 
 
 Sib. As it was written, so it hath befallen. 
 
 And. Begone, I say ! \To Ambrogio.] I marvel 
 you will let 
 Your honest house be tainted by a witch. 
 
 Amb. It shall not longer. Out ! 
 
 Several. [Following Sibilla, who moves to the door.\ 
 Out ! out ! a witch ! 
 
 Sib. [Turning round on the threshold?^ Thou'rt rid 
 of me. But be he who he may, 
 He shall stay with thee till thy dying day. [Exit. 
 
 And. Ha ! ha ! a proper jest ! The fool knows not 
 How little harm my enemy can do, 
 If enemy I have. Behold — [Showing his chain.'\ the 
 
 gift 
 Of our great lord Lorenzo, brought to-day 
 By the hand of this most worthy gentleman. 
 An enemy would sure have hindered it. 
 
 Amb. Our lord Lorenzo's gift? 
 
 And. Ay, even so ; 
 
 I have cause, you see, to laugh ; this proves at least 
 My star not quite o'erpowered. And with it came 
 The prayer that I would lend what art I have 
 
68 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act ni. 
 
 To embellish the new church. Not that indeed 
 
 That task I ever greatly coveted, 
 
 But any task that his Magnificence 
 
 With such kind words appoints me I must prize. 
 
 Cham. And my report hath rather made them seem 
 Less kind than more ; so shall you find anon 
 In the greeting that awaits you, when you please 
 To come with me, and claim it. 
 
 And. True, most true. 
 
 The gracious summons I too long neglect. 
 Your pardon, firiends, but I am called e'en now 
 To our lord Lorenzo's presence. 
 
 Amb. From my heart 
 
 I am glad of this, good sir, and give you joy. 
 Silv. Joy and long life to Messer Andrea ! 
 All. Long life to Messer Andrea ! long life ! 
 And. My thanks to all. \To Chamberlain.] Now 
 am I ready, sir. 
 To wait on his Magnificence. 
 
 [Makes a few steps towards the door, then turns. 
 Farewell, 
 And thanks again ; you have honoured me too much. — 
 If e'er I had an enemy who could harm, 
 'Twould surely seem that now he hath lost his power. 
 Re-enter Nina, appearing on the landing above, 
 jyina. You are going, sir ? You'll not forget our 
 pact? 
 
 [The Curtain falls. 
 
 End of Act III. 
 
ACT IV.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 69 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene. — Andrea's Studio. 
 
 Benedetto, Rosa, and Lauretta discovered. Enter 
 Francesco. 
 
 Fran. My master greets you, sir, and bids me say 
 He will be with you in a minute's space, 
 
 Beru I fear we trespass,- but I've known so long 
 Good Messer Andrea, that you see I take 
 An old friend's license. My two nieces here 
 Are from the country come express to look 
 At the wonders of the town, and nought would serve 
 But I must show them Messer Andrea too, 
 And that new picture that they say he makes 
 For his Magnificence. Is't finished ? 
 
 Fran. Ay, 
 
 The last touch put, and his Magnificence 
 Shall come himself to-morrow morn to see. 
 
 Rosa. What ! his Magnificence ! here ! where we 
 stand ! 
 
 Ftan. He is bound to-morrow for his hunting-seat, 
 And on his way stops here, in the early morn. 
 So must we needs be stirring in good time. 
 
70 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 Lau. 'Twill be a thing to talk of to our friends 
 The winter through ! 
 
 Ben. This is indeed an honour 
 
 To make your master glad. He is well, I hope ? 
 
 Fran. Yes, well — I give you thanks. 
 
 Ben. And sleeps at night 
 
 More soundly than he did ? 
 
 Fran. I think it, sir. 
 
 Ben. Ah ! that will be the sleeping-draught, no 
 doubt, 
 I counselled him to take ; it could not fail. 
 You see a mouse like me may sometimes chance 
 To help a lion. Tell him not to haste ; 
 Our leisure serves us well. [Francesco bows, and Exit. 
 
 Rosa. How fine a house ! 
 
 Lau. Do all the artists then in Florence live 
 In houses like to this ? 
 
 Ben. Nay, 'tis an artist 
 
 Of artists, girls, that I shall show you now. 
 Yes, a good house — none of your niggards he. 
 That would grudge seeing his own sheep browse because 
 The grass they browsed was his. I know him well. 
 
 Rosa. And he hath lived here always ? 
 
 Ben. ■ Ever since 
 
 r knew him first ; and that hath been for years. 
 His old house was not bad, but unto that 
 He took a sudden hatred, for the sake 
 Of his poor friend Messer Domenico. 
 
 Rosa. Was't he you said was murdered ? 
 
ACT IV.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 71 
 
 Ben. Even he. 
 
 How Messer Andrea mourned him ! since that loss 
 He hath seemed another man. 
 
 Lou. And to this day 
 
 The murd'rer goes unpunished ? 
 
 Ben. Ay, he fled ; 
 
 And all these years hath ne'er been heard of since. 
 
 Lau. And once you knew him, uncle ? Only think ! 
 To know a murd'rer must be very strange. 
 
 Ben. Hush, children, hush ! here Messer Andrea 
 comes! 
 He might not like this talk. 
 
 .Enter Andrea. 
 
 How shall I make 
 Excuse enough, good sir ? but these two girls 
 Have heard so much of you and of the picture 
 You paint for his Magnificence 
 
 And. For me, 
 
 Behold me at their service, though methinks 
 They are like to find the picture better worth 
 The pains of looking at ; behold it too. 
 
 [Showing them a picture on an easel. 
 
 Rosa. And this was made for his Magnificence ! 
 I thought it would be larger. 
 
 Ben. Silly child !— 
 
 They are no judges, sir. Now on my word, 
 What mellowness ! what warmth ! 
 
 And. But not too warm. 
 
72 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 I fain would hope ? 
 
 Ben. O no, no, not too warm ; 
 
 There is a pearly coolness through it all 
 Which quite refreshes. Nothing cold, you know, 
 But cool — so cool ! 
 
 And. And you who understand 
 
 So well what coolness is ! I am glad indeed. 
 
 Ben. And then again the roundness of your work — 
 The perfect roundness ! 
 
 And. But I hope the angles 
 
 Are well defined enough ? 
 
 Ben. The angles — yes — 
 
 O, thoroughly defined. 
 
 And. Completely round, 
 
 With angles. I'm so glad you are content ; 
 I prize your judgment much. 
 
 Ben. Such atmosphere ! 
 
 One feels that one could breathe that atmosphere. 
 
 And. If not too cool. 
 
 Ben. Nay, not too cool. 
 
 And. Or else 
 
 A trifle warm. 
 
 Ben. No jot too warm. 
 
 And. So then 
 
 Both hot and cold, according to the wind ? 
 You know not, sir, the pleasure that yoU give. 
 
 Lau. {Pointing to a part of the picture.] O Rosa, 
 see ! this head of Judas here — '■ 
 At least I think 'tis Judas, for it comes 
 
ACT IV.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 73 
 
 Where Judas ought to be ■ 
 
 And, 'Tis Judas, ay. 
 
 Lau. But hath the very look of you yourself. 
 
 And. You say so ? 
 
 Rosa, And indeed, sir, so it is. 
 
 And. Ha ! ha ! you have found me out. I chanced 
 one day 
 To have no fit model, so was fain to take 
 That which is always by me — and it seems 
 I hit the likeness better than I thought. 
 Where is my palette ? I must fall to work. 
 With your good leave ; the day will soon be done. 
 \Goes to a picture on another easel, and begins to paint. 
 
 Ben. In truth I know how costly is your time. 
 We must not keep you more. 
 
 And. I thank you much 
 
 For this consid'rateness. 
 
 Ben. Yet must I think 
 
 'Tis pity for your health to work so hard, 
 And never to unbend yourself with friends. 
 
 And. Hard work suits better with my health than 
 friends. 
 
 Ben. But not too hard. 'Tis that hard work of 
 yours 
 That keeps you pale. You told me once you were 
 
 pale 
 Because you slept so ill, but sleeping ill 
 Is the fault of over-work. 
 
 And. Then you sleep well. 
 
74 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 Ben. Indeed, sir, yes. You have tried the sleeping- 
 draught, 
 And found it good ? 
 
 And. Ay, ay; as good well-nigh 
 
 As poppy-heads — or words that drip, drip, drip. 
 
 Ben. I never knew it fail. What picture's that 
 You work on now ? 
 
 And. 'Tis Charity — unclothed, 
 
 To show how cold she is. 
 
 Ben. Ah ! beautiful ! 
 
 So tender and so fresh ! But Charity 
 I never should have looked for, sir, from you. 
 
 And. So ? and why not ? 
 
 Ben. Because they always say 
 
 That grim things suit you best — grim grisly things 
 That turn one's backbone cold. That picture now 
 You painted once at order of the State, 
 Of the conspirators hanging by the heels — 
 There was a picture ! After that, you know, 
 You bore no other name for many a day 
 Than Andrea the Hanging. 
 
 And. So I have heard. 
 
 Ben. A foolish phrase, but meant for compli- 
 ment. 
 Well, well, you are busy, and we must not stay. 
 I see you are busy. Did you speak, sir ? 
 
 And. No. 
 
 Ben. Why then farewell. 
 
 And. Farewell. 
 
ACT IV. J ANDREA THE PAINTER. 75 
 
 Ben. Come, children, come. 
 
 \_Exit, with Rosa and Lauretta. 
 
 And. Grim things and grisly — ay, they suit me 
 best; 
 Griln things I understand. O if I would. 
 The picture I could paint ! a grimmer picture 
 Than any of mine yet. A street by night, 
 And huddled on the pavement a dark heap 
 Shaped like a man, with three points standing out 
 In white relief — two hands, one face ; a face 
 Unconscious as a stone, and as a stone 
 Hard-cut and unforgiving. Then, close by. 
 Another form, but standing, with its feet 
 Trampling a broken lute, and in one hand 
 
 A sword blood-dripping, and its face Nay, nay, 
 
 That face I would not show — nay, not that face. 
 But e'en without the face some prying fools 
 Would guess ; they guessed the Judas. So that picture 
 I dare not give them yet — would that I might ! 
 To see it on the canvas would perchance 
 Discharge it from my brain ; and to the canvas 
 I might, when so it pleased me, shut my eyes. 
 But memory's eyes are lidless. O most sure 
 He yet hath power upon me, or why is't 
 I cannot shake him off? Mine enemy 
 The master — I the slave ; thus 'twas she said ; 
 And still the line grows deeper, darker still — 
 
 \Looking at his hand. 
 The line she told me was my enemy's mark 
 
76 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 Graved on my palm. And yet the man is dead ; 
 Who better knows than I that he is dead ? 
 
 Re-enter Francesco. 
 How now ? 
 
 Fran. Your pardon, sir, but yonder's one 
 Who for admittance begs and prays as hard 
 As a lost soul for grace — one strange to me, 
 But not, he says, to you. 
 
 And. His name ? 
 
 Fran. His name 
 
 He will not give, but says, albeit poor 
 And wretched now, he used to know you well. 
 
 And. Let him come in ; the light is too far spent 
 For further work. 
 
 Fran. [Going to the side, and beckoning.l This way, 
 this way. 
 
 And. And he, 
 
 Whoe'er he be, is better company 
 Than what I have. 
 
 Enter Morello, poorly dressed. Francesco goes out. 
 
 So, sir, you say you are poor 
 And wretched, and are one of those maybe 
 Who think that wretched is the same as poor. 
 If so, you are well off still. 
 
 Mor. You know me not ? 
 
 Master, you know me not ? 
 
 And. Morello ! 
 
ACT IV.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 77 
 
 Mor. Ay, 
 
 Your poor Morello — poor and wretched too. 
 
 And. You here ! where 'tis your death to be ! 
 Away ! 
 
 Mor. But though the stones should rise to call me 
 guilty, 
 You do not, master — cannot. 
 
 And. Cannot ! why ? 
 
 Mar. Because you know me ; is not that enough ? 
 
 And. But I who think you innocent am one, 
 The others many — they will have your Hfe; 
 'Tis forfeit to the law, which bids for it 
 With price to who will sell. Haste then, and fly. 
 Hence, madman — hear you not ? 
 
 Mor. My life I am tired 
 
 Of eating for, nor will I further try 
 
 To save it till I see that which I pray 
 
 Kind Heaven may be still for me to see. 
 
 And. And what is that ? — ^Who knows but even now 
 You are tracked by the hunters ? 
 
 Mor. Nina. Tell me this, 
 
 Dear master, Nina lives ? 
 
 And. Ay, ay, she lives. 
 
 Mor. And still unwed ? Yet if a happy wife, 
 I ought to say ' God bless her,' and I would — 
 And then ne'er speak again. 
 
 And. Yes, still unwed. 
 
 Mor. My Nina ! And hath not forgot me quite ? 
 One newly come from Florence told me once 
 
78 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 She had not quite forgot ; is this so yet ? 
 
 And. So 'tis, I think. But listen, boy. 
 
 Mor. Thanks, 
 
 thanks, 
 And with my thanks farewell ; all that I came 
 To ask of you is giv'n. 
 
 And. You will fly now ? 
 
 Mor. To her — yea, fly to her. 
 
 And. From her, from 
 
 Florence, 
 And all that Florence holds ; if you but let 
 The gates of the city shut you in to-night, 
 Your life is caught in a trap, and see how fast 
 The night creeps on. 
 
 Mor. If Nina bid me live, 
 
 My life will have new worth, but not before. 
 See her I must, or of my yearning die. 
 
 And. Die then, but not upon my head your blood ; 
 Remember, not on mine. 
 
 Mor. In good faith no ; 
 
 All that you could to save me you have done. 
 
 And. And could and would- no more, betide what 
 may. 
 Look not to me for life. 
 
 Mor. How should I look ? 
 
 And. Because you think perchance that I have 
 power. 
 And am your friend — and so in truth I am ; 
 But have no power. One moment — of my friendship 
 
ACT IV.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 79 
 
 I'll give you proof, \ppemng a desk.'\ This purse of 
 
 gold 
 
 Mor. No, no ; 
 
 Your gold I came not for. 
 
 And. Yet pray you take — 
 
 To do me pleasure, take ; and when I hear. 
 As soon I hope to hear, that you have 'scaped 
 Out of this city of death, I'll send you more — 
 All that you will, all that I have. There, take. 
 
 Mor. Nay, pardon me ; indeed 
 
 [Loud knocking heard. 
 And. What should it be? 
 
 A Voice without. In name of the city and the state 
 
 of Florence ! 
 And. So, said I not ? you are tracked. Hide ! 
 
 hide! 
 Mor. No use — 
 Nor worth the pains. 
 
 And. You shall. Get you in there — 
 
 Into my chamber — quick. 
 Mor. Since thus you will. 
 
 \Exit into an inner room, the door of which is 
 shut on him by Andrea. 
 
 Enter an Officer, with Soldiers. 
 
 Off. You are alone, good Messer Andrea ? 
 
 And. Alone, sir, as you see. 
 
 Off. What ho ! more light ! 
 
8o ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act i\. 
 
 A torch this way ; make haste. \To Andrea.] That, 
 
 with your leave, 
 We must ourselves have proof of. In this house 
 We have sure tidings that a while ago 
 There entered one who is not yet come forth. 
 
 Enter more Soldiers, with torches, the stage having for 
 some time been getting darker. 
 
 And. You see he is not here. 
 
 Re-enter Morello. 
 
 Mor. But now is here. 
 
 Dear master, no ; you shall not suffer harm 
 For sake of such as I. 
 
 Off. Ho ! seize him, seize ! 
 
 Mor. Yea, seize me ; there is nought that now I 
 care 
 To strive for or to hinder. Yet indeed 
 One thing I fain would say ; 'tis not his fault 
 That I am here to-night ; all unawares 
 I took him, giving him no time to think 
 If he would welcome me or thrust me forth. 
 
 Off. Be at ease, fellow ; Messer Andrea 
 Is one that doth not need defence from you ; 
 Nor will he feel much flattered, as I fear, 
 By a murderer's good word. 
 
 Mor. No murderer — 
 
 An honest man — no murderer. 
 
 Off. Quick there ; ■ 
 
ACT IV.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 8i 
 
 The fetters — he is restive. 
 
 {Soldiers begin to fetter Morello. 
 
 Mor. And one here 
 
 Believes me innocent, one whose good thoughts 
 I care for more than yours. 
 
 Off. Pish ! Innocent \ 
 
 Mor. Ay, but he doth. O master, is't not so ? 
 
 And. He was a good lad once, so must I needs 
 Still think the best of him. 
 
 Off, Why then, this proves. 
 
 If he will pardon me so bold a word, 
 The innocence of Messer Andrea. 
 
 And. That ne'er was brought in doubt. 
 
 Off. I mean it 
 
 proves 
 The simpleness and goodness of your heart- 
 Well known already. 
 
 And. His Magnificence — 
 
 Is he alone to-night ? 
 
 Off. What ! you would try 
 
 Your arguments on his Magnificence ? 
 Sir, you would waste your pains. To be believed 
 There is no help but this ; if 'twas not he 
 That did the deed, give up the man that did. 
 \To Soldiers.\ Now is he ready ? 
 
 Mor. First a brief farewell. 
 
 \To Andrea.] Sir, tell her, if I ne'er should see her 
 
 more — 
 As like it is I shall not 
 
 G 
 
82 ANDREA THE FAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 Off. Ay, small time 
 
 For seeing left you now, I warrant you. 
 You will not see to-morrow to its end. 
 
 Mor. Tell her I loved her always. Nay, I pray. 
 Be not so sad for me ; my Hfe's not worth 
 My sorrow — much less yours. 
 
 Off. Hence, hence, I say. 
 
 Mor. Farewell ; may all good deeds that you have 
 done 
 Be coined to golden blessings. 
 
 \Exeunt Officer and Soldiers, leading off Mo- 
 RELLO. Andrea stands motionless. The 
 stage is now dark. After a pause, re-enter 
 Francesco, with a lamp. 
 Fran. They're gone now. 
 
 The coil that they have made in a quiet house J 
 See, sir, I bring your lamp. Is there aught more 
 Your honour would command of me to-night ? — 
 Are you not well ? 
 And. Well ! How should I be well ? 
 
 Fran. What ! sir, is't thus ? Nay, be of better 
 cheer. 
 Though an old wound this evening bleeds afresh. 
 What cause of joy is yours that your poor friend 
 Should be avenged at last ! the friend you loved 
 So much and mourned. 
 And. ^Stamping with his footP[ Talk not to me of 
 friends. 
 \More calmly^ If you say 'friend,' Morello is a friend — 
 
ACT IV.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 83 
 
 Or was so once ; no marvel if I am moved. 
 
 Fran. Nay, but a murderer, sir — a murderer. 
 You cannot care for such. 
 
 And. True, true. O no — 
 
 Not care for such. Ha ! ha ! Nor will I care. 
 A murderer of himself, if of nought else — 
 A fool, a headstrong fool, who chose to turn 
 From safety back to danger. I'll not care ; 
 He showed no care for me when here he came 
 To splash me with his blood. But I can bear 
 A drop or two of blood, and never flinch. 
 
 Fran. Alas ! sir, you are ill. 
 
 And. Perchance, perchance; 
 
 'Tis what I owe to him. 
 
 Fran. You must to bed. 
 
 And sleep, good sir ; nought else will make you well. 
 
 And. No sleep for me. 
 
 Fran. And his Magnificence, 
 
 Who comes to-morrow mom to be the judge 
 Of your new picture ; have you then forgot ? 
 How will you give him greeting with no sleep ? 
 You'll be in raving fever. 
 
 And. Raving fever ! 
 
 Do men that are in fever always rave ? 
 
 Fran. What say you if you tried that sleeping- 
 draught 
 Of Messer Benedetto's ? he protests 
 It ne'er can fail. 
 
 And. Well thought of. Fetch it straight. 
 
84 ANDREA -THE PAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 I'll sleep in spite of him. Why should I not ? 
 A stubborn dolt. Pour me a bumper but — 
 A double bumper — his Magnificence 
 Shall find us in good trim. 
 
 [Francesco goes to a closet, and brings out a 
 phial, which he empties into a glass. Andrea 
 seats himself in an arm-chair. 
 
 'Tis not because 
 A madman chooses death instead of life, 
 That I should lose my sleep. I have the right, 
 If I but can, to wrap myself safe up 
 From him and all the world — and will. Give here. 
 \Takes the glass offered by Francesco, and 
 drinks. 
 Fran. And now, sir, you'll to bed ? 
 And. Yes, yes. Good- 
 
 night, 
 And thank you well, Francesco. {Exit Francesco. 
 
 The last night 
 He hath to sp»end on earth ! But what of that ? 
 He is not now my friend ; no friend would stretch 
 His friend upon the rack as he hath me. 
 
 Perchance indeed '- This line upon my palm 
 
 Should show my enemy lives ; he whom I thought 
 My enemy is dead ; what if that friend, 
 That seeming friend, had been my foe throughout ? 
 Who knows ? who knows ? — A curse on meddling fools 
 And on false friends alike ; they are rightly served 
 With the worst that may befall. 
 
ACT iv.J ANDREA THE PAINTER. 85 
 
 Re-enter Francesco. 
 
 Fran. O sir, the daughter 
 
 Of old Messer Ambrogio 
 
 And. How now i 
 
 Should this be sleep or waking ? 
 
 Fran. Waits without—' 
 
 And so entreats to see you 
 
 And, Not to-night 
 
 She shall not — no, I ^y. 
 
 Fran. I told her, sir, 
 
 You were ailing, and would sleep, but she so pleads, 
 Twould melt the stoniest heart 
 
 And, Bid her be gone ; 
 
 I will not hear her now. 
 
 Enter Nina. Andrea rises, supporting Mmself on the 
 arm of &e chair, 
 
 Nina. O but you will. 
 
 You shall, you must ; hear me and pity me, 
 For hearing me and pitying is all one. 
 
 And. You say I must Francesco, you may go ; 
 Your sleep the lady hath no grudge against 
 
 \ExU Francesco. 
 What would you then ? Your pardon if I sit ; 
 I am tired, and fain would rest Pray you be brief. 
 
 \Seais himself again. 
 
 Nina. Morello — O Morello [IVeeps. 
 
 And. Still that name ! 
 
 Nina. Is back again in Florence, and for welcome 
 
86 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 Hath found a prison, where he lies to-night, 
 Waiting his doom to-morrow. 
 
 And. I remember. 
 
 If thus you had not brought it to my mind, 
 I had held it for a dream ; it seems like one. 
 Would I were dreaming ! Wherefore do you come 
 To keep me from my dreams ? 
 
 Nina. save him, sir ! 
 
 And. How think you I should save ? Beseech 
 you leave me 
 Unto myself to-night. I have ta'en a drug 
 To make me sleep, artd with my memory 
 And wits it fights e'en now. 
 
 Nina. After to-night 
 
 'Twill be too late ; to-morrow he must die, 
 Unless you save. 
 
 And. I have no power to save. 
 
 Who told you I have power ? 
 
 Nina. What ! you no power, 
 
 Whom our great lord Lorenzo smiles upon. 
 And thinks it honour to honour ? 
 
 And. This he doth. 
 
 And this shall still — shall always. 
 
 Nina. Ay, so much 
 
 That he shall come to-morrow to your house — 
 To-morrow morn, while time will serve us yet. 
 
 And. E'en so, he comes, and therefore must I 
 sleep, 
 Or else be found in raving fever. Go ; 
 
ACT IV.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 87 
 
 I could sleep now, methinks. 
 
 Nina. First pass your word 
 
 To plead Morello's cause. You told me once 
 You held him guiltless ; say it to the world, 
 And you will be believed. 
 
 And. \JDreamily.'\ To be believed 
 
 There is no help but this \ if 'twas not he 
 That did the deed, give up the man that did. 
 
 [Rousing himself violently.'] No, never, never. Ay, 
 you thought I slept ? 
 You see I am awake. — What was't I said ? 
 I meant I could do nothing if I would. 
 
 Nina. O but you could, would you put forth your 
 power. 
 And say all that you might. 
 
 And. I could say nought ; 
 
 My tongue moves as the tongue of one in a dream. 
 
 Nina. O think agam, and you will see you could. 
 If I but knew Lorenzo as you know, 
 How I could plead ! Think, think what way is best 
 To move him to belief. 
 
 And. {Again dreamily.'] The surest way 
 Would be to show the picture ; 'tis a way 
 That I have oft-times thought of. 
 
 Nina. Picture ! 
 
 And. Ay, 
 
 That picture — of the heap upon the ground. 
 With the white face shining out — and of the man. 
 The man with the naked sword. 
 
88 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 Nina. So wandering ! 
 
 Where shall I turn to now ? No hope is left. 
 
 And. A good way. Then, Lorenzo and his court 
 Being all assembled, and my rev'rence made. 
 Point to my work, and say, ' My lords and ladies, 
 Domenico Veneziano's murder. 
 By Andrea del Castagno.' A safe way ; 
 They'd think 'twas but the picture that I meant, 
 And not the murder ; they could never think 
 'Twas I who did the murder. 
 
 Nina. But you did ? 
 
 'Twas you — you did the murder. 
 
 And. [Rousing himself again.'\ Who said that ? 
 No, no, not I, I swear ; I am a man 
 Well thought of and esteemed. O would you try 
 To trap me in my sleep ? but I sleep not. 
 The drug is strong, but I am stronger still. 
 
 Nina. [ With constrained calm.] We'll talk again 
 of the picture. 
 
 And. [Relapsing into his former state.] True, the 
 picture — 
 That is the thing — the picture. 
 
 Nina. You are sure 
 
 That you could do it well, and leave out nought ? 
 
 And. Yea, I could do it well ; 'twould be my best. 
 
 Nina. The man with the naked sword — think now 
 what face 
 You'd give that man. 
 
 And. I would not show his face. 
 
ACT IV.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 89 
 
 Nina. So much afraid ? 
 
 And. I would not show his face. 
 
 Nina. Yet a good picture always ought to tell 
 Its story for itself; so of the man 
 Something you needs must show, to mark him out, 
 And make the lords and ladies understand. 
 A ring on his finger such as now you wear 
 
 And. That ring is new ; that night I wore no ring. 
 
 Nina. Would you but tell them this, 'twere proof 
 enough. 
 
 And. No proof, no proof — none they can ever 
 find. 
 
 Nina. There is proof then ? 
 
 And. None they can ever find. 
 
 They will not dig so deep. 
 
 Nina. But for the sake 
 
 Of your good name — your good name as a man 
 
 Well thought of and esteemed If you should say 
 
 You did the deed, and yet you could not prove, 
 The world would call you liar. 
 
 And. But I could. 
 
 Let theiji go dig — deep down though — in the garden 
 Of my old house — at foot of the apple-tree — 
 Deep down — they'll find it there. 
 
 Nina. What will they find ? 
 
 And. The sword, I say — Domenico's own sword 
 Under the apple-tree — is't not enough ? 
 
 Nina. Enough ; thou sayest well. 
 
 And. Ay, knew I not? 
 
90 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 The apple-tree in the garden. In the garden 
 The turf is soft and green, andT would sleep. 
 Nina. Sleep now thy fill. 
 
 And. Yea, sleep — I am tired — 
 
 the picture — 
 All day I have worked at the picture — I am tired. 
 
 \Sleeps. 
 Nina. Thou hast kept the pact. I thank thee for 
 thy help. \Exit. 
 
 [A pause. After a while music is heard, in- 
 troducing the air of the serenade in the 
 Second Act. The back of the stage opens, 
 and discovers a figure, in the semblance 
 of DoMENico, lying on the ground, face 
 upwards, while a second figure, in the 
 semblance of Andrea, but with averted 
 face, stands over him with a drawn 
 sword. 
 And. [Lifting his head suddenly, and pointing to 
 the figures.^ My work, my lords and ladies — 
 look, the picture 
 Of Domenico Veneziano's murder, 
 By Andrea del Castagno. 
 
 [His head falls back again, and he sleeps, while 
 the vision fades away, and the wall closes. The 
 stage begins to get gradually lighter.'] 
 
 Not dead yet ? 
 [Moving restlessly, though still sleeping. 
 
ACT IV. J ANDREA THE PAINTER. 91 
 
 No killing him ? Die, die ! I hate. Who's there ? 
 I know she digs into my soul with her eyes — 
 But I will hide — hide — 'heath the apple-tree. 
 What sees she on my hand ? I wore no ring — 
 Only a spot of blood. Blood ! said I blood 
 Before them all? Who's there? Off ! look I must. 
 
 \Starts up awake. 
 Alone ! alone ! O then 'twas but a dream. 
 Methought I had it all to do again, 
 With some one standing by. But 'twas a dream. 
 I will forget. \Calling7\ Francesco ! \Looking round. 
 
 Wherefore here ? 
 And not in mine own chamber ? Now I know ; 
 That drug I took last night — there is the cause 
 That I have slept so strangely, cause enough 
 For all these fancies. Was't a fancy too 
 I saw Morello yesterday ? Nay, nay. 
 No fancy that — there on that spot he stood, 
 And called me ' master ;' through that very door 
 They led him off to death. Tush, what care I ? 
 His death is his own doing — none of mine — 
 He is more to blame than pity. — Did not Nina 
 Come praying me for pity ? Surely yes. 
 She here last night ! {Calling agatn.'\ Francesco ! 
 
 Then when sleep 
 Surprised me, she was by ? But if she was, 
 I am heedful even in sleep. I have been used 
 To heedfulness for years. Francesco ! 
 
92 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 Re-enter Francesco. 
 
 Fran. Sir ? 
 
 And. The daughter of Messer Ambrogio — 
 Did she stay long last night ? 
 
 Fran. I cannot tell ; 
 
 You said I need not wait. 
 
 And. I do but ask 
 
 Because I fear I so forgot my manners 
 As fall asleep before her. But indeed 
 It matters not ; even in sleep methinks 
 I must have felt her presence, and not quite 
 Lost sense of courtesy. 
 
 Fran. Then you have slept ? 
 
 And well, I hope, good sir ? 
 
 And. O wondrous well — 
 
 I am ready now for his Magnificence 
 Whene'er he will. 
 
 Fran. Why truly, sir, 'tis time ; 
 
 At any moment we may look for him. 
 
 And. \While Francesco extinguishes the lamp, 
 arranges the chairs, &'c.'\ Ay, set all things in 
 order, good Francesco ; 
 We cannot do too much to show ourselves 
 Deserving of our honours — such high honours 
 As are worth buying with the highest price. 
 
 \Trumpets sound. 
 Throw wide my doors to his Magnificence. 
 
 \Exit Francesco. 
 
ACT iv.J ANDREA THE PAINTER. 93 
 
 I have bought, and will enjoy — enjoy to the full, 
 And from my eyes sweep ev'ry mote that flits 
 Between my glory and me. 
 
 Enter Lorenzo, with Lords, Ladies, and Attendants, 
 among them the Chamberlain. I^ysk follows, closely 
 veiled. Andrea kneels to Lorenzo. 
 
 Hail, gracious sir ! 
 And from the servant you have crowned with honour 
 Take thanks, and loyal love, and thanks again. 
 
 Ixir. Rise, Andrea, rise ; 'tis you that honour us 
 By lending to our city and our times 
 Your fame, that whatsoe'er it touches gilds. 
 
 Nina. [^Throwing aside her veil?[ Justice, my lord ! 
 
 Lor. Who is she ? and on whom 
 
 So cries for justice ? 
 
 Nina. On the murderer 
 
 Of Domenico Veneziano. 
 
 Cham. Nay, 
 
 'Tis nought, my lord — some poor mad wench who 
 
 hath heard 
 The murderer Morello was last night 
 After long years made pris'ner, and whose madness 
 To this one theme doth mould itself. 
 
 Nina. Not so ; 
 
 No murderer Morello — but my love, 
 My own true love ; there stands the murderer. 
 
 [Pointing to Andrea. 
 
 Lor. You are right ; the woman raves. 
 
 Nina, Look at him well ; 
 
94 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act iv. 
 
 He doth not think I rave. 
 
 And. WJiat should I think ? 
 
 Ha ! ha ! mad ten times oyer ! If 'twere true, 
 How should she know ? who told her ? 
 
 Nina. Thou ! 
 
 And. Ha! ha! 
 
 Who'll believe this ? In faith a likely tale — 
 And though 'twere likelier yet, where is the proof? 
 
 Nina. The sword — beneath the apple-tree, in the 
 garden 
 Of your old house — Domenico's own sword — 
 Is that not proof? O look at him, and. see 
 IJow plain the proof. And now you'll give me back 
 Morello — my Morello ? will you not ? 
 
 Lor. [To an Attendant^ To the keeper of the 
 prison take this ring. 
 And tell him what hath chanced. [Exit Attendant. 
 
 And let another 
 Search in the place she speaks of for the sword, 
 Which, found, would show indeed her tale too true. — 
 But true or not, he must not now go free ; 
 Lay hands on him forthwith. 
 
 And. [Drawing a dagger.] On your lives no ! 
 None shall lay hands on Andrea but himself — 
 Thus ! thus ! [Stads himself. 
 
 Lor. How now ! seize — hold hirn — wrest away 
 
 His weapon — quick ! 
 
 1st Att. We have it, sir. 
 
 And. Too late ! 
 
ACT IV.] ANDREA THE PAINTER. 95 
 
 Its work is done. \Staggers, and falls into the arms of 
 Attendants, who assist him into a chair. 
 
 Lor. Help, help ! Hold up his head ! 
 
 A kerchief to his wound ! 
 
 And. Do all your worst ; 
 
 You shall not keep me long. O had I known 
 How easy was this way, mine enemy 
 Should not have had such power. Mine enemy ! 
 Ha ! have I found mine enemy at last ? 
 Thou, woman, midnight rifler of my sleep. 
 Thou — not Domenico, as once I thought^ 
 He is dead long since — nor yet Morello — thou 
 Mine enemy foretold me by the stars. 
 Mine enemy who hast conquered — can this be 
 
 Nina. Not I thine enemy ; but, if thou wilt, 
 I'll tell thee who, for thou hast made me see. 
 Well, shall I say ?* Thyself No enemy 
 So envious and rancorous as thou ; 
 None that hath lived with thee so close as thou. 
 To be by envy and by rancour marred. 
 Thy worser self hath followed all thy life 
 Thy better self, and conquered long ago ; 
 And of that conquest now the fruit is ripe. 
 There is the riddle read. Thyself 
 
 And Myself! 
 
 \His head falls forward, and he remains for some 
 time motionless. 
 
 Cham. Sir, here is he that was the prisoner. 
 
96 ANDREA THE PAINTER. [act iv.' 
 
 Enter Attendants, bringing in Morello. 
 
 Nina. [Flying into his arms.'] Morello — love — 
 Morello ! 
 
 Mor. O mine own ! 
 
 Heav'n owed me something, but hath paid me all. 
 
 And. Myself ! she said myself. And it may be ; 
 Here on my palm the line grows faint at last 
 As I grow faint myself — yea, it may be. 
 And have I had mine enemy so near, 
 My cruel enemy, that all my life 
 I have plotted how to 'scape ? and all my life 
 He hath been near me, eaten with me and drunk. 
 Worked with me where I worked, slept where I slept — 
 Ah ! — But I'll 'scape — I have found the way — 'scape, 
 'scape. 
 
 [Dies. The Curtain falls. 
 
 THE END. 
 
CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 UUKE OF CaSTLEBOROUGH. 
 
 Earl of Heronwood. 
 
 Lord St. Valery, Us Son. 
 
 Lord Belmont. 
 
 Sir John LoNctraiviLLE. 
 
 Gideon Adams. 
 
 Richard Burroughs, a Lawyer. 
 
 Simon, a Servant. 
 
 Countess of Heronwood. 
 
 Lady Claudia, Daughter to Lord and Lady Heron- 
 wood. 
 
 Euphrosyne, Cousin to Lord Heronwood. 
 
 Lady Longueville. 
 
 Millicent, Daughter to Sir J^ohn and Lady Longue- 
 ville. 
 
 Janet, an old Countrywoman. 
 
 Guests of the Duke of Castleborough, Fishermen, &=€. 
 
 The Scene is laid in the house and grounds of Heron- 
 wood Court, on the South Coast. 
 
 Time: the last years of the i^th century. 
 
CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Siene. The Garden of Heronwood Court. 
 
 Simon discovered training a creeper round the entrance 
 of an arbour. Enter Euphrosyne, with a scroll of 
 paper. 
 
 Euph. \Reading.\ And where our hearts — is hearts 
 the word ? Yes, hearts — 
 Find and acknowledge such nobility, 
 You would bid them choose, and curb them by no law 
 Of ceremonial custom ? [Sees Simon, and starts. 
 
 Who is there ? 
 What ! Simon ! only you ! [Aside.] Now on my word, 
 That arbour sets my nerves already on edge. 
 [Aloud.] What is't you do ? 
 
 Sim. I train the creeper up, 
 
 As best I can, in the way my lady countess 
 Commands that it should go. 
 
I02 CLAUDIA'S- CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 Euph. And tell me then, 
 
 Where is my lady countess ? 
 
 Sim. I know not. 
 
 She was here a minute since, and will, I think, 
 A minute hence be back. 'Tis strange why 'tis 
 The creeper twines so round her heart to-day ; 
 She said its straggling and its tangling made 
 The arbour look unsightly — but all summer 
 No better has it been. 
 
 Euph. So much more need 
 
 It should be now. For you it is enough 
 To do your lady's bidding. 
 
 Sim. [Aside.] Doth she say 
 
 Enough for me to do ? enough indeed — 
 Yes, and too much. To trim the arbour first, 
 Then gather herbs for the salad, then rub down 
 My lord's horse, and my young lord's, then rub up 
 The silver (and when silver is not silver 
 'Tis always tarnishing), and change myself 
 In time to wait at dinner — quite enough. 
 
 Enier Countess. 
 
 Is't now to your mind, my lady ? 
 
 Coun. Ay, 'twill pass. 
 
 You may go, Simon. 
 
 Sim. Thank your ladyship. [Exit. 
 
 Coun. Well, cousin, you are ready to fulfil 
 Your share of the task, I see. 
 
ACTI.J CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 103 
 
 Euph. If I but can. 
 
 You know I fain would please you ; yet in sooth 
 Such a foolish flutt'ring creature as I am— 
 So full of perturbations, so unready 
 At all invention 
 
 Coun. Then I pray you now 
 
 Invent not stumbling-blocks where there are none. 
 All that you have to do is easy and smooth 
 As walking o'er a lawn. Mark what I say, 
 And understand. Here you and Claudia sit, 
 Deep in green leaves and maidenly discourse — 
 This way he comes, hears voices, stays his steps, 
 Finds the sounds sweet, and sweeter yet the sense, 
 Gives up his ears to listen ; you and she 
 Still artlessly talk on — the thing is done. 
 
 Euph. {Looking at the paper.'] And all I have to 
 say is here set down. 
 So that I cannot trip ? 
 
 Coun. Ay, ev'ry word. 
 
 And on another paper Claudia's part 
 Is copied fair for her ; there's nought to do 
 But sit, and read by turns, each answ'ring each. 
 
 Euph. And you are sure she will answer where 
 she should, 
 Nor flout, nor jibe, nor try to throw me out ? 
 
 Coun. She has promised, have no fear. But only 
 promised 
 Because she thinks that what we do is done 
 For you and at your wish ; for Heaven's love 
 
104 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 Let her not guess herself to be the stake 
 
 Of the game we play — or all our pains are lost. 
 
 Euph. Well, what I can I will ; but I would hope 
 You see the greatness of my sacrifice. 
 To have people think a man in love with me 
 Is what I am not used to, nor can like. 
 
 Coun. 'Twill soon be proved an error. 
 
 Euph. That is what 
 
 I like still less. 
 
 Coun. Cousin Euphrosyne, 
 
 Where the dearest fortunes of an ancient house 
 Upon the issue hang, we must not think 
 Too closely of our likings. Hush, she comes. 
 Let her not guess, I say. 
 
 Enter Claudia, with a scroll of papen 
 
 Clau. \Reading!\ O never doubt, 
 
 'Tis worth, not birth, makes true nobility. 
 Yes, where they have no birth they all say that, 
 And take the worth for granted. Let our hearts 
 Follow the law of nature, not of men 
 (Though, as I thiiik, 'tis nature that made men). 
 And love what seems most worthy to be loved ; 
 For, trust me, sweeter and more lasting far 
 The roses wreathing round the brow of Love 
 Than gems of kingly crowns. O is't not rare ? 
 So beautifully pastoral and absurd ! 
 \Seeing Euphrosyne.] What, cousin ! are you here ? 
 And is it true 
 
ACT I.J CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 105 
 
 That you would have my help to trap for you 
 The staid affections of that godly youth, 
 Worshipful Master Gideon Adams ? 
 
 Coun. Say 
 
 Your help to give him courage to speak out 
 What we already know is in his heart. 
 
 Clau. His passion for my cousin ? Never yet 
 I knew what 'twas to wonder. 
 
 Euph. And I pray 
 
 What should amaze you so ? 
 
 Clau. More than aught else 
 
 That he should dare lift up his thoughts so higL 
 The son of a sea-clown, a fisherman, 
 And dream to match with a St. Valery, 
 St. Valery of Heronwood ! 
 
 Coun. But, child, 
 
 The fisherman did more than only fish. 
 
 Chu. Served in the fleet of the Commonwealth, 
 and sang 
 Psalms sweetly through the nose. 
 
 Coun. More yet than that ; 
 
 Being in the Indies, trafficked, prospered well, 
 Still trafficked, and still prospered, and at last 
 Came to his birthplace back to buy and build, 
 And leave his son the richest man in the shire. 
 
 Clau. But still with all his gold his father's son. 
 And his grandfather's grandson — if indeed 
 He reckon back so far. And can it be 
 That such as he dare let his fancy mount 
 
io6 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 To a daughter of our house ? I scarce can think 
 But that you do him wrong. 
 
 Coun. Have I not said 
 
 That what I long have guessed I now have proved ? 
 That from a note-book which but yesterday 
 He left behind (and which of its own self 
 Came open in my hand) I saw a sketch 
 In pencil of her face? 'Tis sure he loves, 
 But sure no less that till we find a way 
 To give him hope he will not speak his love — 
 He being what he is, and we for ages 
 Famed to have been so proud. 
 
 Clau. Ay, to have been. 
 
 Coun. Come, haste, and sit you down — you here, 
 you there — 
 And no more dallying ; 'tis the very hour 
 He appointed with your father, to confer 
 Touching the mortgage, and in keeping time 
 He is precise as none, I think, can be 
 !dut Puritans and clocks. 
 
 Clau. Since 'tis to please 
 
 You, mother, and my cousin — though at her 
 I needs must marvel 
 
 Coun. Think how in his power 
 
 He holds your father, and the weal or woe 
 Of the St. Valerys. To your duty, child ; 
 Read boldly out your words ; I will be near. 
 And when you have done will show myself 
 
 Clau. But, mother 
 
ACT I.J CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 107 
 
 Coun. No more ; he comes. Begin. 
 
 [ Withdraws behind trees. 
 
 Clau. [ Wfw, with Euphrosyne, is now seated in the 
 
 arbour, where they are visible to the audience, but 
 
 not to any one entering from the side.] You, 
 
 cousin, first; 
 
 My cue is ' into rank.' 
 
 Euph. [Heading.] So then you hold 
 Where we can feel we love we should not look 
 Too narrowly into rank i 
 
 Enter Gideon Adams, who, hearing these words, stands 
 suddenly still, and remains listening. 
 
 Clau. [Reading?^ Or not beyond 
 
 Such rank as lies in worth. O never doubt, 
 'Tis worth, not birth, makes true nobility. 
 [Aside to Euphrosyne.] Your bird is limed, methinks. 
 
 Euph. [Reading.] And where our hearts 
 
 Find and acknowledge such nobility. 
 You would bid them choose, and curb them by no law 
 Of ceremonial custom ? 
 
 Clau. [Reading.] Let our hearts 
 Follow the law of nature, not of men, 
 And love what seems most worthy to be loved ; 
 For, trust me, sweeter and more lasting far 
 The roses wreathing round the brow of Love 
 Than gems of kingly crowns. [Aside to Euphrosyne.] 
 Delivered well. [Countess advances. 
 
io8 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 Coun. What ! you, good Mr. Adams ! and none 
 by 
 To give a welcome ! but receive from me, 
 I pray, ten thousand. 
 
 Gid. Madam 
 
 Coun. Come this way ; 
 
 The Earl, I know, awaits you. Sir, your arm. 
 
 \Exit, with Gideon. 
 Clau. [Rising, and coming out of the ardour.] So, 
 that is done ; the prize is safe made yours. 
 But O, poor cousin, were there nought of him 
 But his Puritan buff jerkin and his name. 
 Such jerkin and such name, for dear life's sake, 
 I could not wed. And there's a man besides. 
 What ! angry ! so far gone ! 
 Euph. Not angry — nay ; 
 
 I was but thinking [Aside.] When she knows 
 
 the truth. 
 How will she bear ? 
 
 Enter Simon. 
 
 Sim. So please your ladyship, 
 
 There comes one riding up the avenue 
 That from far off looks like a gentleman. 
 Will my lord see him ? 
 
 Euph. Gentleman ! Why then, 
 
 One peradventure of the company 
 Who, as we hear, now visit at the Duke's. 
 If some should come to pay us their devoirs. 
 
ACT I.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 109 
 
 'Twould be no more than courteous. 
 
 Clau. Ride ten miles 
 
 To pay devoir to us ! Not so, not so ; 
 We are feared too much for that. 
 
 Euph. Feared ! wherefore 
 
 feared ? 
 
 Clau. The Duke and his guests are rich, and we 
 are poor. 
 
 Euph. [Aside to Aer.] Hush, Claudia, hush — the 
 man ! 
 
 Clau. O the man knows. 
 
 EupA. But why should they fear us more than we 
 them ? 
 
 Clau. The great prerogative of poverty 
 Is, it can borrow, not be borrowed from. 
 [To Simon.] This that looks like a gentleman far off 
 Will only prove, when he comes near enough. 
 The miller with his bill. 
 
 Sim. Nay, by your leave. 
 
 The miller I could not mistake ; the miller 
 Is a little man, and round. 
 
 Clau. And to be known 
 
 At greater distance than a gentleman ? 
 Well, if not he, another creditor 
 Bringing another bill. 'Tis very sure 
 My father will not see him. 
 
 Sim. Shall I say 
 
 My lord is ill, and keeps his bed ? 
 
 Clau. Or else 
 
no CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 Is well, and riding out. 
 
 Sim. That must I keep 
 To say of my young lord. And if for you, 
 Or for my lady countess, I am asked 
 
 Clau. We are ill in bed, or riding out, or both. 
 
 Sim. [Aside.] O those great folk ! their shoes and 
 lies alike 
 They leave to us to polish. [£xii. 
 
 Clau. No, the Duke, 
 
 And the Duke's friends, will find ten miles too far 
 To travel for our sake. 
 
 Euph. Make not so sure. 
 
 They say that yesterday new guests went down — 
 Lord Belmont one of them. 
 
 Clau. Lord Belmont ! 
 
 Euph. Ay ; 
 
 He that so often when they danced at court 
 Would lead you out — so often that indeed 
 I thought you had won his liking. 
 
 Clau. Thought you thus ? 
 
 Perchance he thought it too ; but that, you know, 
 Was full a year ago — nay, rather say 
 A thousand years ago — when we were rich, 
 Or passed for rich ; he will not give you cause 
 To think it now, be sure. Why should you take 
 The man to be a fool ? 
 
 Euph. What a strange mood 
 
 Of late is grown upon you ! at all things 
 To sneer like some worn-out philosopher. 
 
ACT I.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. iii 
 
 Clau. And a worn-out philosopher I am ; 
 I have lived a year at court. 
 
 Euph. And what of that ? 
 
 Clau. In a year at court a maiden may learn more 
 Of lies and shams and paltriness — in brief 
 Of human nature (nature called because 
 It but consists of art and artifice) — 
 Than a philosopher in all his life. 
 
 Euph. 'Tis certain that one maiden rates the court 
 At but a sorry figure. 
 
 Clau. O a place 
 
 As stuffed with vileness as — what shall I say ? — 
 As man or woman ; yet the only place 
 Worth man or woman's living ia 
 
 Re-enter Simon. 
 
 How now ? 
 
 Sim. 'Tis as I thought — a real gentleman — 
 A velvet coat, and lace about his wrists. 
 How shall I answer him ? Look, there he is 
 On his feet — and ties his horse to yonder tree. 
 And such a horse ! O sure a gentleman. 
 
 Euph. Now as I live. Lord Belmont. 
 
 Clau. He ! 
 
 Euph. And comes 
 
 This way, and sees us. Claudia, 'tis your place 
 To give him welcome. What ! shame-faced ! Go ; 
 
 speak. 
 Nay, then I must myself 
 
ti2 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [acti. 
 
 Enter Lord Belmont, at the back part of the stage, 
 where he is met by Euphrosyne, who remains for 
 some time speaking to him. 
 
 Clau. [Aside.] Let me be wise: — 
 
 More wise — and calm. Maybe he'd not have come 
 Had he known all our straits. [Aloud, to Simon. ] No 
 
 need to wait ; 
 We'll do the honours to this guest ourselves. 
 
 yet one word. I'll wear to-day at dinner 
 Flowers in my hair ; cut me the best you have ; 
 
 You are my only jeweller. [Exit Simon. 
 
 Euph. [Coming forward with Belmont.] She is here, 
 And will, I know, to greet you be well pleased. 
 See, cousin, 'tis Lord Belmont ; you remember. 
 Surely, Lord Belmont. 
 
 Clau. I remember, yes. 
 
 My lord is welcome. 
 
 Bel. To have lived so long 
 
 In your remembrance, madam, makes me seem 
 More precious to myself — as worthless things 
 Grow hallowed by long keeping in a shrine. 
 
 Clau. Is my Lord Belmont's mem'ry then less apt 
 Than his skill in courtly phrases ? 
 
 Bel. Were I poor 
 
 Of mem'ry as of wit, I could not lose 
 The image of what since last I looked on it 
 
 1 ne'er saw equalled, but now see excelled. 
 
 Clau. If that may mean, as in courtesy it should, 
 
ACT I.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 113 
 
 That I excel the I that once I was, 
 I can but marvel — for you saw me ne'er # 
 Upon so plain a background. Heronwood 
 Is a poor place, my lord. 
 
 Euph. Nay, Claudia — 
 
 The cradle of our race ! 
 
 Bel. A fine old place — 
 
 So venerable and grey ! 
 
 Clau. Why, for a cradle 
 
 It may serve well enough ; but for a home 
 'Tis only fit for those that have no choice — 
 As we, you see, have none. 
 
 Euph. Child, how you talk ! 
 
 \To Belmont.] 'Tis true indeed for the earl my 
 cousin's health 
 The salt sea air of Heronwood was said 
 To be absolutely needful 
 
 Clau, But the lawyers 
 
 Said it before the doctors. \To Euphrosynk] O 
 
 frown not ; 
 'Twas the talk of all the town. And, sir, since then 
 A new ill turn has Fortune done to us 
 That yet perchance you know not. 
 
 Pel. A fresh proof 
 
 That Fortune is a goddess — goddess-like 
 Of another goddess envious. 
 
 Clau. Then I would 
 
 I were a simple woman. But to tell 
 Of this last trick of hers. You knew my father 
 
 I 
 
114 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 Was far-off cousin, by the mother's side, 
 Of the rich banker, old Sir Matthew Ward ? 
 
 Euph. It is not courteous with our own concerns 
 Thus to molest his lordship. 
 
 Clau. Nay, the tale 
 
 Is begun, and shall be ended. Furthermore, 
 That this same CrcEsus-cousin had designed 
 My father his sole heir ? and that these hopes 
 Were all we iiare had to live on this year past, 
 And keep old creditors contented with ? 
 
 Bel. A low unreasoning class, I oft have heard. 
 
 Clau. And we have found. Yet peradventure still 
 They might have waited ; but my brother chanced, 
 Being in London lately, to play hard — 
 As it had sometimes chanced with him before — 
 And lose the stakes, which when Sir Matthew learned 
 He fell into a rage, and swore an oath 
 (And his bare word he ne'er was known to break) 
 That neither son nor father e'er should get 
 The fing'ring of his gold. That self-same day 
 The lawyer came to help him mend his will. 
 And the next day the news began to spread. 
 And creditors to press, and press still more. 
 Till e'en from Heronwood, that we thought ours , 
 As much as any snail-shell is the snail's, 
 We are well-nigh pushed. You knew not this, my 
 lord? 
 
 Bel. Only from rumour, which I now must grieve 
 To find so trusty. 
 
ACT I.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 115 
 
 Clou. Then you knew indeed ? 
 
 Bel. Well, I had something heard ; the world will 
 talk. 
 
 Clau. You knew, and yet you came ? We owe you 
 thanks — 
 And these we still can pay. 
 
 Bel. I say I grieve 
 
 This ill news should be true, yet since 'tis true 
 Perhaps 'tis well it hath been touched upon, 
 As thus I find it easier to unfold 
 The purpose of my coming. 
 
 Clau. Ay ? And how ? 
 
 Bel. Your brother knows already how my fancy 
 Was taken with the bay. 
 
 Clau. The bay? 
 
 Bel. The same 
 
 He used to ride in town. A noble beast ! 
 I coveted him then, but found that then 
 Your brother would not sell ; so when I heard 
 Of what had chanced, it came into my mind 
 He might be willing now. Think you he may ? 
 
 Clau. The stables lie that way. 
 
 Bel. A million thanks. 
 
 You think then that the bay is to be had ? 
 
 Clau. That way, my lord, I said. 
 
 Bel. Thanks yet again. [Exit. 
 
 Euph. It seemed the poorer you could make us out 
 The better you were pleased. 
 
 Clau. Ay, seemed it so? 
 
1 1 6 CLA UDIA 'S CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 And well pleased should I be, for I have learned 
 What I can ne'er forget. 
 
 Re-enter Simon. 
 
 Sim. Here are the flowers 
 
 Your ladyship commanded. 
 
 Clau. What ! the flowers ! 
 
 To the stable with them, Simon, and there make 
 A garland up to deck my brother's horse. 
 'Tis for the horse the biddings are to-day. 
 
 Sim. A garland for the horse ! 'twould be to turn 
 The beast into a fooL 
 
 Clau. 'Tis true, for him 
 
 Adornment is not needful ; happy he ! 
 Go, go ; your task is done. \Exit Simon.] Take you 
 
 the flowers ; 
 The5^11 serve to make a pair of leading-strings 
 For Master Gideon Adams. 
 
 Euph. On my word, 
 
 You are neither kind nor courteous. — How now ! 
 tears ! 
 
 Clau. I am not well to-day, and little things 
 Hurt when one is not well. You chid at me — 
 Called me unkind. But now, you see, I'm well. 
 
 Euph. Look where your father and your mother 
 come. 
 Be of good cheer. Who knows what news they bring ? 
 [Aside.] And news indeed I think they are charged 
 withal ; 
 
ACT I.] CLA UDIA 'S CHOICE. 1 1 7 
 
 I'll let them deal alone. \Exit. 
 
 Clau. [Pressing her handkerchief to her eyes.] O 
 quite, quite well. 
 
 Enter Earl and Countess. 
 
 Earl. What ! my sweet child ! my little Claudia ! 
 
 Ciau. Father ! Why, what is this ? 
 
 Earl. My own pet-bird — 
 
 Chief treasure of my nest — sent me by Heaven 
 To hover with blessings o'er my waning years. 
 
 Clau. O something sure most strange and new 
 hath chanced 
 What ? what ? say what ; you fright me. 
 
 Earl. Something — true — 
 
 But nought to fright you; something that should 
 
 please — 
 If for your father you have feeling left. 
 
 Coun. In brief, then, child, an offer for your hand. 
 Which duty bids you take. 
 
 Clau. Is't so indeed ? 
 
 The horse was a pretence ! O me ! how much 
 I did him wrong ! 
 
 Coun. What talk you of a horse ? 
 
 I say we have an offer for your hand 
 From Gideon Adams. 
 
 Clau. Gideon Adams ! 
 
 Coun. Ay. 
 
 What ails you ? 
 
ii8 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 Clau. Nought — a passing dizziness. 
 But Gideon Adams — say you Gideon Adams 
 Hath offered for my hand ? Nay, he dared not ; 
 Nor, had he dared, could you so calmly come 
 To tell me of such measureless affront. 
 Euphrosyne he loves ; Euphrosyne 
 He hath demanded of you. 
 
 Earl. He would be 
 
 The first that ever had. 
 
 Coun. And did you think, 
 
 Where Lady Claudia was, the chosen one 
 Could be Euphrosyne? 
 
 Clau. How should I know 
 
 What strange freaks men may have ? And you 
 
 professed 
 That of his love you had proof. 
 
 Coun. A little fraud 
 
 We put upon you then, to make you do 
 What needful was to break the barrier down 
 Your rank had hedged you with ; for, never doubt, 
 Yours is the face, and not Euphrosyne's, 
 That in his heart and note-book lies enshrined. 
 
 Earl. I warrant you ; those godly men have eyes. 
 Even as others have. 
 
 Clau. So 'twas a plot ! 
 
 Coun. Give it not so hard a name. We knew he 
 loved. 
 Knew that his love was tongue-tied by his fears, 
 And that you would not help his love to speak 
 
ACT I.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 119 
 
 Unless your pride were taken off its guard. 
 
 Clau. A plot ! a plot to make me sell myself 
 Into a peasant's arms ! O I have called 
 The world a false world oft, but now I feel 
 Till now I did but jest. 
 
 Re-enter Euphrosyne, at the back part of the stage. 
 
 Euphrosyne ! 
 Knew you of this ? Were you against me too ? 
 
 Euph. I did my duty, as your mother bade. 
 And hope I see you ready now for yours. 
 
 Court. Well spoken, cousin, for indeed she seems 
 A little to forget herself and it. 
 
 Earl. Duty, my daughter, is a sacred thing. 
 
 Clau. Betrayed where most I trusted! 'tis as 
 though 
 Great Nature had turned traitor — and she hath. 
 But think not I am conquered, for ere stoop 
 To bind myself in base equality 
 With what I must despise, I would go stand 
 Upon the white-fringed edge of the sea in storm, 
 And let the bulging waves with thund'rous sweep 
 Roll death and darkness o'er me. 
 
 Earl. Thus to look 
 
 At your own preferences and nought else 
 Is the essence of all selfishness — the thing 
 That most I loathe to deal with. I strove hard 
 To bring you up unselfish. 
 
I20 . CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 Coun. And I strove 
 
 At least to bring you up with pride enough 
 To make of pride a willing sacrifice 
 To the honour of our house. If this man's suit 
 You now deny, we are lost — spoiled of our home, 
 Our ancient Heroriwood, and all that still 
 Wins us a little rev'rence from the world. 
 
 Clau. Sooner than lose my rev'rence for myself, 
 I'd seek my home upon the wildest heath 
 That wind and rain e'er made their battle-field. 
 
 Earl. Still thinking of yourself ! And what of me ? 
 I that was once the oracle of the court, 
 And now for shelter to my head must plead 
 With mine own child ! 
 
 Coun. Nay, were there nought at stake 
 
 Beyond ourselves, we each might bear our share ; 
 But here at issue hangs the very being 
 Of an illustrious race. If now you save 
 Our honour from a fall, you give your brother. 
 The future of our house, new chance to build 
 With a wise match its greatness up again, 
 And so with mended hope lead mended life ; 
 If not, you doom to him and us despair. 
 And to our name oblivion. 
 
 [Lord St. Valery yawns behind the scene. 
 Whatis't? 
 
 Clau. The future of our house that yawns away 
 The fumes of last night's wine. 
 
ACT I.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 121 
 
 Enter Lord St. Valery. 
 
 St. Valery, 
 My brother, speak — can this be wish of yours ? 
 
 St. Val. Wait, wait till I have done. \Yawns. 
 First to be called 
 Untimely from my sleep, and then to be 
 Stopped in mid-yawn, is hard. 
 
 Clau. It pleases you 
 
 To drink and sleep and trifle, and yet still 
 You are my brother and St. Valery ; 
 Then tell me this, would you not sooner die, 
 And dying be the last of all your name. 
 Than that your sister for your sake should sink 
 Below your sister's level ? 
 
 St. Val. I know well, 
 
 If e'er the time for such a question came. 
 My sister's sense of duty could not fail. 
 Let me have this one out [ Yawns. 
 
 Clau. Ay, but the time 
 
 Is nearer than you think ; now, as we speak, 
 I am wooed by Gideon Adams for his wife. 
 
 St. Val. What ! Gideon Adams ! So the Puritan 
 flint 
 Hath had the fire struck from his heart at last ? 
 O excellent ! Tell all ; you have waked me now. 
 
 Clau. And you knew too ? 
 
 St. Val. [To Countess.] They spoke their parts 
 well out ? 
 
122 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 'Tis worth, not birth, makes true nobility — 
 How went that off ? 
 
 Clau. You knew ? 
 
 St. Val. I promise you ; 
 
 All the best bits were mine ; 'tis not for nought 
 That I have read romances. Worth, not birth — 
 Ha ! ha ! what sport ! But you must keep the tale 
 To tell me after ; they have hauled me up 
 Out of my bed with news that Belmont waits 
 To see me in the stable ; I must go. 
 
 Clau. [Detaining him.] 'Twas for a jest you did it ? 
 
 St. Val. For a jest, 
 
 And sober earnest too ; you know nought else 
 Can ever save our state. But for all that, 
 I needs must laugh. The roses wreathing round 
 The brow of Love — the gems of kingly crowns — 
 Ha ! ha ! who would not laugh ? \Exit. 
 
 Clau. In all the world 
 
 No friend that I can count on for so much 
 As not to play me false ! 
 
 Earl. Nay, here below 
 
 The dearest friendships cannot always work 
 Without a little falseness now and then — 
 And this was for your good. 
 
 Clau. My good ! 
 
 Coun. The good 
 
 Of what you most should prize — the name and fame 
 And fortune of your house. But long enough 
 You have played at argument j now is it time 
 
ACT I.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 123 
 
 Frankly to yield to what you know must be. 
 Your hand upon it, come. 
 
 Clau. touch me not ; 
 
 Speak to me not — not now ; I cannot bear. 
 Let me take counsel with myself alone — 
 The thing. I have least distrust of. 
 
 Coun.: Be it so, . 
 
 Since so you will ; I know you are too well taught 
 For staid reflection not to lead you right. 
 Come then; rny lord; we will return ere long, 
 And find, d'oiibt not, a wise obedient child. 
 
 Earl. Be but unselfish, and I ask no more. 
 Selfishness is the fault which all my life 
 I have suffered most from. 
 
 Euph. And remember well 
 
 You are not the only one on whom to-day 
 A sacrifice of feeling hath been laid. 
 
 Coun. Remember most the honour of our house, 
 Which you may save or lose ; and of your duty 
 I fear not you will fail. 
 
 \Exeunt Earl, Countess, and Euphrosyne. 
 
 Clau. To be betrayed, 
 
 And then be told of duty ! And such duty — 
 To cease to be myself, to quench out all 
 I am, or was, or ever thought to be, 
 In a hiss of self-abhorrence and contempt ! 
 I — I who hoped so much from life, who dreamed 
 In secret such sweet dreams — sweet foolish dreams — 
 Of some dim possible mountain-peak of joy 
 
124 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 Where the air was purer and the light more rich 
 Than in the common world, where love more true, 
 More thoughtless of itself, than love of kin, 
 Might wait for me as I for it, and blend 
 Two earthly natures, each self-lost in each, 
 Into one godlike glory. Ah ! those dreams ! 
 Say rather dreams of dreams, of shadows cast 
 By poets' fancies. Yet to waken now 
 With such a waking, and ne'er dream again^ 
 How shall I bear ? O how ? \Sinks down on a gar- 
 den-seat, weeping, her face buried in her hands. 
 
 Re-enter Belmont. 
 
 Bel. {Speaking with his face turned to the side of 
 the stage.'] Agreed, agreed ; 
 
 Send me the horse, and I will send the price. 
 Farewell ; the bargain's struck. [ Waves his hand, and 
 turns to cross the stage, when he sees Claudia. 
 What's here ? My nymph ! 
 And, by my life, in tears ! Now wherefore this ? 
 
 [Approaching her. 
 Fair Lady Claudia, from Heronwood 
 I could not go till at your feet I paid 
 My parting duty. But what is't I see ? 
 The Lady Claudia weeping ! she whose eyes 
 Were only made, methought, for causing tears. 
 And not for shedding. 
 
 Clau. [Still weeping."] I ne'er deemed till now 
 
ACT I.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 125 
 
 1 had so little pride. 
 
 Bel. Blame not your pride ; 
 
 It knows you have a fellow-mourner here 
 In any grief of yours. 
 
 Clau. Nay, if you speak 
 
 Thus kindly, I must shame myself outright. 
 But O, I am shamed already. 
 
 Bel. Who could speak 
 
 With words less kind, and see the sight I see ? 
 A sight indeed to melt all nature down 
 In universal sorrow. But believe, 
 If aught that I can do may help to lift 
 The cloud wherefrom those diamond-drops distil. 
 Lay but command upon me, and I'll fly 
 To the end of earth to serve you. 
 
 Clau. There's no need. 
 
 Bel. Or if to die in battle for your sake 
 Could aught avail, I am ready so to die. 
 
 Clau. For that I could not wish. 
 
 Bel. You are too stern 
 
 To accept my service ? Nay then, I must do 
 The errand that I came on — kiss your hand. 
 And bid farewell. 
 
 Clau. Already ! Am I then 
 
 So stern ? I knew it not. 
 
 Bel. Nor know what 'tis 
 
 For your own smiles to sigh, and sigh in vain ; 
 But stern you are, fair Lady Claudia — 
 And Fate is stem, and summons me away. 
 
126 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act i. 
 
 The Duke gets choleric if any guest 
 Outstays the dinner-hour. 
 
 Clau. O if 'tis thus, 
 
 I would not have you miss the dinner-hour 
 For all the world. Make haste. 
 
 Bel. Indeed I must ; 
 
 Farewell, sweet lady. May my happy stars 
 Bring you back soon to London and the court. 
 For till you there shall show your light again 
 I live in darkness. 
 
 Clau. The Duke's dinner-ho.ur — 
 
 Let me not make you late. 
 
 Bel. Till then remember 
 
 I am your slave to serve you with my life 
 In joy and sorrow both — though glad I am 
 To see the signs of sorrow now are stayed. 
 
 Clau. Yes, yes, they are stayed, my lord. I weep 
 not now. 
 But the Duke's dinner-hour. 
 
 Bel. * On this white hand 
 
 Let me thus plant a kiss, in hope one day 
 Of plenteous harvesting. \Kisses her hand, and exit. 
 
 Clau. Nay, I weep not — 
 
 Nor ever shall again. I give him thanks ; 
 He hath made me strong to suffer all that now 
 May be before me in this world of lies — 
 So false that I had half forgot how false. 
 And deemed that it might still be worth the pains 
 Of being happy in. fool, weak fool ! 
 
ACT I.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 127 
 
 But not weak now — strong as a stone to bear 
 
 Whatever burden they may load me with ; 
 
 Yea, e'en to wed the husband of their choice, 
 
 If 'tis to do them pleasure and to keep 
 
 Undimmed the honour of an ancient name. 
 
 Honour, and name — two things impalpable. 
 
 But real as most things are, more real far 
 
 Than love, and truth, and joy ; how better then 
 
 Than in such service can I use my life ? 
 
 Nay, if we look more close, what's life itself 
 
 But the disease whereof we all are ill. 
 
 And all in time must die ? and if in some 
 
 More virulent than in others, and more brief. 
 
 Why should we greatly care ? — O see ! they come 
 
 To have my answer, and 'tis ready-ripe. 
 
 The school I have learned in since they saw me last 
 
 Soon makes its pupils perfect. 
 
 Re-enter Earl and Countess. She throws herself at 
 theirfeet. 
 
 Father ! mother ! 
 Take me, and do with me whate'er you will ; 
 I care not. I am tamed, and wholly yours. 
 
 \The Curtain falls. 
 
 End of Act I. 
 
128 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene. A Room in Heronwood Court. At the back is 
 a large window, opening on a lawn. 
 
 Earl and Countess, Lord St. Valery, and 
 EuPHROSYNE discovered. 
 
 Earl. 'Tis close upon his time. Where's Claudia ? 
 
 Coun. In her chamber — where best leave her for a 
 while ; 
 Her eyes are something red. 
 
 Earl. Eyes red ! Now see 
 
 How inconsid'rate ! Could she not remember 
 That an accepted lover comes to-day 
 To claim her greeting ? 
 
 Coun. 'Tis rememb'ring this 
 
 Too well, that is her fault. 
 
 Euph. O poor, poor child, 
 
 How do I pity her ! To see her grief 
 Makes me feel truly thankful. \A bell rings. 
 
 Coun. Hark ! 'tis he. 
 
 Be ready. Recollect now — in all things 
 Friendly as friendship's self, but with a friendship 
 
ACT II. J CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 129 
 
 Standing upon a height, and looking down. 
 
 St. Val. As though I met him walking, while I 
 rode, 
 And reined with pains my mettled courser in 
 To speak, and grasp his hand. 
 
 Coun. Precisely thus ; 
 
 My meaning to a shade. 
 
 The door is thrown open by Simon, and enter Gideon. 
 The Countess goes to meet him. 
 
 This way, this way. 
 Nay, all formality must be now at end ; 
 Think of us only as of friends, who more 
 Than any else have to your friendship right. 
 
 Gid. Thanks, madam ; to remember thus I'll strive. 
 [Looking round.'] The Lady Claudia — she is not here ? 
 
 £arl. But I, good Mr. Adams, I am here. 
 To wish you ten times joy. And I protest 
 I am joyful too ; the day indeed is one 
 Of sunshine in our hearts as in the sky. 
 
 Gid. Nay, but just now the sky is overcast. 
 And wilder still and wilder grows the sea. 
 Our joy, I hope, is made of trustier stuff 
 Than summer weather. 
 
 Earl. [Aside.] Literal-minded rogue ! 
 
 [Aloud.] I had not noted that the day was changed, 
 Or would have sought another metaphor, 
 For my heart changes not. 
 
130 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 St. Val. [ Who has seated himself astride on the arm 
 of a sofa.] Here, sir, your hand ; 
 
 How long you make me wait you ! Never doubt 
 My welcome is as ready e'en as theirs. 
 
 Gid. [Going up to shake hands with him.] For 
 the courtesy in your words I thank you well. 
 
 St. Val. Unto my sister's promised husband less 
 I could not be than courteous. 
 
 Gid^ Sir, nor I 
 
 Unto your sister's brother, I would hope. 
 
 {Looking round again. 
 But she — I pray you where ? 
 
 Coun. Euphrosyne, 
 
 Go call her straight. [Aside to her.] Tell her that 
 come she must. [Exit Euphrosyne. 
 
 [To Gideon.] You'll give your pardon to a silly child 
 If you see her something fluttered and disturbed 
 With this new happiness — and, it may be, 
 A little coy at first. A maiden's heart 
 Is a riddle to itself. 
 
 Gid. So have I found 
 
 With other hearts than maidens'. 
 
 Enter Claudia. 
 
 Coun. Come, sweet love. 
 
 Give me your hand. [Aside to her.] Nay, now, no 
 
 foolishness — 
 [Aloud.] And let me lay it thus in his who soon 
 
ACT II.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 131 
 
 Shall be its lawful keeper. 
 
 \Placing Claudia's hand in Gideon's. 
 Earl. And from me 
 
 Receive the father's blessing which is worth 
 More than the richest dower, and which most freely 
 I here bestow on both. 
 
 Gid. I cannot now 
 
 Say what I would — but take from me this ring 
 In token of my troth-plight. 
 
 \Puts a ring on her finger, then, still holding her 
 hand, turns towards the Earl and Countess. 
 I would fain 
 Speak with your daughter for a while alone. 
 Coun. Alone ! 'tis not the fashion. 
 Gid. I am not 
 
 A man of fashion, madam, and I crave 
 With my affianced wife to speak alone. 
 
 Coun. Nay then, you shall, you shall. \Aside to 
 Claudia.] Child, it must be. 
 [Aloud.] Only I pray you keep some count of 
 
 time 
 Even alone with her, and bear in mind 
 Your promise to my lord that you will look 
 His deeds and papers over, which e'en now 
 In the library await you. You will find 
 They sorely need an ord'ring eye and hand. 
 
 Earl. Indeed, most sorely. For the drudgery 
 Of figures I've no head — -no head at all. 
 Coun. Then you'll come soon ? 
 
132 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 Gid. [ Who still holds Claudia's hand^ Soon, 
 soon; but leave us now. 
 
 \Exeunt Earl, Countess, and St. Valery. 
 Sit you down there, and listen to me well ; 
 For much I have to tell and you to hear 
 Ere I can deem our contract full confirmed — 
 The tale of that dumb pain that in my heart 
 So long and deep lay hid 'twas part of me, 
 And of what now hath made it dumb no more. 
 And pain no more, and lets me give at last 
 Breath to the prisoned panting love of years. 
 
 Clati, Sir, sir ! — But say you years ? 
 
 Gid. 'Tis three years now 
 
 Since first I loved, although that day wherefrom 
 My love doth date you saw me not nor heard, 
 Nor felt my arms about you — arms that seem 
 Nought else to have felt since then. 
 
 Clau. How mean you this ? 
 
 Gid. The day you must remember, though not me. 
 You rode alone, save for a foolish page 
 That followed you, and knew not how to help 
 When from your plunging horse you fell, and lay 
 Upon the cruel stones of the road, white-faced. 
 And still, and silent. 
 
 Clau. So — that day ? 
 
 Gid. By chance 
 
 I then was rambling in the wood hard by, 
 Lonely, as ever since my father's death 
 Lonely I had been, and heard a cry, and burst 
 
ACTii.J CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 133 
 
 My way through cumbering branches to the place 
 
 Where as one dead you lay. The gibbering boy 
 
 I bade ride back to Heronwood for help ; 
 
 And, left with you alone, I raised your head, 
 
 With its sweet shower of curls, upon my knee 
 
 That ne'er had borne such wealth, and found you 
 
 lived ; 
 And then, remembering the brook that flows 
 Not far thence o'er the road, uplifted you, 
 A soft warm freight, within my arms, that half 
 With their own daring were dismayed, as though 
 'T were outrage that they did. 
 
 Clau. All that you say 
 
 I have no mem'ry of. 
 
 Gid. Yet so it was. 
 
 And long I knelt beside you at the brook. 
 And many a time my fingers touched your brow 
 With cooling drops, ere there began to dawn 
 Upon your lips a light that seemed to tell 
 Of possible smiling, as the silvering 
 Of a clouded sky tells of a possible heaven. 
 And more than that I saw not, for then came 
 The sent-for help, and I, superfluous, 
 Slipped thence unnoted, unto you and yours 
 A stranger as before. 
 
 Clau. Now that I know. 
 
 For all your courtesies I should give you thanks. 
 
 Gid. But though to you the same, from that hour 
 forth 
 
134 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 Unto myself I was changed. Whate'er I sought 
 To be, or do, or think of, from that hour 
 A face was hov'ring still 'twixt me and me. 
 And a fair possible smile — as fair and faint 
 As the first ray of moonlight that at eve 
 Kisses the sea, ere yet the stars have risen — 
 But ne'er to be forgot. You went back soon 
 To London, and I heard of you at court, 
 But still could not forget, albeit I knew 
 'Twas madness to- remember. 
 
 Clau. O most strange ! 
 
 Gid. And when, in two years more, you came 
 again, 
 To make of Heronwood your only home, 
 I seemed to have forgot I should forget, 
 And strove for peace no longer, nor e'en wished. 
 But clasped my pain more close. And since that 
 
 time 
 My single thought hath been of how to catchi, 
 One day, the far-oif music of your voice 
 Borne on the summer air, or on another 
 "Mid trees the flutt'ring whiteness of a robe 
 That my heart knew was yours ; and on the day 
 That ended with no sight nor sound of you 
 It seemed I had not lived. 
 
 Clau. You fright me, sir. 
 
 With such wild talk. But how could all this be, 
 And stay so long unguessed ? 
 
 Gid. And still unguessed 
 
ACTii.J CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 135 
 
 I thought to keep it till my love and life 
 Together made one end. I deemed you proud, 
 In the world's sense of pride ; and knew myself 
 Low-bom, in the world's sense of lowly birth. 
 And in all points, whether for what I am, 
 Or what am not, a stranger to your ways — 
 One whom perchance you thought of but to mock. 
 How could I stoop to woo, with only gold 
 To make my suit commended ? 
 
 Clau. [Aside.] Said he stoop ? 
 
 Gid So stood it with me up to yesterday ; 
 
 But then O now I come to what I fain 
 
 Would keep untold, yet here to hide the truth 
 Were false as tell a lie. I chanced to pass 
 The arbour yesterday, where with your cousin 
 You sat in talk, and by your voice was held 
 Pris'ner, and by your words — which took away 
 All power but that of list'ning, and made guiltless 
 What else had been dishonour. You remember 
 What 'twas you spoke of, and what arguments 
 You pleaded on your side ? 
 
 aau. Full well, full well. 
 
 Gid. And can forgive me that they made me lose 
 All sense of what I did, and play the spy, 
 Of my own fault unwitting ? You forgive ? 
 
 Clau. Forgive — yes, yes. It seems you think me, sir, 
 More scrupulous than I am. 
 
 Gid. Forgiv'n by you, 
 
 I will forgive myself And having found 
 
136 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act 11. 
 
 How I had wronged your nature's nobleness, 
 And how in spirit as in outward form 
 You shone as much pre-eminent to those 
 With whom you lived as the diamond in the mine 
 
 Unto its neighbour clod O pardon me; 
 
 This should I not have said. 
 
 Clau. Nay, nought hath power 
 
 To amaze me now. Well, well ? 
 
 Gid. When thus I found. 
 
 Pride died, and Hope was born. I had heard you 
 
 say 
 That rank you heeded not, and by my love 
 I felt I was made worthy — e'en of you, 
 Who were so worthier far than I had deemed. 
 And now you know the truth, and wherefore 'tis 
 That from your height of birth and place I dare 
 Ask you to stoop to me. 
 
 Clau. Indeed I know 
 
 What I should ne'er have guessed. 
 
 Gid. Yet trust me well, 
 
 I had rather hungered vainly till I starved 
 Than ask you for my sake to give up aught 
 That was by birthright yours, were't not I felt 
 Such loss as this was gain. The life of courts 
 Is a life for you too low. 
 
 Clau. The life of courts 
 
 Too low, yoia say ! 
 
 Gid. Too low because too false. 
 
 Clau. And why, I pray, more false tham other life ? 
 
ACTII.J CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 137 
 
 Have you e'er lived it, that you know so well ? 
 
 Gid. I have lived long enough the common life 
 Of human kind to know that where are met 
 Together men and women striving each 
 To outshine each, and taking each the opinion 
 Of others for a god, there will you find 
 Great need of lies — lies both of act and speech. 
 
 Clau. O lies enough, I grant you. And of lies 
 You have, it seems, a loathing. [Aside.] I am glad 
 There's one man in the world with heart to hate 
 The paltriest thing that's in it. 
 
 Gid. As much loathing 
 
 As I have love of you. 
 
 Re-enter Countess. 
 
 Conn. You see, you see — 
 
 Just as I feared 'twould be. You have clean forgot 
 That we poor elders wait — forgot indeed 
 That there are any breathing 'neath the sky 
 Less young and pleasing to your taste than she. 
 
 Gid. Madam, I am now reminded. I will come. 
 
 Coun. I grieve to be so cruel ; but you know 
 My lord's affairs are pressing, and you promised 
 To lend him your clear head and practised hand 
 To put them in some order. 
 
 Gid. And as much 
 
 As may be needful more. Behold me now 
 Ready at your service. [7J? Claudia.] For a while 
 farewell. 
 
138 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [actii. 
 
 Clau. Farewell 
 
 Coun. [Aside to Claudia.] You see I had pity on 
 you, child. I knew 
 How tedious you would find him. [Aloud."] Come 
 
 then, sir; 
 My lord awaits you here. [Exif, with Gideon. 
 
 Clau. And so at last 
 
 I have stood face to face with love.; with love 
 As deep and burning, sure, as e'er in dreams 
 I dreamed of — love for me, me that had thought 
 Such dreams were only dreams. And this in him — 
 In Gideon Adams, son of the fisherman ! 
 Amazement chokes my breath — as ne'er I thought 
 Amazement could ; but 'tis that anger helps. 
 Gideon ! O monstrous name ! Yet had he had 
 Some other less uncouth ! Or could it be 
 Of him discovered, as 'twould surely prove 
 Of any in romance that loved so well, 
 
 That he was nobly born Fantastic fool, 
 
 How would he scoff to hear thee ! and perchance 
 Say that such gain were loss, and that in courts 
 Was much low company, much giv'n to lies, 
 Whereof he hath a loathing — as great loathing 
 As love for me. I marvel which would win, 
 His loathing or his love, if he knew all — 
 Or whether both would not be quenched in scorn. 
 I scorned by him ! — How then, do I believe 
 Only because he says ? Why should he be 
 More true in love or loathing than the rest ? 
 
ACT 11.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 139 
 
 I have a face he fancies, rank withal 
 That he would like to share ; this is his love. 
 He says he hates a lie ; this is his truth. 
 Why should I doubt I am as good as he ? 
 
 Enter St. Valery, by the window. 
 
 Brother, what now ? 
 
 St. Val. Nay, for this suddenness 
 
 ' Forgive me ; 'tis the wind hath puffed me back 
 It blows as though the earth and all that's in't 
 Were a hot piece of pudding hungry Heaven 
 Made haste to cool — and now 'tis raining too. 
 As hard as wind will let it. But indeed 
 I had forgot that we had left you here 
 In solemn conference — an Andromeda 
 Abandoned for her kin and country's good 
 To a Puritanic dragon, all alone. 
 So you have 'scaped his claws, and 'scaped alive ? 
 
 Clau. If 'tis of Mr. Adams that you speak, 
 He is yonder with my father. 
 
 St. Val. And now tell. 
 
 Was the sea-monster well behaved ? 
 
 Clau. Forbear. 
 
 If I indeed am wretched as you think, 
 'Tis not for you to taunt me. 
 
 St. Val. On my life, 
 
 'Twas he, not you, I aimed at. 
 
 Clau. Peace, I say. — 
 
 What clamour's there ? 
 
140 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 Enter hastily Janet, by the window, Simon following, 
 and trying to detain her. 
 
 Sim. You cannot — nay. 
 
 Jan. I will. 
 
 Where is he ? in this house, I know — but where ? 
 
 Clau. What mean you ? 
 
 St. Val. Is she mad ? 
 
 Sim. 'Tis not my 
 
 fault ; 
 I told her that she could not, but she would. 
 
 Jan. My master — Master Gideon. Are you fools 
 That you can only stare ? 
 
 Sim. O this, you know, 
 
 Is utterly impossible. 
 
 St. Val. Quite mad ! 
 
 Clau. Or else with some great grief made desperate. 
 [7J? Janet.] Is't Mr. Adams that you seek ? 
 
 Jan. Ay, ay — 
 
 Where is he ? quick — say where. 
 
 Clau. He is not now 
 
 At leisure, but if you will tell your need 
 To me and to my brother, we will strive 
 To help you as we may. 
 
 Jan. You and your brother ! 
 
 It is a man I want — not you or him ; 
 A man to save the lives of other men — 
 Whose deaths will be your doing if you stand 
 Longer 'twixt me and help. 
 
ACT II.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 141 
 
 Clau. Nay, if 'tis thus, 
 
 I'll bring him straight. \Opening the door by which 
 
 Gideon went out.] I pray you, Mr. Adams — 
 This way — you are called for. 
 
 Re-enter Gideon, followed by Earl and Countess. 
 
 Jan. [Throwing herself on her knees before Gideon. 
 
 Master Gideon, save — 
 Save me, and save my son — my only boy — 
 Save him ; you can and will. 
 
 Gid. Your son ! nay, dame ; 
 
 Your son's far hence. 
 
 Jan. No — near — too near ; his ship — 
 
 Yonder — his ship O me ! 
 
 Gid. Be calm, and tell. 
 
 A ship, you say, in sight ? 
 
 Jan. A ship — and his — 
 
 I know her — ^beating off the headland now, 
 A helpless thing giv'n o'er to wild-beast waves 
 That seem as though they reared themselves to tear 
 The poor souls off the rigging. Save them, save ! 
 The others stand and look, and shake their heads. 
 And fear to help ; but you, you never feared 
 Where good was to be done. 
 
 Earl A troublesome 
 
 Importunate old woman, with no thought 
 Of any but herself. 
 
 Jan. Will you not help ? 
 
142 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 Gid. If man can help, I will. 
 
 Court. Nay, but I hope 
 
 You mean not this in earnest. 
 
 Earl. You must think 
 
 There may be danger here. 
 
 Gid. [To Janet.J Go to the beach,. 
 
 And bid them get the boat in readiness. 
 Say ere they have done I will be there myself, 
 Prepared, if any ray of hope appear. 
 To put from shore with who will follow me. 
 Or, if none will, alone. 
 
 Earl. But you have heard 
 
 From what she says this were to risk your life. 
 
 Coun. Such peril you have now no right to 
 face. 
 
 Gid. [To Janet.] Take you my purse ; 'twill help 
 to quicken them 
 Until I come myself 
 
 Jan. But come you will ? 
 
 Gid. Ay, ere the boat be ready. I but stay 
 On a brief niinnte's bus'ness. Go ; make haste ; 
 And trust to me. 
 
 Jetn. I cannot show my heart ; 
 
 But I can say, ' God bless you.' [Exit, by the window. 
 
 Sim. Not across 
 
 The grass, I beg. [To the Others.'] You see 'tis not 
 my fault. [Exit, following her. 
 
 ■Gid. Are pen and paper here? By your good 
 leave 
 
ACT II. J CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 143 
 
 There's somewhat I must write. 
 
 \Sits down ,at a table, and begins to write. 
 
 Coun. To dare this risk 
 
 Is then your serious purpose ? 
 
 Gid , If I find 
 
 There is a chance, by daring, to prevail — 
 Yes, my most serious purpose. 
 
 Coun. But I say 
 
 It must not be. You owe yourself to us. 
 
 St. Val. [Aside.'] At least there's much we hope 
 to owe to him. 
 
 Coun. 'Tis criminal, unto a lower duty 
 To sacrifice a higher. [Aside to Claudia.] Speak 
 
 you too. 
 What ! are you dumb ? 
 
 St. Val. Criminal is the word. 
 
 Gid. Madam, the highest duty of each hour 
 Is that which the hour doth bring. 
 
 Earl. Were it not well 
 
 To ask yourself if in thus following 
 An impulse of your own there's not a want 
 Of the true spirit of unselfishness ? 
 
 Coun. But you'll not go now that we bid you stay ? 
 You are not so churlish ? 
 
 Gid. I would pray you, madam. 
 
 Disturb me not ; I am writing — and in haste. 
 
 Coun. O then I will obey, [Coming forward and 
 joining Claudia.] Chid by a clown ! 
 
 And yet I must endure. This is your fault ; 
 
144 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 If you had pleaded you would have prevailed, 
 Or 'scaped at least rebuke. 
 
 Clau. No, not prevailed ; 
 
 Herein could nought have moved him. Nor indeed 
 Had I the right to try to make him less 
 Than in his thinking a brave man should be. 
 
 Re-enter Euphrosyne. 
 
 Euph. Such news ! such news ! 
 
 Coun. What now ? 
 
 Euph. You 
 
 would not guess 
 If you were giv'n a year. 
 
 St. Val. Nay then, more need 
 
 You should tell quickly. 
 
 Euph. A whole company 
 
 Of lords and ladies, whirling in a cloud 
 Of plumes and ribbons up the avenue. 
 Another minute brings them to the house. 
 
 Earl. Lords ! ladies ! say you ? Why have I not on 
 My other set of ruffles ? 
 
 Coun. Sure the Duke, 
 
 And the Duke's guests. 
 
 Euph. Ay, that is plain enough — 
 
 Caught in the storm, and seeking shelter here. 
 Clau. Is the storm, still as blust'ring as it was ? 
 
 Euph. O worse and worse. Who could have 
 looked to-day 
 For such gay visitors ? 
 
ACT II.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 145 
 
 Coun. Indeed I would 
 
 They had forgot us still, or chosen else 
 A fitter season. Most inopportune ! 
 
 Earl. They will be ushered in upon us here. 
 
 St. Val. And find us all at school in our own 
 
 house. 
 Coun. No, no, that shall not be ; I'll go myself 
 To welcome them, and hold awhile at bay. 
 \To Gideon.] Sir, bus'ness calls me hence. When 
 
 I return, 
 I hope to find that others have advised 
 With more success than I. Meantime farewell. 
 Gid. Madam,- farewell. \Exit Countess. 
 
 Lord Heronwood, I pray. 
 Bestow a moment's time upon me here ; 
 There is a little service I would ask 
 Of you and of your son. 
 
 [Earl and St. Valery approach the table, at which 
 Gideon still sits. 
 Euph. Is my hair right ? 
 
 I vow I am fluttered almost unto death. 
 The Duke and all his guests ! And do you know 
 Methinks I saw the Duke ? he rode in front — 
 And close beside him one that to my eye 
 Looked like Lord Belmont Only now to see 
 The meetings and the partings in this world 
 Just when least thought of ! Little did you deem. 
 When he went hence, he would so soon come back. 
 Clau. You think he will come back ? 
 
 I. 
 
146 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 Euph. I tell you, child, 
 
 I saw him riding up the avenue. 
 
 Clau. O yes — Lord Belmont — so you said indeed. 
 
 Gid. [To Cbaudia, coming forward with a paper 
 which he has just folded and sealed?^ Beseech you 
 keep for me this paper safe 
 Till I return ; if of return I fail 
 Then open it ; 'tis yours. Now must I part ; 
 But you will say ' God speed you ' — will you not ? 
 
 Clau. I'll say it, yes — God speed you. And one 
 thing 
 I would remind you of — although maybe 
 'Twill make me seem too free — that courage oft 
 Is but divided by thin frontier-line 
 From folly, and self-murder ; and 'tis pity 
 When a brave man by his bravery is wronged. 
 
 Gid. Who is too careful not to o'erstep is apt 
 To keep too far within ; but still believe, 
 Not knowingly I'll cross the bound, for ne'er 
 Life tasted sweet as now. So then farewell. 
 O first one kiss — the only kiss perchance 
 Of yours my lips may know. \Kisses her. 
 
 May Heav'n above_ 
 Cherish you as would I, and with its grace 
 Watch o'er you and defend. 
 
 Clau. And o'er you too. 
 
 [Exit Gideon. 
 For sure he goes on Heaven's service bent. 
 
 St. Val. So — now we are in trim for visitors 
 
ACT II.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 147 
 
 Of a more courtly kind. I'll fetch them in. \Exit. 
 [EuPHROSYNE goes to a mirror., and arranges 
 her hair. 
 
 Earl. Be not too much affrighted, my poor 
 child. 
 That paper that you hold will make all well, 
 Let come what may. 
 
 Clau. This paper ! 
 
 Earl. 'Tis a will. 
 
 He called me to be witness while he signed, 
 And so some words I could not choose but see, 
 Spite of myself. You shall inherit all 
 Whereof he dies possessed. 
 
 Clau. What say you there ? 
 
 Inherit ! I ! from him ! O no ! not so. — 
 But mean you truly that he thought of this ? 
 
 EarL With my own eyes I saw it. So be calm, 
 And leave the issue to a higher power — 
 But of that paper take great care meanwhile. 
 
 Clau. This paper makes you think perchance 
 'twere well 
 That in the strife between the waves and him 
 The waves should have the mast'ry ? 
 
 Earl. Heav'n forbid ! 
 
 Child, child, how can you say it ? All I think 
 Is what great cause we have for thankfulness 
 That, if the worst should come, the worst will be 
 Not quite the very worst. See there — our friends — 
 Look, if you can, a little less distraught. 
 
148 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 Re-enter Countess and St. Valery, with the Duke 
 OF Castleborough, Lord Belmont, Sir John 
 and Lady Longueville, Millicent, and others. 
 
 My dear lord duke ! Now what a joy is this ! 
 A thousand welcomes I And to you, Sir John, 
 And your fair ladyship, and, colonel, you — 
 To each and all a thousand. I would hope 
 The naughty storm hath used you not too ill — 
 Yet must I not miscall it, since it blows 
 This way such happiness. 
 
 Duke. Too kind — too kind. 
 
 But e'en without the storm to quicken us 
 We should have come some day ; doubt not of that. 
 We have talked much and often of you all — 
 Have we not, friends ? 
 
 Sir John. O truly scarce an hour 
 
 We have not talked of you. 
 
 Coun. [Aside.] I will be sworn — 
 
 And our affairs to boot 
 
 Duke. And my fair friend 
 
 The Lady Claudia, who hath late been missed 
 At court so sorely — she is well, I hope ? 
 
 C!au. Speak you to me ? Yes, well — I thank your 
 grace. 
 
 Lady L. Dear girl ! O so much missed ! But to 
 my mind 
 You are paler than you were, and now your cheeks 
 Should be the envy of us poor court dames, 
 
ACT II.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 149 
 
 State pris'ners that we are. Look, Millicent, 
 Is she not pale ? 
 
 Mill. Too pale in truth, sweet friend. 
 
 Bel. Charming as ever — ^but perhaps with not 
 So bright a hue of health as yesterday. 
 [Aside.'] She hath dreamed of me, poor soul. 
 
 Coun. Indeed I 
 
 have seen 
 To-day she somewhat ails ; it is the storm. 
 [Aside to Claudia.] I pray you bear yourself more 
 
 like yourself. 
 Can you not speak ? 
 
 Clau. The storm — e'en so — the storm. 
 
 Had it in nought abated when you came ? 
 
 Lady L. Abated ! nay, it raged, as though to the 
 world 
 It brought the day of doom. I never thought 
 I should have saved my feathers. 
 
 Mill. O 'twas grand 1 
 
 The trees were waving to and fro like fans. 
 So very grand ! 
 
 Clau. If by the cliff you came, 
 
 You must have seen the sea ; was the tumult there 
 As great as on the land ? 
 
 Lady L. We took the road 
 
 Behind the coppice, and so missed the sea — 
 A wondrous sight, I doubt not, but would quite 
 Have spoiled our velvets. 
 
 MilL In the country here 
 
ISO CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 You are more used to brave the elements 
 Than we— I envy you. 
 
 Lady L. So must we all, 
 
 We poor town drudges. Such refreshment 'tis 
 To light on aught so pastoral and apart 
 From the hot dusty world. A dear old place, 
 This Heronwood — so quaint and so unspoiled 
 By modern touch — so thoroughly unspoiled. 
 The dearest, oldest place ! 
 
 Mill. Extremely old ! 
 
 Coun. I feared you would find it dull — you that 
 are used 
 To everything so beautifully new. 
 But give me tidings of our friends in town ; 
 Lady Belinda — is it true she makes 
 Such rage at court this year ? The taste of men, 
 To think she can excel your Millicent ! 
 
 Lady L. Lady Belinda ! O poor thing, poor 
 thing ! 
 A pretty waxen face enough at first — 
 But could not stand the wear and tear of town. 
 Quite faded now — a wreck — an utter wreck. 
 
 Mill. O the completest wreck that e'er I saw. 
 
 Clau. [Suddenly becoming attentive.^ A wreck ! Say 
 you a wreck ? O tell me — tell — 
 Seek not to keep it from me — ^are they lost ? 
 
 Bel. [ Who has been talking with the Earl and a 
 group of other gentlemen in the background.^ Why, 
 Lady Claudia ! What should move you thus ? 
 
ACT II. J CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 151 
 
 Clau. [Taking no notice of him.] I ask you are they 
 lost ? 
 
 Coun. We do but speak 
 Of the new court beauty, who hath lost her looks. 
 
 Clau. So — is that all ? 
 
 Coun. Forgive the foolish girl. 
 
 The truth is this ; she hath the tenderest heart 
 Of any in the world, and as you came 
 We had newly heard that out at sea a ship 
 Drifts rudderless in the storm — and some brave fel- 
 lows 
 Are putting forth to help. 
 
 Clau. One man puts forth — 
 
 Alone, if none will follow. 
 
 Coun. Ay, a neighbour — 
 
 A sort of friend — so you may think how wrung 
 A feeling heart must be. I am myself 
 Quite wretched, only I forgot it all 
 In the gladness of this meeting. So much valour 
 One cannot but admire. 
 
 Lady L. O fine indeed ! 
 
 Bel. Most interesting. But I have always heard 
 That some of those rough fellows of the coast 
 Are, in their way, quite heroes. 
 
 Clau. [Aside.] In a way. 
 
 At least, that you and yours know nothing of. 
 
 Bel. [Resuming his conversation with the gentlemen. 
 Well, as I said, my lords, of this affair — 
 'Twas a prodigy — a very prodigy ; 
 
152 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 Rather than yield unwounded, each fought on 
 With sword-blade broken to a dagger's length. 
 St. Val. Gadzooks — a pair of game-cocks ! 
 Sir John. I can 
 
 tell you 
 'Twas the town's talk for days. 
 
 Clau. [Aside.] Yes, yes, their way 
 
 Of being heroes is to risk their lives 
 In taking other lives, with all the world 
 To look applauding on — a common way. 
 
 Coun. Notice her not ; she will be better soon. 
 Tell me — they talk, I fancy, of that duel 
 Sir Frederick fought with the Viscount — is it true 
 He and his wife since then have never met ? 
 How horrible ! 
 
 Lady L. O horrible — but quite true — 
 Be on that point at ease — beyond all doubt. 
 You know that an elopement had been planned ? 
 Coun. So have I heard. They must have taken 
 pattern 
 By the affair of Lady Susan in the spring. 
 
 Lady L. That ! that was worse yet. Do you know 
 
 they say [ Whispers to Countess. 
 
 Clau, [Aside.] And thus they talk, and roll old 
 scandals o'er 
 As a lozenge in the mouth, while he perchance 
 Breathes out his life between the sea and sky. 
 
 Coun. You horrify me. But what stirring times 
 You have had in town this year ! 
 
ACT 11.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 155 
 
 Lady L. O never yet 
 
 Was such a year, I think. And then the bus'ness 
 Of the sham diamonds — and the suicide 
 Of young Fitzherbert — wondrous stirring times ; 
 The most enjoyable season that indeed 
 Has been for a whole age. What pity 'tis 
 You should have missed it ! 
 
 Coun. Yes — but then you know 
 
 Health goes before all things ; and for the Earl 
 The air of Heronwood has been enjoined. 
 And separate we cannot ; we are all 
 So foolishly affectionate. 
 
 Lady L. Ah ! that 
 
 Is our fault too. 
 
 Clau. [Aside-I Where each the opinion takes 
 Of others for a god, there will you find 
 Great need of lies ; he said it, and 'tis so. 
 
 Lady L. But the good Earl — ^we scarce have seen 
 him yet. 
 My lord of Heronwood ! [Turns to speak to the Earl, 
 who is with the group of gentlemen behind. The 
 Countess and Millicent follow, leaving 
 Claudia alone in front. 
 Clau. What would he think 
 
 Of them and us — he that hates lies as much 
 As he loves me ? And that his love was true 
 , This proves, [Looking at the paper given her by 
 Gideon, which she still holds."] which proves his 
 love would outlive life, 
 
154 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 And be more strong in his dying hour than death. 
 
 \A noise of shouting heard without. 
 What noise ? Yea, now I know ; they are lost, they 
 
 are lost — 
 O let me pass ! 
 
 Earl. \Picking up and returning to her the paper, 
 which she has let fall.'] Did I not give you 
 charge 
 To keep it safe ? 
 
 Clau. I kept it but for him — 
 
 Now \Is about to tear the paper, but is stopped 
 
 by the Earl. 
 Earl. Are you crazed ? 
 
 Bel. Sweet Lady Claudia, 
 
 What frights you thus? those sounds are sounds of 
 joy. 
 Clau. Is't so? of joy? [Aside.] I would have 
 torn it else 
 In shreds as fine as dust. 
 
 Earl. [Aside to her.] Be not again 
 So absent, pray you. But if he forgets 
 To ask it back, you can forget to give. 
 
 [The shouting still continues, and grows louder. 
 Bel. Look, now we see the joy as well as hear. 
 [Points to the window, through which is seen 
 Gideon, endeavouring to free himself from a 
 band of Fishermen, with Women and Chil- 
 dren, who press round him, as though re- 
 
ACTii.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 155 
 
 foidng and congratulating. Among them 
 is Janet, who kneels and kisses his hand. 
 How strangely giv'n to be' demonstrative 
 The lower orders are ! 
 
 Duke. The rest I'll tell 
 
 Another time ; such noise as this would blunt 
 The point of any tale. 
 
 Lady L. A charming scene ! 
 
 So fresh and natural ! 
 
 Coun, Will you not go 
 
 Into the library ? there will you find 
 A slight repast prepared. \Aside to Claudia.] Let's 
 
 get them hence 
 Before in such rude sort he comes to make 
 Of us and of himself a laughing-stock — 
 He might have had more taste. 
 
 ^Meanwhile Gideon has disengaged himself 
 
 from his followers, and, motioning them 
 
 back, throws open the folding-leaf of the 
 
 ■window. 
 
 Gid. All's well — they are 
 
 saved. \Seeing the Duke and his friends. 
 
 Your pardon — I knew not [Pauses embarrassed. 
 
 Clau. [Breaking from the Countess, who seeks to 
 detain her.] Nay, but I will. 
 
 [Is advancing to Gideon, who still stands at 
 the window, when Belmont turns to ad- 
 dress her. 
 
iS6 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act ii. 
 
 Bel. Is that your friend ? A strange man ! And 
 how wet ! [Claudia stands suddenly still. 
 
 Gid. The Lady Claudia spoke. What was't she 
 said? 
 
 Clau. [Constrainedly.] That I am glad to see you 
 safe returned. [The Curtain falls. 
 
 End of Act II. 
 
ACT III.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 157 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Sctne. In Heronwood Park. 
 Burroughs and Simon discovered. 
 
 Sim. Indeed 'tis as I say ; my lord is ill — 
 Too ill to see you. 
 
 Bur. He must hear me then ; 
 
 My bus'ness cannot wait. Is this the way ? 
 
 Sim. [Aside."] I knew he came on bus'ness. 
 [Aloud.] Yes — but, sir, 
 I say my lord is out. 
 
 Bur. Not so ; you said 
 
 Your lord was ill. 
 
 Sim. Ill — ^ay — ^and therefore 'tis 
 
 Exercise is prescribed him. He is out — 
 And I am not. 
 
 Bur. Why then I'll be content 
 
 To see my lady countess. 
 
 Sim. She is out — 
 
 And my young lord, and my young lady too. 
 What one does, so do all. 
 
 Bur. I will e'en wait 
 
 Till one and all return ; for back to town 
 
158 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act m. 
 
 I will not till I see them. 
 • Sim. [Aside.] Back to town ! 
 
 He comes from town. [Aloud.] You said you could 
 
 not wait, 
 And neither can you, sir, for in the house 
 To-day is cleaning-day, and everything 
 In hurly-burly. 
 
 Bur. So ? I'll go to help 
 
 In setting straight. I am a lawyer, friend. 
 And used to have my way, which with your leave 
 I now will take ; farewell [£xii. 
 
 Sim. A lawyer ! There ! 
 
 Did I not know there was mischief in him ? Well, 
 I have done my best, and that is all I could. 
 
 [Sioops to tie up a bundle of faggots lying near him. 
 
 Enter Claudia. 
 
 Clau. Good-morrow, Simon. Say, has Mr. Adams 
 Yet passed this way ? 
 
 Sim. Not Mr. Adams — no — 
 
 But, O my lady, there is just gone up 
 A lawyer to the house. What shall we do ? 
 
 Clau. You have not seen him then ? 
 
 Sim. Alack, my lady, 
 
 He took the road to the house, first having said 
 He was a lawyer to my very face. 
 
 Clau. Peace with your lawyer. 'Tis of Mr. Adams 
 I ask you ; has he passed ? about this hour 
 He was to come on bus'ness to my lord. 
 
ACT III.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 159 
 
 Sim. Nay, Mr. Adams I have not yet seen ; 
 And all the morning here in the avenue 
 Have I been busy gath'ring up the fuel 
 Sent by the storm ; so miss him could I not. 
 But this same lawyer — straight to the house he went ; 
 He must be there by now. 
 
 Clau. Then had you best 
 
 Go thither too ; your service may be sought 
 
 Sim. A London lawyer 'tis ; he told me so. 
 
 Clau. I bade you go. Make haste. 
 
 Sim. I am gone, my lady. 
 
 \Gathers up the faggots. 
 [Aside.] She bears it well. Yet have I known them 
 
 scared 
 By simpler folk than lawyers, many a time. 
 [Aloud.] I am gone now — quite gone. [£xit. 
 
 Clau. That I should wish 
 
 Alone to see him ! Yet what could I else ? 
 Since I am bound to give this paper back, 
 And could not with my father looking on, 
 Who told me to forget it. Thus indeed 
 I have no choice, and need'Viot blame myself ; 
 See him alone I must. And, this being so. 
 He would have cause to wonder if I said 
 Nought of his peril yesterday. I know 
 At the time I was too cold, and well I saw 
 My careless welcome hurt him — hurt him much. 
 I was in fault — but, with those people by, 
 I was ashamed and tongue-tied. Yes, ashamed — 
 
i6o CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act m. 
 
 Shame on me for my shame, for what are they 
 That jibes and jests of theirs should count for more 
 Than a brave man's brave deeds ? — He comes ! 
 
 O me! 
 What shall I say ? and how ? Methought I knew, 
 But now 'tis all forgot. 
 
 Enter Gideon. 
 
 Gid. \Not seeing Claudia.] Yea, I have curbed 
 My hopes for years so hard, that now maybe, 
 In riot of unaccustomed liberty. 
 They have gone too far and fast. On some slight 
 
 words 
 I was not meant to hear, and heard by chance, 
 I may have built too much, and thereby done 
 Wrong both to her and me. So cold she seemed 
 When I was highest in fever 
 
 Clau. Mr. Adams — 
 
 Your pardon that I startled you. 
 
 Gii. 'Tis I 
 
 Should crave yours rather, that I thus encroach 
 On the loneliness that here you come to seek. 
 
 Clau. Nay — but indeed 'twas you I came 
 
 to seek. 
 
 Gid. I ! say you so ? 
 
 Clau. To give this paper up 
 
 That yesterday you trusted to my care. 
 
 Gid. It matters not 
 
 Clau. Beseech you. 
 
■ACTiii.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. i6i 
 
 Gid. Since you will, 
 
 It shall be kept by me, but still 'tis yours. 
 
 \Taking the paper, which he puts in his note-book. 
 Clau. I was right glad when safely you came 
 back — 
 And while you were away, you had my prayers. 
 
 Gid. Your prayers ! your prayers for me ! — I 
 might have known — 
 But deemed the holiness that gave me strength 
 Was but your image in my memory. 
 Making my heart more great and worthy you. 
 
 Clau. You thought of me e'en then ? then, while 
 you fought 
 The winds and waves for life ? 
 
 Gid. And saw you then 
 
 More clearly than aught else — than sea or sky, 
 Or faces of my comrades. Once I feared 
 To hear your voice no more — 'twas when our boat 
 Slid down a glassy precipice of wave. 
 That, breaking into whiteness as we fell, 
 Reeled toppling o'er to crush us ; but through all 
 I saw you still, and in the jaws of death 
 Bless'd God that e'en in death you still were mine, 
 And that though billows o'er my corse might roll. 
 Your living finger wore my troth-plight ring. 
 
 Clau. And this could comfort you ? — That makes 
 me think ; 
 I ne'er have thanked you for it yet aright 
 So rich a token 'twas too kind to give 
 
 M 
 
i62 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act in. 
 
 To me, who have nought of worth to pay you with. 
 
 Gid. O say not so ; the poorest ribbon or glove 
 Were in my count a treasure past all price, 
 If but once yours, and giv'n by you to me ; 
 And should be kept a holy thing till death. 
 Breaking both barriers and gates of sense, 
 All symbols made superfluous. 
 
 [Claudia detaches from her dress a knot of ribbon, 
 which falls, and is eagerly lifted by him.^ Mine ! 
 is't mine ? 
 You purposed this for me ? 
 
 Clau, Scarce do I know. 
 
 I did but touch it, and it loosed itself. 
 If you would keep it, keep — though I could wish 
 'Twere better worth your keeping. 
 
 Gid. O it comes 
 
 A dove of peace and promise to my heart. 
 Which had been tempest-tossed. A while ago 
 I doubted if I had not been too bold 
 And hoped a miracle in hoping ever 
 To be by you deemed worthy of so much 
 As of you I dared ask. Such doubts as these 
 Have left my soul no quiet since the hour 
 Of yesterday's home-coming. 
 
 Clau. All I would 
 
 I could not then well say ; for, as you saw. 
 When you came back we had company — much silk. 
 And ribbon, and lace, and velvet superfine. 
 That found with us a shelter from the storm. 
 
ACTiii.J CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 163 
 
 Gid. In sooth, could I have known your friends 
 were there, 
 I would have used more ceremony. 
 
 Clau. » Friends ! 
 
 Call them not friends, I pray ; not you yourself 
 Could scorn them more than I. You said who lived 
 In the world and for it had great need of lies ; 
 I thought of that full oft when they were by. 
 
 Gtd. You thought of what I said ? 
 
 Clau. And their invention 
 
 Is equal to their need. — O is't not vile 
 That one should stand in awe of what one scorns ? 
 
 Gid. That one should stand in awe of what one 
 scorns ! 
 Who would ? What mean you ? 
 
 C/au. You would not indeed ; 
 
 But all are not as you ; there are some cowards 
 Who quake at sight of a mask e'en if they know 
 That all behind is hollow. And how hollow 
 Behind those masks ! or, if some substance be, 
 How rotten all — all rotten to the core ! 
 
 Gtd. Nay, say not all to the core; brave hearts 
 and true 
 May by false crust of custom be o'erlaid. 
 And yet not wholly quenched. 
 
 Clau. Brave ! O most brave 
 
 Those friends of ours ; quite heroes in their way ; 
 So tall that with a little standing up 
 On tiptoe they can pat a man on the head, 
 
1 64 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act m. 
 
 And with a yawned ' Most interesting ' make 
 All hardihood beside their own look small. 
 
 Gid. So bitter ! why, what ails you ? 
 
 Clau. Do you seek 
 
 To excuse them now — you who but yesterday 
 Were bitterer than I ? So then your heart 
 Is not quite unforgiving — you can show 
 Some charity to fault, to falseness even, 
 Of those who in falseness have been born and bred — 
 You can ? O tell me. 
 
 Gid. So at least I hope. 
 
 Clau. E'en if a fault were made against yourself 
 By one so born and bred, you could forgive, 
 Repentance being true, and pardon asked ? 
 
 Gid. 'Twould be my duty. 
 
 Claw. Then if any one — 
 
 Suppose that I myself — confessed a fraud 
 That once I 
 
 Gid. How should you confess a fraud 
 You ne'er had done ? Shall Heav'n confess a fraud ? 
 I pray you give your question fitter form. 
 
 Clau. Nay, but suppose 'twere so. 
 
 Gid. This were to tax 
 
 O'ermuch my fancy. Ask what else you will, 
 I'll strive to answer ; but ask this no more. 
 
 Clau. I will not — ne'er again. But time wears on. 
 And in the house I know my father waits 
 Fulfilment of your promise to take up 
 Your broken task of yesterday. 
 
ACT III.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 165 
 
 Gid. 'Tis true ; 
 
 I have stayed too long ; but T will hasten now. 
 Later we'll speak again. 
 
 Clau. Perchance, perchance. 
 
 Let me not keep you ; later, as you say ; 
 But now my father waits. 
 
 Gid. He shall not more. 
 
 I go. O this dear pledge ! [Kissing the knot of ribbon. 
 
 Upon my heart 
 It shall lie warmed and warming while my blood 
 Can give or feel a glow. [Exit. 
 
 Clau. So thinks he now — 
 
 But if he knew — O ne'er he could forgive. 
 Hath he not well-nigh told me so with words ? 
 Said I must be as free of fraud as Heaven, 
 Or, if not, nought to him ? And what fraud 'twas ! 
 So base, so vile, in act and speech alike ! 
 How vile by mine own anger I may judge , 
 When first I found that it had snared myself. 
 True, to be caught in mine own net seemed hard, 
 But I ne'er stopped to take account of the wrong 
 I sought to do to him, by trapping him 
 In loveless, friendless wedlock. For most sure 
 Euphrosyne could ne'er have loved him right ; 
 Nay, nor had eyes to see his nobleness — 
 As I at least can do. Yes, that at least 
 
1 66 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act m. 
 
 Enter, at the back part of the stage, Countess, 
 EuPHROSYNE, and Burroughs. 
 
 Coun. See, she is here. Stand back ; she shall be 
 told 
 By me and only me. {Advancing to Claudia, who 
 has sunk down upon the fallen trunk of a tree, 
 where she sits lost in thoughti\ Why, Claudia, 
 love ! 
 
 Clau. Mother ! 
 
 Coun. So deep in dreaming! and whatpf ? 
 
 Of your new solemn lover, and the psalms 
 That you will sing together as you tread 
 Your buttercupped and daisied path of life ? 
 
 Clau. Madam, since, as you say, you speak of one 
 Who is my lover, and, at your desire. 
 My plighted lover, fitter would it be 
 You spoke of him with courtesy. 
 
 Coun. So I should. 
 
 Had I worse news to give you than I have. 
 But we are free e'en as we would to speak. 
 You made your sacrifice at dut/s call. 
 And now doth Heav'n reward you — and the need 
 Of sacrifice is past. 
 
 Clau. Past ! What is this ? 
 
 How mean you ? Mother, say. 
 
 Coun. Your father's cousin. 
 
 The richest banker of the town, is dead. 
 
 Clau. O is't but so ? And left my father heir 
 
ACT III. J CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 167 
 
 In spite of all his threats ? 
 
 Coun. Nay, to his word 
 
 The old crab-apple stuck, and from his will 
 Wiped out both sire and son ; but in default 
 Of heirs hath named an heiress — you, my child. 
 
 Clau. What ! I !— I !— rich ! 
 
 Coun. With all Sir Matthew's 
 
 wealth. 
 No heiress such as you in England through — 
 My own sweet maid, my peerless Claudia. 
 And, you being rich, so are we too, I know — 
 My darling, darling girl ! 
 
 Clau. Is't true indeed ? 
 
 Coun. See, yonder stands the voucher of my news, 
 Sir Matthew's lawyer. Sir, she scarce believes. 
 
 Bur. Madam, be sure that all is in due form. 
 I drew the will myself, on the instructions 
 Of my late lamented cKent, who no sooner 
 Deceased than I set off to bring you word. 
 And wish you joy — I mean, that is, condole. 
 
 Euph. My dearest Claudia ! But I need not speak 
 For you to know my heart. 
 
 Coun. Well, glad at' last ? 
 
 I see it in your face. 
 
 Clau. Yes, glad ; 'tis good 
 
 Not to have all to take and nought to give. 
 
 Coun. Now shall my radiant Claudia shine once 
 more 
 In the setting that becomes her best — at court. 
 
1 68 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act in. 
 
 Where she shall be the loadstone of all eyes, 
 Theme of all tongues, and her poor mother look 
 Fond and triumphant on. 
 
 Euph. I also, dear ; 
 
 You'll let me be fond and triumphant too ? 
 
 Coun. And our fine visitors of yesterday. 
 And all our other friends, shall die of spite. 
 
 when I'think of that, how do I long 
 
 For the time to come ! long you not too, dear child ? 
 Clau. Scarce can I say yet,, mother, what I would, 
 Or what would not — or if indeed that time 
 Can ever be you speak of. Mr. Adams, 
 
 1 know, dislikes the court. 
 
 Coun. What say you there 
 
 Of Mr. Adams and of his dislikes ? 
 What matter they to us ? A word alone. 
 
 [ Taking her apart from the others. 
 My Claudia, can you fear such sacrifice 
 Will now be asked of you ? what have we done 
 That you can think your parents would give up 
 Their one ewe-lamb into the butcher's gripe — 
 Without most absolute necessity ? 
 Nay, trust me, nay ; we soon shall find a way 
 To set our heiress free from those base toils. 
 
 Clau. Mean you from him ? But, mother, if we 
 now 
 Of what is promised were to take aught back, 
 'Twould break his heart ; he loves me. 
 
 Coun. If his heart 
 
ACT III.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 169 
 
 Be broken, it will soon grow whole again; 
 Fear not for that. And I have more news yet, 
 That I had thought to let another tell ; 
 But now I'll speak myself, to make you see 
 You have more hearts to be tender of than one. 
 Lord Belmont, child, Lord Belmont 
 
 Clau. What of him ? 
 
 Coun. Awaits hard by my signal to appear ; 
 Having this morn in hot and foaming haste 
 Spurred hither, of your father to demand 
 An audience — and your hand. What say you now ? 
 
 Clau. So then he has heard the news that I am 
 rich ? 
 
 Coun. Ay, as it seems, 'twas known at the Duke's 
 last night, 
 Brought by new guests from town — and see how soon, 
 When prudence gives him leave, he is at your feet. 
 
 Clau. When prudence gives him leave — yes, very 
 soon. 
 
 Coun. Tut, never bear him grudge because his love 
 O'erclouded not his judgment. Had he sought 
 To mate his riches with your poverty, 
 'Twould have been grand, but foolish — quite too 
 
 grand 
 And foolish to be looked for in this world. 
 So be content— as on my word I vow 
 I ne'er was so content. The very match 
 I would have picked and chosen for my girl ; 
 Title — an equal fortune — ancient name — 
 
1 70 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act m. 
 
 Person and manners perfect — and methinks 
 Some liking on your side as well as his ; 
 For long ago I noted how your cheek 
 Would put its roses on when he drew near. 
 
 Clau. So did it peradventure — long ago. 
 
 Coun. O such a match ! And one that to our 
 friends 
 Will even be as wormwood. But behold, 
 We make him stay so long his patience fails ; 
 And here he comes uncalled to plead his cause — 
 Nay, rather, claim his own. 
 
 Enter Belmont. 
 
 Bel. \Kneeltng to Claudia.] My Claudia ! 
 My love ! my fair betrothed ! upon my knee 
 Let me thus hail you, by that sacred right 
 Your father's promise gives — nor make me wait 
 Too long the sealing sanction of your smile ; 
 You would not, could you know how I have pined 
 And prayed for this dear hour, when at your feet 
 I might at last pour out my garnered love. 
 Nay, I may kiss your hand, and call it mine ? 
 
 Clau. Sir, pardon, you mistake. I am betrothed 
 With my father's full consent — but not to you. 
 
 Coun. Claudia ! 
 
 Bel. Not to me ! And then to whom ? 
 
 I have your father's word, and now claim yours. 
 
 Clau. To Mr. Gideon Adams he has given 
 His word, and I have mine. 
 
ACTiii.j CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 171 
 
 Coun. Alas ! she speaks 
 
 She knows not what. 
 
 Bel. Is't the wet man you mean ? 
 
 Clau. The wet man if you please to name him so — 
 But still betrothed to me, as I to him. 
 
 Bel. I could not name a man more horribly 
 Than Gideon Adams. 
 
 Clau. So once thought I too, 
 
 But now have found names the most horrible 
 May borrow grace from the wearers. 
 
 Coun. Let me speak. 
 
 Bear with her, sir, awhile, for pity's sake — 
 A weak and foolish child, who, being forced 
 By evil times that now are past to yield 
 To an unworthy suit, still by strained sense 
 Of honour deems that she must needs fulfil 
 Unto the end a contract that she loathes, 
 E'en while another waits she would fain accept. 
 
 Bel. And waits her yet, good madam, since 'tis 
 thus. 
 
 Coun. And thus indeed it is. But she shall see 
 Her folly soon, be sure. 
 
 Bel. I cannot doubt. 
 
 Coun. [To Claudia.] You make me shame to 
 think you are my child. 
 A clown, a rustic, whom when you were poor 
 You held, and rightly held, for all his gold, 
 Immeasurably unworthy you — and now. 
 That wealth hath made you free, to him you cleave. 
 
172 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act iii. 
 
 As though by adamantine fetters bound, 
 Less willing to leave him than you were to take ! 
 Clau. Of willing or not willing I say nought 
 To Gideon Adams have I bound myself 
 By fetters of honour and of honesty, 
 And bound to Gideon Adams I remain. 
 
 Enter Earl and St. Valery. 
 
 Earl. To Gideon Adams bound ! Not so, my 
 child. 
 I bring you better news ; he sets you free. 
 Gives up your promise, and sends back this pledge 
 That, as he says, perchance you'll know again. 
 
 [Handing her the knot of ribbon she had given to 
 Gideon. 
 
 St. Val. My sweetest sister ! 
 
 Clau. This ! this that he 
 
 vowed 
 To keep a holy thing while sense endured ! 
 How came you by it ? 
 
 Earl. Out of his own hand. 
 
 I told him that your altered fortunes made 
 What was unfit before, impossible ; 
 And there you have his answer. 
 
 Clau. And he took 
 
 Tamely from you dismissal ? — never asked 
 To hear it out of my lips certified ? 
 Not even once to see me ? 
 
 St. Val. Thank me, sister, 
 
ACT III.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 173 
 
 That I have spared you that. 
 
 Clau. You spared me ! How ? 
 
 St. Val. Why, when I heard how roughly he o'er- 
 rode 
 My father's courteous scorn and mild disdain, 
 And with what rudeness clamoured out for you, 
 And none but you, to interpret your own will, 
 I lost my temper too, and told him all — 
 How in a prank we had fooled him — how the trap 
 Was laid in the arbour, with Euphrosyne 
 And you for bait — ^ha ! ha ! 
 
 Clau. You told him this ? 
 
 .Si^. Val. \Laughing.'\ 'Tis worthy not birth 
 
 Clau. [To Earl. J Is't 
 
 true that this he told ? 
 
 £arl. Poor lad, he lost his temper, as you hear. 
 Yet hath it chanced, maybe, all for the best. 
 You might have had much trouble else ; but now 
 Doubt not that you are made for ever free — 
 So would you say had you but heard and seen. 
 
 Caun. All for the best indeed ; my brave frank 
 boy ! 
 
 St. Val. [Still laughing.'\ The roses wreathing 
 round the brow of Love ! 
 O curds and cream ! 
 
 Clau. Laugh on, and laugh yet more 
 
 To know, if this day's work be not undone. 
 You have bruised the noblest heart in all the world — 
 But murdered mine outright. Ay, mine, I say ; 
 
174 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act iii. 
 
 You chose my school for me, and I have learned — 
 
 Learned with my soul to love him, and be proud 
 
 Of nought so much as this my love for him, 
 
 Which to his level lifts me. Yea, I love, 
 
 And care not who shall hear me boast my love ; 
 
 I love him, and will love him evermore. 
 
 Though from his heart he thrust me unforgiven 
 
 Into the hell of his coldness or his hate — 
 
 Yet even there I'll love him still so well 
 
 That unforgiven I must crown your work. 
 
 And of my love go mad. \Exit. 
 
 Coun. Mad ! 'tis the word, 
 
 The only word for this — the very ravings 
 Of a delirious brain. \To Belmont.] O pardon, sir, 
 What merits more your pity than your blame. 
 In her right mind she is not, cannot be. 
 
 Bel. So would it well-nigh seem. 
 
 Coun. One whose sole fault 
 
 Was till to-day a shade too much of pride 
 Now to be so unmaidenly 
 
 Euph. Indeed 
 
 Had I not heard I could not have believed. 
 
 Coun. So careless of her name, and- birth, and 
 blood 
 
 Earl. So selfishly forgetful of the duty 
 She owes to others. 
 
 Coun. All this could not be 
 
 But for a touch of fever in her veins, 
 Which, when 'tis past, will leave her more ashamed 
 
ACT III.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 175 
 
 Than she hath made us now. 
 
 St. Val. 'Tis like enough. 
 
 But if you'll let me counsel, till that time 
 She had best be watched, or she is fit to do 
 Something to shame us further ; in my life 
 I never saw such flashing in her eye. 
 It scared me in the middle of a laugh. 
 
 Couti. Dear son, you are ever right. O if Sir 
 Matthew 
 Had chosen you instead ! Haste, let us haste 
 To bring her back to reason and to us. 
 \To Belmont.] Come too, my lord, I pray; I 
 
 warrant you 
 We shall at last prevail. 
 
 Bel. So would I hope — 
 
 Not truly for my sake more than for that 
 Of your illustrious house. 
 
 Coun. Nay, never doubt. 
 
 Bur. A new trial granted will make all things well. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Gideon. 
 
 Gid. Here, here I saw her last ; here on this spot 
 She stood and smiled at me — long ages past. 
 When the world was young and fair, and not as now, 
 With youth and fairness vanished, like a breath 
 That lives awhile, then dies, in the winter air. 
 Ay, but the breath hath been, and these ne'er were ; 
 Nought was but haggardness and hideousness. 
 
176 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act in. 
 
 Not even then, when all seemed goodliest. 
 
 O wretched dupe ! O world detestable 
 
 In which such dupes can be ! \Seating himself on the 
 
 fallen tree.\ And I that thought 
 
 To know already how full of mire it was, 
 
 Enter Claudia, who, seeing him, stands watching 
 him unobserved. 
 
 And knew right well 'twas in its muddiest place 
 
 The light I worshipped shone ! O fool ! And yet 
 
 So bright and fair it shone, how could I guess 
 
 'Twas but the radiant jewelled diadem 
 
 That flickers o'er putrescence ? But so 'twas — 
 
 No more than this — and I that sought to grasp 
 
 Am headlong fall'n into the steaming slough. 
 
 And fathomed as I never fathomed yet 
 
 The unutterable foulness of the slime 
 
 That calls itself humanity. O lesson 
 
 To be forgotten never ! \Buries his face in his hands. 
 
 Clau. [Approaching timidly.] Gideon ! 
 
 Gid. Ha ! 
 
 Clau. Nay, look at me not thus. 
 
 Gid. Hath my soul's sickness 
 
 Spread to my senses too ? O keep me, God, 
 From sight of that face in mine eyes, from sound 
 Of that voice in mine ears ; or make me mad 
 Quickly, ere I can know that I am mad. 
 
 Clau. But I it is indeed you see and hear — 
 
ACT III.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 177 
 
 I — Claudia — Claudia that you said you loved. 
 
 Gid. Away ! out of my path ! 
 
 Clau. [Falling on her knees before him.] No, listen 
 first- 
 Listen — you must and shall. You have but heard 
 What others told of me ; now hear myself. 
 
 Gid. They told me then not true? — not true? 
 is't so ? 
 
 Clau. I did not say, not true. 
 
 Gid. True then ? 
 
 Clau. Too true — 
 
 But hear me; and forgive. 
 
 Gid. Sink in the toils 
 
 Again ? nay, ne'er again. 
 
 Clau. The toils I spread 
 
 Are guileless now. Forgive or not, but hear. 
 Most foully I deceived you, fell as far 
 Short of the thing you took me for as fogs 
 That cling to the bosom of the earth fall short 
 Of the blue welkin's splendour. But since then 
 The clouds above have broken, and Heav'n's light 
 Descended in my heart. What once I was 
 I am not now, but now well-nigh become 
 What once you dreamed me. By your nobleness^ 
 Your truth, down-shining in my frozen world 
 Of forms and shams and falseness— by your love — 
 You have made me what you thought me. 
 
 Gid. Ne'er again — 
 
 Seek not, seek not. 
 
178 CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [actiii. 
 
 Clau. You will not yet believe ? 
 
 Must I say more ? I will ; the penance 'tis 
 That I for all my many faults must pay — 
 But O 'tis hard to say. You will not help ? 
 Unhelped I'll say it. As your nobleness 
 Set fire to what of noble was in me 
 That ne'er had yet been conscious of itself, 
 So hath your love for one ne'er loved before 
 Found hers, and made it live, and live for you. 
 Now is it spoken. 
 
 Gid. O is this the madness 
 
 Whereof I stood in fear ? 
 
 Clau. Yet never think 
 
 'Twould have been spoken had I still been poor — 
 Not though the life of my love had been my death. 
 But I am rich ; thank Heav'n that made me so — 
 Not for the gold, but for the right it gives 
 To say the truth, and hope to be believed. 
 And truth it was I said. What ! still you doubt ? 
 
 Gid. Ay, for methinks I dream. 
 
 Clau. Then dream no more, 
 
 But wake to a fairer life than that of dreams, 
 Which I for you will make. You have proved to me 
 The world is not all bad as I had thought ; 
 Now the same lesson let me teach to you — 
 That even I who seemed so false and cold 
 Can still be true if trusted, loving if loved — 
 That on this earth that looked just now so dark 
 Happiness waits you yet, will you but ope 
 
ACT III.] CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. 179 
 
 Your arms, and take it to you. 
 
 Gid. {^Clasping her to his heart'] Thus, O thus — 
 My Claudia — mine — mine own. 
 
 Clau. Yes, all yours now. 
 
 I know not how I could so boldly woo ; 
 But 'twas your fault, for leaving all to me. 
 
 Gid. No longer, sweet, no longer. O the heaven 
 That you have set me in ! 
 
 Clau. Nay, soft ! who comes ? 
 
 But you will keep me safe. 
 
 Enter Earl, Countess, St. Valery, Belmont, 
 EupHROSYNE, and Burroughs. 
 
 Bur. We have got at last 
 
 The parties to the suit, but, as I fear. 
 Too late to stay proceedings. 
 
 Clau. Ay, too late. 
 
 I have found my home, whence I will never part 
 Until it cast me forth. 
 
 Gid. And that shall be 
 
 When Heav'n, grown tired of sun and moon and stars. 
 Shall tear them from their settings — yea, and men 
 Rend from their flesh the eyes they see withal. 
 And the hearts they live by. 
 
 Coun. Can this be indeed 
 
 The daughter I was proud of, and believed 
 Some pride to have inherited ? 
 
 Euph. Such want 
 
i8o CLAUDIA'S CHOICE. [act in. 
 
 Of maidenly reserve and dignity ! 
 
 Earl. Such painful egotism ! 
 
 St. Val. But plain it is 
 
 She hath resolved, and we to the purse must yield. 
 I will forgive you, sister, and in turn 
 You'll pay those little debts ? 
 
 Bel. [To CotJNTESS.] I grieve me, madam, 
 
 To seem abrupt — but the Duke's dinner-hour — 
 I fear I shall be late. 
 
 Coufi. I cannot press 
 
 Your longer stay, my lord, seeing as I do 
 The daughter whom I thought to have trained so well 
 Lost to all sense of duty. 
 
 Clau. Nay, not lost 
 
 To duty — rather found ; as I at length 
 Have found what duty is. And from that path. 
 New-learned, I never more will stray or swerve. 
 But, journeying on, in it will still abide 
 To the journey's end — with Love to be my guide. 
 
 [T/ie Curtain falls. 
 
 The End. 
 
ORESTES. 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Orestes. 
 
 .^GISTHUS. 
 
 Agenor, an old Slave. 
 
 The Chief Priest of the Temple of Apollo 
 AT Delphi. 
 
 An Attendant belonging to the Temple. 
 
 Clytemnestra. 
 
 Electra. 
 
 Pythia, the Priestess of Apollo. 
 
 Priests of the Temple of Apollo, Nobles and Citizens of 
 Mycenm, Guards, Attendants, (s^c. 
 
 The Scene of the Prologue is laid at Delphi, 
 of the rest of the Play at Mycence, 
 
ORESTES. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 Scene. Delphi. Interior of the Temple of Apollo. At 
 the side of the stage is a statue of the God, with an 
 altar in front of it. 
 
 Priests discovered chanting a hymn, making obeisances 
 before the altar, swinging censers, &'c. 
 
 Hymn. 
 
 Hail, youth eternal, king of morning, 
 On this new day that thou hast brought, 
 
 Awaking earth with joyous warning. 
 And setting wide the gates of thought — 
 All hail to thee, Apollo. 
 
 Thou of men the help and healer. 
 Still as of old put forth thy might ; 
 
 Thou of truth the chief revealer. 
 
 Make bright all places with thy light — 
 We pray to thee, Apollo. 
 
1 86 ORESTES. [prologue. 
 
 Great arrow-wielder, darkness-hater, 
 Deal out to all a righteous meed ; 
 
 Avenge the wrong, and smite the traitor, 
 And comfort gently those that need — 
 We pray to thee, Apollo. 
 
 Hail, youth eternal, king of morning, 
 On this new day that thou hast brought. 
 
 Awaking earth with joyous warning. 
 
 And setting wide the gates of thought — 
 All hail to thee, Apollo. 
 
 [^During the chanting of the hymn, an Attendant has 
 entered, and remained waiting. At its conclusion 
 the chief Priest turns towards him. 
 
 Priest. What news is this that fills thee so with haste 
 Thou waitest not the ending of our rites ? 
 Speak, and unload thy tongue. 
 
 Att. My haste is born. 
 
 Most reverend, of another's greater haste — 
 A suppliant, that in prone expectancy 
 I found before our gates, where all night long 
 He hath lain and worshipped, watching till the morn 
 Should set them open with the opening east, 
 And who with such wild quivering-voiced desire 
 Admittance craves, and leave to cast himself 
 At great Apollo's shrine, my pity fain 
 Must be impatient too. 
 
 Priest. His name and state ? 
 
 Att. Of these I cannot tell. 'Tis but a youth. 
 
PROLOGUE.] OEESTES. 187 
 
 Too young by his own deeds to count for much ; 
 Yet in his looks there hves a nobleness 
 That, spite of vesture travel-stained, proclaims 
 What he should be is more than what he is. 
 And sure his need is great, for never man 
 Entreated bread so hungrily as he 
 To approach our sanctuary. 
 
 Priest. Bid him come. 
 
 Atf. [Going to the side of the stage, and beckoning. 
 Ho ! youth, this way ; you have the leave you seek. 
 
 Enter Orestes. 
 
 Ores. Hail, king Apollo ! and be bless'd the day 
 On which at last I find thee. 
 
 Priest. Who art thou 
 
 Whose want so cries and presses to be heard ? 
 
 Ores. One who because his want is great and sore 
 Dare speak of it and of himself to none 
 Save only to Apollo face to face, 
 And Pythia his priestess. Let me stand 
 Alone with these, and all shall be revealed. 
 
 Priest. Alone ! thou askest much. 
 
 Ores. To none but these 
 
 I may with safety speak. I have mighty foes. 
 Who, having tasted blood like mine already. 
 Are thirsting after more. But from the god 
 And the god's priestess will I keep back nought. 
 O ! let me see her, her the interpreter 
 Of high Apollo's will, her whom to sue 
 
1 88 ORESTES. [prologue. 
 
 For grace and counsel I have made my way 
 Through pains and toils to this the central shrine 
 And navel of the world. Send me not hence 
 An unheard suppliant, bar me not out 
 From the great All-helper, if your hearts are flesh. 
 Priest. Thou mak'st thy prayer in words we cannot 
 sUght. 
 So far as we can grant, 'tis granted. Wait. 
 
 \Goes to the side of the stage, and opens a sliding 
 panel near the altar. 
 Pythia, come forth ; one here hath need of thee. 
 
 Enter Pythia. She looks round with vacant apathetic 
 gaze, and takes her seat on a tripod in front of the 
 altar. 
 
 Approach her, son, and speak ; and though she sit 
 
 As one not heeding — crushed by snowy weight 
 
 Of years and by the secrets of the god, 
 
 AU-too oppressive for her mortal sense — 
 
 Fear not but if thy words commend themselves 
 
 To ears divine, she too will hear and mark. 
 
 Now fare thee well ; thou hast craved to speak alone 
 
 To Apollo and Apollo's prophetess. 
 
 And hast obtained thy will. 
 
 \Exeunt all except Pythia and Orestes. He 
 advances and kneels before her. 
 
 Ores. Help, help, I pray — 
 
 Counsel and help for one who sorely needs. 
 
 Pyth. Spak'st thou to me ? Speak on. ' 
 
PROLOGUE.] ORESTES. 189 
 
 Ores. First what I am 
 
 I will declare. Orestes is my name, 
 And the Atrides' fated house my stock — 
 That house which much 'gainst nature and the gods 
 Hath sinned, and for its sinning much endured ; 
 So much that now unmeasured evils borne 
 Have sure atoned unmeasured evils done. 
 Then let the curse writ in the book of Fate 
 Against our race be blotted out at last, 
 And suffer me, whose hands are guiltless yet, 
 To expiate and cleanse, to lift again 
 That which lies low, and what is broken mend. 
 But chief I pray, let it be mine to right 
 The greatest wrong of all, mine to avenge 
 A father foully slaughtered. 
 
 Pytk. [Still absently.] Father — yea — 
 Father and mother are two holy names. 
 Of them what wouldst thou say ? 
 
 Ores. 'Twas but of him 
 
 That now I spake. O, would I might tell all, 
 And never speak of her ! 
 
 Pyth. Tell all. 
 
 Ores. A king. 
 
 The mightiest king in Greece, that father was — 
 Leader of leaders both in war and peace. 
 So far the first that where he stood was none 
 So much as second, but inferior all. 
 He from his home — nigh twenty years agone, 
 When I who tell the tale was but a babe 
 
igo ORESTES. [prologue. 
 
 Learning with stumbling tongue to lisp his name — 
 Set sail to lead the battle of the Greeks 
 Against the towers of Troy. Before those stones, 
 That gods as well as mortals helped to guard, 
 He and his host of ten long winters bore 
 The hoary rigours, and outfaced the glare 
 Of ten fierce-smiling summers — but at last 
 Prevailed, as must prevail who well can wait, 
 'And dug up Troy with the avenger's spade. 
 Then turned their faces homeward, at their homes 
 Dreaming to find sure haven from their toils 
 In faithful bosoms of long-watching wives, 
 And ready arms of ripening girls and boys 
 Trained all their lives to think that the word father 
 Was one with welcome. But for him, my sire, 
 Another greeting waited, though a greeting 
 Right carefully prepared. 
 
 Fyth. Ay, ay ? Yet more. 
 
 Ores. The others mostly came to true wives home ; 
 But he unto a wife who, while her mate 
 Wasted himself in labour, had bestowed 
 Her ear, and then her heart, and with her heart 
 All that she could, were't hers to give or not, 
 On a new-comer, one that of her lord 
 Was kinsman, yet born foe — for in our house 
 These things go well together. 
 
 Fyth. Yea, the curse, 
 
 The curse hath paired them. See how Fate doth work. 
 
 Ores. By this foul paramour her woman's heart. 
 
PROtOGUE.] ORESTES. 191 
 
 Corrupting even in the ill excess 
 Of its own womanliness, was changed and turned 
 Quite from its woman's nature, till it grew 
 Hard like a stojie — a stone whereon to whet 
 An axe against her spouse. 
 
 Pyth. O me ! that axe ! 
 
 How soon to drip with blood ! 
 
 Ores. Soon — ay, too soon ; 
 
 For he, nought witting, to his house returned — 
 His house, the well-draped shambles — and with smiles 
 Through which flowed words like honey strained 
 
 through flowers 
 Caressingly she welcomed him, spread out 
 The feast for his partaking, and herself 
 Undid his rusted harness, and involved 
 
 His war-worn limbs in folds of purple robe 
 
 Pyth. E'en so — the eagle in the viper's coil. 
 Ores. And, having thus enlaced him in her snares, 
 And caught him tangled in a double net 
 Of fancied safety and full-flowing gauds, 
 She stole with axe behind him, leisurely 
 Scanned o'er his noble unhelmed head to choose 
 Where best its edge might bite, and then, when least 
 He looked for stroke, she struck, and hewed him 
 
 down 
 As the woodman hews the oak. 
 
 Pyth. O this she did ! 
 
 I see — I s'ee. The kingly one lies low. 
 Nought but a heap of senseless purple robes — 
 
192 ORESTES. [prologue. 
 
 And yet for surety doth she smite again — 
 Ay, and for double surety still once more. 
 Cease, woman, cease at last — for he hath ceased. 
 Ores. [^Rising and looking round wildly. '\ O ! where 
 
 is this ? Show, show. 
 Pytk. Canst thou not see ? 
 
 Yonder it is — mine eyes are scorched withal. 
 
 {The wall at the back of the stage opens, and a 
 clouded picture appears, which as she speaks 
 gradually becomes more and more distinct. 
 So, thou hast finished, and like artist true 
 Dost stand rejoicing in thy handiwork, 
 Rejoicing, and defying gods and men. 
 And lo, for more contentment to thy heart. 
 Where creeps to thee thy helper and co-mate, 
 Smiles in thy face adulterously, and stoops 
 To gaze at ease on what he dared not do. 
 
 \The picture is now quite distinct, showing the figure 
 of Clytemnestra, with an axe in her hand, 
 gazing before her at the dead body (7^ Agamemnon, 
 which, closely enveloped in drapery, lies at her 
 feet, while ^gisthus kneels beside it, lifting up 
 one end of the covering. ' 
 
 Embodied blasphemy ! Count it not guilt 
 In me, ye Heavens, that I must look and see 
 Your majesty so mocked. 
 
 Ores. \Who sees the picture also.\ And what of me? 
 What shall I do ? Or is my soul in hell. 
 Where it must look for ever, and do nought ? 
 
PROLOGUE.] ORESTES. 193 
 
 \The picture begins to melt away, until gradually 
 it has quite disappeared. 
 Not so — the gods be praised — it fades, it fades — 
 I shall be well once more. Ay, now 'tis gone, 
 And left mine eyes free to drink in their fill 
 Of day's untainted light. Gone, said I ? Nay, 
 'Tis here — burned in my brain — and burns it still. 
 So that my brow will ne'er be cooled again — 
 Unless perchance by blood. O ! give me help. 
 Or I must madden — great Apollo, help. 
 
 \Kneeling again before Pythia. 
 Thou that hast shown me by thy godhead's power 
 The foulest wrong good ever had from bad. 
 Show me the way to vengeance, to do right 
 On those that have done evil, for the sake 
 Of primal Justice, daughter of the skies, 
 Who now down-trodden languishes. For thou 
 That know'st all things, thou know'st the murderers 
 Still live and flourish in the void they made — 
 That at Mycenae dark ^gisthus sits 
 Throned on my father's throne, of Argos king. 
 And of the Argives leader, who forget 
 There lives a truer heir. And by his side 
 My father's widow— any nearer name 
 I cannot give her — sits as wife and queen. 
 Must I plead still ? Hark, then, yet more than this 
 My father's ghost must bear, for in the bonds 
 Of that triumphant twain flesh of his flesh 
 Is held a thrall — his daughter well belov'd. 
 
194 ORESTES. [prologue. 
 
 Electra, my poor sister, she who plucked 
 
 Upon that night of blood my childish life 
 
 Out of the slaughterer's reach, and marvels now 
 
 Why, when 'tis ripe, I turn it not to use. 
 
 Well I remember how, as hushed we stood 
 
 In the cold star-light, at the postern-gate. 
 
 Awaiting him who by her care was chosen 
 
 Guard of my flight, she, seeing me loth to leave, 
 
 Said — ' Not for thine own self, but to avenge 
 
 Our father and the gods.' O ! let her now 
 
 Behold me worthy of so high a hope. 
 
 And grant me vengeance — vengeance, sole beginning, 
 
 Sole middle, and sole ending of my prayer. 
 
 Fyth. For this thou covetest art sure no price 
 Will be too large to pay ? 
 
 Ores. None — so the price 
 
 May only buy it. O, tell quickly, tell — 
 Shall it be mine — and how ? show me the way. 
 Dost still hang back ? Nay, I adjure thee, speak — • 
 Speak — mother, I would call thee, were it not 
 To me that name is curs'd. 
 
 Fyth. Then lend thine ear. 
 
 Go hie thee to thy birthplace back. 
 And of thy will thou shalt not lack ; 
 For there, yet wider than thou seekest, 
 Shall be the vengeance that thou wreakest. 
 But think not with that vengeance paid 
 The curse that haunts thy race is laid ; 
 Rather with pressure ten times double 
 
PROLOGUE.] ORESTES. 195 
 
 Shall bind thee then its load of trouble. 
 Nor shalt thou e'er deliverance gain 
 Unless by purge of prayer and pain, 
 And by another interceding 
 With true heart's love for thee much needing, 
 Which in the end may lead thee right. 
 Through storm to calm, through dark to light. 
 Ores. Obscurely doth conclude thy prophecy, 
 As generous wine grown hazy near the lees ; 
 Nor what it purports can I fathom well. 
 A price, I see, for vengeance I must pay — 
 But what care I, so vengeance may be mine ? 
 And touching that, thy words more clearly ran. 
 It waits me in my place of birth, thou saidst ? 
 Pyth. For there, yet wider than thou seekest, 
 
 Shall be the vengeance that thou wreakest. 
 Ores. Thanks, blest Apollo, brightest-throned of 
 gods — 
 For this so full and gracious promise, thanks. 
 Pyth. \Rising^ Now I have done ; farewell. 
 Ores. O ! tarry yet. 
 
 \Rising, and stretching his hands towards her."] What ! 
 wilt thou go ? Stay, stay, and tell me more. 
 Pyth. More must not now be told. Youth, fare 
 thee well, 
 And prosper as thou mayest. 
 
 {Advances to the door by which she entered, but, as 
 shereaches it, pauses on the threshold?^ I wouldsay, 
 Be temperate in revenge, but that I know 
 
196 ORESTES. [prologue. 
 
 It is a cup which, tasted, turns the brain, 
 
 And makes who once hath sipped thereof crave more, 
 
 Till it be emptied even to the dregs. [Exit. 
 
 [Orestes gazes after her for a moment, then, lifting 
 his eyes to the statue, stands before it with clasped 
 hands in an attitude of adoration. The micsic of 
 the hymn is heard, and the priests re-enter., 
 chanting, and making the circuit of the stage in 
 solemn procession, Orestes still standing before 
 the statue. 
 
 Chorus of Priests. 
 
 Hail, youth eternal, king of morning, 
 
 On this new day that thou hast brought, 
 Awaking earth with joyous warning. 
 
 And setting wide the gates of thought — 
 All hail to thee, Apollo. 
 
 \The Curtain falls. 
 
 End of Prologue. 
 
ACT I.] ORESTES. 197 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene. Mycena. An open place surrounded with 
 regularly planted trees, interspersed with statues. 
 An opening among the trees at the back gives a view 
 of the city ; at one side is seen between the trees part 
 of the palace, the entrance to which is approached 
 through a double row of statues, bearing lamps. 
 
 Solemn music. Enter a procession of women, veiled 
 and muffled, as though in mourning, Electra fol- 
 lowing. The women cross the stage with drooping 
 heads, and enter the palace. Electra is about to 
 follow, when Agenor comes forward, appearing 
 from behind the trees. 
 
 Agen. Lady — dear lady ! 
 
 Elec. Good Agenor ! Well, 
 
 What would you have ? 
 
 Agen. Can it be true indeed 
 
 What I have heard — that honour hath at last 
 Been shown my master's tomb ? that undecked tomb 
 So long left lonely. 
 
 Elec. If you call it honour 
 
198 OJiESTES. [act I. 
 
 To send libations to be poured by me 
 
 Upon a piled-up ridge of earth — by me, 
 
 As helpless as the dull dumb sods themselves, 
 
 Such honour hath been paid. You wonder — ay ? 
 
 Agen. In sooth 
 
 Elec. List to the reason then. Last night 
 
 My mother's sleep was vexed by an evil dream — 
 So evil that with fear thereof she shrieked, 
 And shrieking woke herself and all the house. 
 Nor e'en the morn's fresh breath could fan from her 
 The clinging fumes of terror, for the sun 
 Scarce 'gan to scale the battlements of the east 
 When I was bid prepare me to set forth 
 With train of mourners (I the only one 
 In spirit mourning) to make offering 
 To Agamemnon's shade. Who would have thought 
 That she that was so fearless hewing down 
 The king of men, of conquerors conqueror. 
 Should tremble now at dreams ? 
 
 Agen. O ! had my limbs 
 
 But strength again to bear me where he lies ! 
 No more methinks I'd part. 
 
 Elec. You and I stand 
 
 Alike in many things, and most in this — 
 That what we would we cannot. 
 
 Agen. Nay, I pray, 
 
 Daughter of kings, level yourself not thus 
 With one so lowly. 
 
ACT I.] ORESTES. 199 
 
 Eke. I am lowlier still ; 
 
 You are mastered by old age and poverty, 
 But I in my obediencfe held by fear, 
 And threats of such abhorred and nameless sort 
 That even while I am quelled I hate myself 
 That aught so vile hath power on me. 
 
 Agen. Dear princess — 
 
 No more. Now tell me of my master's tomb ; 
 Have the flowers thriv'n that once I used to tend ? 
 
 Elec. Nay, nought thrives there but weeds, as in 
 the world 
 Nought thrives but wicked strength. And yet by some 
 The place is honoured still. What think you, friend ? 
 As we drew near, I marked a youth that knelt. 
 And seemed to put up prayers, but at our sight 
 Startled he rose so quick and moved away. 
 That more than garb and gait I could not see. 
 
 Agen. The gods reward him, be he who he may ! 
 
 Elec. A youth, I say — and I had thought by all, 
 Save by a greybeard few he once had led, 
 My father was forgot. Who should it be ? 
 Doth it not seem most strange ? 
 
 Agen. Alack ! I see 
 
 What thought is in your mind ; but 'tis not so — 
 It cannot be, and is not. 
 
 Elec. Yet 'twas strange. 
 
 Whence comes your surety that it cannot be ? 
 
 Agen. Build not a house of sand. Of him you mean 
 You know nought — not so much as that he lives. 
 
200 OEESTES. [act i. 
 
 Elec. Say not that I know nought I know at least 
 He dwells no more in the city and the court 
 Where his youthful years were guarded — and why steal 
 From safe asylum and from loving friends, 
 Unless to find what in no spot of earth 
 Is to be found but this ? And then besides, 
 I know my father was his father too. 
 
 Agen. But think how many perils barred his way. 
 I have lived long, and know that hope is cruel. 
 
 Elec. Deem you I know not too ? deem you my pain 
 Outstrips not yours, e'en as my hope your hope ? 
 Hope ! 'tis indeed another word for fear. 
 
 Agen. O would I had said nought ! 
 
 Elec. But after fear 
 
 Hope comes again, and tells me fear mistook — 
 That of a house so mighty the last heir 
 Hath not been let go down ingloriously, 
 Without a name, into the night of things ; 
 That still he lives, to make the saying true 
 Which says the doers of wrong shall bear their deed — 
 That still he lives, marked out by eternal Power 
 To purge and expiate, to overcome 
 By justice Fate's injustice and her curse. 
 
 Agen. May the good gods thus grant it ! But 
 beware ; 
 Lo there the queen ; to see upon your face 
 A look of joy will make her wonder much. 
 
 EleC: 'Tis faded with her coming. Good Agenor, 
 Pray you begone ; you were my father's friend, 
 
ACT I.] ORESTES. 201 
 
 So here must find scant favour. \_Exit Agenor. 
 
 And for me 
 What better waits, who am my father's child ? 
 
 Enter, from the palace, Clytemnestra. 
 
 Cly. You make me tarry for your tidings long. 
 Say, have you been whither I bade you go ? 
 
 Elec. To where my father's ashes lie in the earth ? 
 Yea, I have been. 
 
 Cly. And there made offering 
 
 As I commanded ? 
 
 Elec. Yea. 
 
 Cly. And, making it, 
 
 Declared it came from me ? 
 
 Elec. E'en this I did. 
 
 Cly. You have done your task, I see — but as a task, 
 With cold indifferent heart. 
 
 Elec. And yet I wept 
 
 Upon his grave hot tears, and winged my prayers 
 With breath of deep-drawn sighs. 
 
 Cly. And of your prayers 
 
 What was the burden ? 
 
 Elec. That if power were his, 
 
 He would send his house and kindred better days. 
 This did I pray with all the strength I had — 
 O ! think not I was cold. 
 
 Cly. Cold are you not 
 
 In what pertains to him ; but unto me, 
 
202 ORESTES. [act i. 
 
 Your mother, who should have in you at least 
 An equal part with his, your heart is dead, 
 And knows not care nor pity. 
 
 Elec. Can it be 
 
 From me you have need of pity ? 
 
 Cly. As all things 
 
 Mortal must sometimes need it. O ! fear not 
 I would have aught of yours you will not give ; 
 But yet far other 'twixt us might it stand — 
 Other and better — had you been to me 
 As a daughter to her mother, daughter-like. 
 
 Elec. Would that I might have been ! 
 
 Cly. That you have not, 
 
 Is youi; own blame ; in me you might have found 
 A mother always — one in your regard 
 Clear of all fault. 
 
 Elec. Was't none in my regard 
 
 To rob me of a father ? 
 
 Cly. What I did 
 
 I had the right to do. O ! never think, 
 Because you have seen me for a passing hour 
 Made feebler than myself by an idle dream. 
 That I deny myself, or aught repent 
 That once with well-considered act I wrought. 
 No, Clytemnestra unto Clytemnestra 
 Is true, and will be true; and though the gods. 
 To make me traitor, hurled me o'er the walls 
 Of the world into abysmal Tartarus, 
 And lashed me there with red-tongued whips of flame, 
 
ACT I.] ORESTES. 203 
 
 They should not move me more than the anvil moves 
 
 On which the hammer beats. I still am I, 
 
 As I have ever been ; and if again 
 
 That husband were^to die, again he should, 
 
 Having to me been false. 
 
 Elec. Be it enough 
 
 To have slain him, and defame his memory not. 
 
 Cly. Defame ! 'tis true ; he made of me a thing 
 For other wives to pity. 
 
 Elec. You know well 
 
 To that report you ne'er had lent your faith, 
 Unless your heart had first been false to him. 
 And given in thrall to a traitor falser still — 
 More false than falsehood's self — whom Heaven Reward 
 According to his act. 
 
 Cly. So ! now you seek 
 
 To roll the blame upon .^Egisthus' head ? 
 But to his act he had a better right 
 Even than I to mine, the right conferred 
 By unutterable wrong. To avenge his sire. 
 He helped to spread the nets of justice out 
 To take the son of Atreus, and stands clear 
 In the face of gods and men. 
 
 Elec. Yet was his deed 
 
 A traitor's deed and coward's, and 'tis writ 
 That the wrong-doer still must bear his wrong. 
 
 Cly. Then I will bear, for I it was that did, 
 .^gisthus not ; to know that he was near 
 Was help enough for me ; so have your words 
 
204 ORESTES. [act i. 
 
 On him no power. 
 
 Eke. O how you love him still ! 
 
 You blamed me now for pitying you not ; 
 But when I see your love for yonder man, 
 Mother, doubt not I pity. 
 
 Cly. This from you ! 
 
 Have you no shame ? 
 
 Elec. Yea, much. O see who comes ! 
 
 Would I were with my father in his grave ! 
 
 Enter, from the palace, .^gisthus. 
 
 Mgis. [^tf Clytemnestra.] What ! have I found 
 you ? I have sought you long. 
 It seems you have forgot our feast to-night, 
 Which waits your presence. 
 
 Cly. I forgot indeed ; 
 
 Forgive ; I will come straight. 
 
 jEgis. You look but pale 
 
 To queen it at a feast Ha ! now I see — 
 This is her doing ; you have let her drone 
 Her whinings and repinings in your ear 
 Till you are dazed withal, and needs must own 
 In so much sound some sense. 
 
 Cly. Nay, nay, not thus ; 
 
 I am stronger in my right and in myself 
 Than to be moved by words. If I am pale, 
 'Tis that my dream last night disturbed my rest. 
 How now ! why look you at her with such eyes ? 
 
ACT I.] OJiESTES. 205 
 
 I speak the truth ; 'tis not her fault indeed. 
 
 :^gis. The better for her. Let her bear in mind 
 What waits her if she tempt my wrath too far — 
 The bonds of wedlock with my meanest slave. 
 
 Cly. I pray you, sweet ^gisthus, for my sake 
 Be not so over-harsh. Girl, get thee gone ; 
 Fear nought ; I'll plead for thee. 
 
 Eke. [^Aside.] E'en such defence 
 
 As this I must be patient of and glad. 
 
 [Eefires to the back part of the stage. 
 
 Cly. You are more stern than the occasion needs ; 
 And on my word, this time she is not to blame. 
 I tell you 'twas my dream— nought but my dream. 
 Whereby I am something shaken, but shall soon. 
 Be well, if you are gentle. 
 
 ^gis. And this dream 
 
 Whereof I have heard so much — what was this dream? 
 
 Cly. I love not to rehearse it — yet may be 
 To open it to the daylight will dispel 
 Some of the awe thereof, and make its grimness 
 Seem but a common thing. 
 
 ^gis. Say then ; I mark. 
 
 Cly. M^thought that I was sitting with a babe 
 Clasped to my breast, as oft of old I have sat — 
 My babe — and gave it nourishment, and joyed 
 In the close warm grapple of its tender lips. 
 And gazed far off, too sure of present bliss 
 To think it needed watching — when, behold ! 
 Instead of that soft dinting of my flesh 
 
2o6 ORESTES. [act i. 
 
 That mothers love to feel, I felt a pang 
 Dart through my breast as of a forked sting ; 
 I looked — my lap was full and swimming o'er 
 With mine own blood, and in my arms I held 
 Mine infant not, but a curl'd serpent, bloat 
 With that same draught that still from me it drew, 
 And looking in my face with human eyes — 
 The eyes of Agamemnon. 
 
 ^gis. Was this all ? 
 
 Cfy. All — for I saw no more and heard no more 
 Save mine own shrieks, in midst of which I woke, 
 And, waking, deemed that I had 'scaped from hell ; 
 But scarce had drawn full breath again in the world 
 When, as though urged thereto by an evil charm, 
 I fell to thinking o'er and o'er my dream. 
 And in such thinking ever since have lived. 
 
 ^gis. In faith most wise. And so belike from this 
 You gather that some vengeance is at hand, 
 And for its minister something you once loved — 
 Orestes, peradventure ? Ay, e'en thus. 
 I had not thought a dream could make you rue. 
 
 Cly. Who says I rue ? If 'twere to do again. 
 Again it should be done, 'Tis not the past 
 That now is trouble to me, but the thought 
 Of what may be to come. Those eyes ! those eyes ! 
 
 ^gis. Take you no care ; I will provide 'gainst all. 
 For him you think of, I could wish indeed 
 He had ne'er been born, or that we knew him dead ; 
 But they who o'er the father have prevailed 
 
ACT I.] ORESTES. 207 
 
 Scarce need to fear the son. And now you see 
 The night hath well-nigh fall'n ; come in with me 
 To where the feast awaits you, and take heed 
 You look of livelier cheer. You were not wont 
 To be of such poor courage. 
 
 Cly. In my spirit 
 
 I am not changed ; but in my body's strength, 
 Whence courage comes, I am not what I was. 
 Nor canst thou justly blame me, since in part 
 My seeming cowardice is fear for thee. 
 
 ^gis. I will provide for me and thee alike. 
 Now come, and drink the toasts with smiling face — 
 And with each toast shall flowers and music blend. 
 [Exeunt .^gisthus and Clytemnestra, into the 
 palace. The stage is now dark, except for the 
 lamps in front of the palace, which in the mean- 
 time have ieen lighted by an Attendant entering 
 from the building and returning thither. Electr a 
 comes forward. 
 Elec. O ! how much longer, how much longer, 
 Heaven ? 
 Is not Fate yet content with what this house 
 Hath for its sinning borne ? or, she being still 
 Iron against our sufferings and our prayers, 
 Will not the bright gods rescue us ? They say 
 That Fate is stronger than the gods themselves ; 
 But such dark doctrine can I not believe — 
 Impious perchance to disbelieve, and yet 
 I doubt because I reverence most what seems 
 
2o8 ORESTES. [act r. 
 
 Of reverence most worthy. But ah me ! 
 Of these my doubts must I not rather doubt, 
 Seeing what I see, and own that all is weak 
 Save only fate and misery ? [Sinks down weeping, 
 
 while a peal of music is heard from within. 
 
 Enter, from the side opposite to the palace, Orestes. 
 He sees Electra, and stands contemplating her. 
 
 Ores. [Aside.] Who weeps here 
 
 Alone, and from a heart that seems so full ? 
 Right well I ween who in this court and town 
 Hath the most cause for weeping ; have the gods 
 Already let me find her ? [Aloud.] Thou, whoe'er 
 Thou art that mournest thus, be comforted ; 
 Who knows how near a better time may wait ? 
 
 Elec. Who is it that to me of comfort speaks ? 
 
 Ores. One who so long hath kept close company 
 With sorrow that he cannot count himself, 
 Where sorrow is, a stranger. 
 
 Elec. Ha ! How is't ? 
 
 Thou art the same that knelt this morn alone 
 By the tomb of one long dead. O tell me — tell — 
 What art thou ? unto Argos new — but yet 
 Of Argive birth ? 
 
 Ores. An Argive am I not. 
 
 Elec. Not, saidst thou ? 
 
 Ores. 'Tis from Delphi that I come. 
 
 Elec. Is it but so? — And why shouldst thou, of 
 Delphi, 
 
ACT I.] ORESTES. 
 
 209 
 
 Care to do homage to a buried king ? 
 
 Ores. Because in the valiant I must honour valour. 
 And in kings kingliness, and he was one 
 Who so excelled in both that after him 
 All valour left on earth seems cowardly, 
 All kingliness but servile. 
 
 Elec. Now the gods 
 
 Remember thee, good youth, as thou rememberest 
 What godlike was in him — him whom I deemed 
 Forgot by all the living ; \_Music sounds from within. 
 
 e'en as yonder 
 It seems that they forget. 
 
 Ores. What mean those strains ? 
 
 Elec. That, there within, the king and queen hold 
 feast, 
 And drink to downfall of their enemies, 
 Or prospering of their friends. 
 
 Ores. The king and queen ! 
 
 At feast together ? — now ? — the king and queen — 
 Within those doors ? 
 
 Elec. Ay, so. Why seems it strange 
 
 A king and queen should feast ? 
 
 Ores. Said I 'twas strange? 
 
 'Tis only what should be. But who art thou 
 That stayest here to mourn, while there they feast ? 
 
 Elec. One with good cause to mourn, since on my 
 grief 
 Is built their gladness. Heard you ne'er the name 
 Of Agamemnon's daughter ? I am she. 
 
210 ORESTES. [act i. 
 
 Ores. His daughter — thou ! Then Heaven hath 
 led me right. 
 Marvel not, lady, that I seem well pleased ; 
 But you it was I sought, for you being charged 
 With news that much imports. 
 
 Elec. News ! and for me ! 
 
 And much importing ! Then you are sent by him 
 For whom in all the world I only care. 
 
 Ores. Nay, sent by none ; I speak but for myself 
 I told you now of Argos was I not, 
 And truth I told, since 'tis for me no home ; 
 But truth no less that Argos gave me birth. 
 
 Elec. Thou mock'st me not ? in Argos wast thou 
 born? 
 And when from it didst part ? O tell — fear not — 
 I am ripe for bearing all. 
 
 Ores. While I was still 
 
 Of boyish years I parted — 'twas the night 
 Of the murder of the king. 
 
 Elec. Dost thou speak sooth ? 
 
 Come out of the shadow ; let me see thy face. 
 
 Ores. And, ere I left, was on my finger put 
 This ring — my father's seal-ring — put by thee, 
 That wast and art my sister. 
 
 Elec. O 'tis so ! 
 
 Thy sister — and now safe within thine arms. 
 Yea, yea, the gods are good. 
 
 Ores. O me ! how well 
 
 To feel at last there beats upon my heart 
 
ACT I.] ORESTES. 211 
 
 Another heart like mine — the only one 
 
 Like mine that is — throbbed through with the same 
 
 blood, 
 Same sorrow, and same joy. 
 
 Eke. Ay, well indeed. 
 
 I have waited long, but this hath paid for all. 
 I am no more alone. 
 
 Ores. Nor more shall be ; 
 
 We are met, and will not part, but from this hour 
 Will show the world one front. O ! thou know'st not 
 The strength thou giv'st me; 'tis as though thy blood 
 Were added unto mine. 
 
 Elec. And thine it is, 
 
 Although not in thy veins. Methinks our father 
 Must live again to-night, since of his being 
 Two currents long divided meet at last. 
 
 Ores. Yea, he lives still ; here in my heart I feel 
 His spirit at work. 
 
 Elec. Thou speakest with his voice — 
 
 And hast his brow, e'en as of old thou hadst. 
 Ay, thou hast kept thy promise — and thy promise 
 Was one to swell a mother's breast with pride. 
 O, my poor boy, no mother waits for thee. 
 To bid thee welcome. I myself am all 
 Of mother that thou hast — as thou for me 
 Art father, mother, brother^ all I have. 
 
 Ores. I pray thee, with an evil-boding name 
 Mar not our present joy. My sister thou — 
 The dearest word of all dear words that are. 
 
212 ORESTES. [act i. 
 
 How now ! thou weepest ! 
 
 Elec. 'Tis that for so long 
 
 I am strange unto the taste of happiness, 
 I know not how to welcome it aright. 
 'Tis sweeter than I deemed. O ! can it be 
 There is no peril in't ? 
 
 Ores. Think not of peril 
 
 While I am by thy side. 
 
 \An Attendant appears at the door of the palace, 
 ■where he pauses for a moment as though listening, 
 then advances cautiously to the end of the avenue 
 of statues, and remains there, watching Orestes 
 and Electra. 
 Elec. But if for thee 
 
 The peril were ! Woe's me ! for I forgot 
 How long our house and we have been giv'n up 
 As playthings unto Fate ; how should we hope 
 She now will let us 'scape ? 
 
 Ores. At last we stand 
 
 Together ; fear her not. 
 
 Elec. O ! take more heed 
 
 How thou blaspheme her power. Together — yea — 
 That means that thou, as I, art within cast 
 Of the snarer's deadly net — that net which smells 
 Of blood of ours already. O ! fly, fly, 
 Far from this slaughter-house, else must it be 
 That I in thy one death a thousand die. 
 
 \Leans her forehead upon his shoulder, weeping. 
 The Attendant returns into the palace. 
 
ACT I.] ORESTES. 213 
 
 Ores. Electra, my sweet sister, have no fear. 
 Hither I come by ordinance divine 
 To seek my vengeance — vengeance promised me 
 By the great prophet-king. Read o'er this scroll 
 I bring e'en now from Delphi. 
 
 [prawing a scroll from his bosom. 
 Elec. Give, O give ! 
 
 \Takes it eagerly, and moves into the light of one of 
 the lamps to read it. 
 [Heading.] Go hie thee to thy birthplace back, 
 And of thy will thou shall not lack ; 
 For there, yet wider than thou seekest, 
 Shall be the vengeance that thou wreakest. 
 But think not with that vengeance paid 
 The curse that haunts thy race is laid ; 
 Rather with pressure ten times double 
 Shall bind thee then its load of trouble. 
 Nor shall thou ^er deliverance gain 
 Unless by purge of prayer and pain. 
 And by another interceding 
 With true heart's love for thee much needing. 
 Which in the end may lead thee right. 
 Through storfn to calm, through dark to light. 
 Alas ! my brother, what is written here ? 
 That heavier than e'er yet the curse shall fall ? 
 How then shall flesh endure it ? Let all go 
 Ere this be put to proof, and fly the place 
 That with such bribe shall tempt thee to such doom. 
 Fly J thou shalt take me with thee, and we twain 
 
 Q 
 
214 ORESTES. [act i. 
 
 Shall lead perchance in love a higher life 
 Than e'er can live in wrath — for, as they say, 
 On the wrathful have the wrathful Furies power. 
 Come, haste thee, come. 
 
 Ores. And give my vengeance up ? 
 
 \Music sounds again. 
 And leave my father's murderers at feast ? 
 Nay, seek from jaws of famished wolf to pluck 
 The quivering morsel of half-tasted flesh. 
 But not from me my vengeance. 'Tis made mine 
 By promise of the gods, and mine shall be. 
 Although the price were woe more than all woe 
 That e'er was felt since first eternity 
 Waxed conscious of itself, and so was turned 
 Into what men call time. 
 
 Elec. Art so resolved ? 
 
 'Tis not for me to set my will 'gainst thine. 
 Since all the joys I have, or hope of joys, 
 I have from only thee. But'O, I dread. 
 
 Ores. Thou need'st not. Heaven loves justice, 
 and to him 
 Who deals it, will be just. Now tell me more. 
 And so they sit together, and make feast. 
 The pair of murderous paramours — side by side — 
 And drink unto each other, fearing not. 
 Nor shaming, nor repenting ? 
 
 Elec. As I think. 
 
 But little fearing, shaming not at all. 
 Nor aught repenting. 
 
ACT I.] ORESTES. 215 
 
 Ores. And still love as well 
 
 As when in love they murdered, and still flaunt 
 Their love in face of the world ? 
 
 Elec. Ask not of that. 
 
 She that is marble unto all beside 
 Is in his hands as wax; she that seems made 
 For ruling kings submits herself to him 
 With joy in being subject, and is pleased 
 Even to feel his sternness, since 'tis his. 
 
 Ores. Who bade thee speak of her ? No more, no 
 more ! 
 Let me not hear her name ; she is one with whom 
 I have nought to do, and ne'er will look upon. 
 Know of, nor think of. 'Twas of him I asked — 
 Tell me of him — him only ; come, and tell. 
 
 \Leads her to the back part of the stage, where they 
 stand speaking. 
 
 Enter, from the palace, the Attendant who has previously 
 appeared, beckoning forward ^gisthus and 
 Guards, who advance cautiously. 
 
 yEgis. This was the place, then, where you saw her 
 
 weep 
 Upon a stranger's breast ? 'Twould have been good 
 You had brought me word ere they had time to 
 
 carry 
 Their commerce of discourse and tears elsewhere. 
 Soft, what is there ? our pair, by all the gods. 
 
2i6 ORESTES. [act i. 
 
 Ho ! guards, upon them — seize them, and hold fast. 
 [The Guards rush upon Orestes and Electra, 
 who are still in conversation, and, after a short 
 struggle with Orestes, overpower them, and 
 bring them to the front of the stage, Electra 
 thrusting into her bosom the scroll given her by 
 her brother. In the meatitime more Guards 
 enter from the palace, with lights. 
 A proper youth ! And what concern may't be 
 That brings thee hither, and makes maidens weep 
 RecHning on thy shoulder? Ay, thou seest 
 That I know somewhat. 
 
 Ores. Then know this 
 
 Elec. [Interrupting him.] He came 
 
 To say Orestes, whom he loved, is dead. 
 Orestes was my brother, and I wept. 
 Wilt give me blame for that ? 
 
 ^gis. Orestes dead ! 
 
 Was dead thy word ? 
 
 Elec. Ay, 'twas my word indeed — 
 Untimely killed — flung from his chariot 
 In the great races at the Pythian games. 
 
 [To Orestes.] Was it not so, good youth ? [Aside 
 to him.] As thou dost tender 
 
 Either thyself or me, say yea. 
 
 Ores. Yea. 
 
 ^gis. Flung 
 
 From his chariot in the Pythian games — and dead. 
 'Tis that word dead whereof I would be sure. 
 
ACT I.] ORESTES. 217 
 
 Ores. Thou meanest because the dead can do no 
 hurt? 
 
 ! then be sure — he is dead — can no more lift 
 His hand to deal thee harm than the dumb ground 
 Thou bruisest with thy heel — would let thee rail 
 On him, and on his father, all night long, 
 
 And could not touch thee with a finger-tip ; 
 Not though his spirit in the shades below 
 Writhed as it heard, more miserably racked 
 Than with Tartarean flame — yet must it bear. 
 So firm the bonds that hold it. 
 
 /Egis. Thou dost take 
 
 Much pains to make me sure ; I thank thee well. 
 
 Enter, from the palace, Clytemnestra, followed by 
 her Women. 
 
 Cly. Sweet lord, sweet king, what keeps thee ? 
 Ores. [To Guards, after glancing at Clytemnestra.] 
 Take me straight 
 Unto my prison-house, or set me, free. 
 
 1 would be gone — and must. 
 
 ]iEgis. Wife, see this youth. 
 
 He brings us tidings that thy son Orestes, 
 Testing his prowess at the Pythian games, 
 Was from his chariot flung, and so is dead. 
 
 Cly. My son Orestes — dead ! 
 
 ^gis. Thus runs the tale. 
 
 Cly. And thou canst tell me with so calm a face 
 
2i8 ORESTES. [act i. 
 
 My son is dead ? my son that was so young — 
 Too young to die so soon. 
 
 ^gis. Hast thou such care 
 
 For one that was thy foe ? 
 
 Cly. He was my son. 
 
 Ores. [ Who has hitherto kept his eyes turned from 
 her.^ 'Twere pity, queen, if thou shouldst waste 
 regret 
 On who would not have thanked. Thy lord says right ; 
 Orestes was thy foe. 
 
 Cfy. How knowest thou that ? 
 
 Ores. Having known him, 1 know ; and hadst thou 
 heard 
 What words of thee he spake, and how he groaned 
 With shame at being thy son, and how with wrath 
 Panted against what most on earth thou lovest. 
 And swore to have revenge, thou wouldst not be 
 Sad in his death, but glad, and lift thy face 
 To Heaven with triumph, and o'er his ashes sing, 
 As best would please his spirit. 
 
 Cly. I'll not deem 
 
 Upon a stranger's word that any son 
 Could so unnatural be as thou hast said. 
 Did he not think he of my flesh was flesh ? 
 That with my pangs his life was first made life ? 
 That while he still knew nought I Cared for him. 
 And fed him on myself? 
 
 Ores. All this indeed 
 
 He thought on oft, and wished it had not been. 
 
ACT I.] ORESTES. 219 
 
 Since it had made him what he was. Doubt not, 
 He knew he was unnatural, but said 
 He had it from his mother. 
 
 Cly. Said he thus ? 
 
 Why truly then for him I need not grieve. 
 I thank thee for thy comfort. 
 
 Elec. [To ^GiSTHus.J And since now 
 He hath told you all he knows, and, as I hope.,. 
 Cleared of offence alike himself and me, 
 Methinks I should at last have leave to seek 
 Some needed quiet, and this youth to make 
 His homeward journey unto whence he came. 
 ySgis. Let her go free ; she is harmless. 
 
 [Electra is released. 
 For the youth. 
 Restrain him still, and keep him closely penned 
 In double watch and ward until such time 
 As we prove true his tale. 
 
 Elec. [Aside. ] O ye bright Heavens, 
 
 Have you again forsaken us ? 
 
 \The Guards surround Orestes more closely, and 
 prepare to lead him away. 
 Cly. {Aside to tEgisthus.] So then 
 You doubt the truth thereof? 
 
 .iEgis. [Aside to Clytemnestra.] What most I 
 doubt 
 Is if the youth be not Orestes' self. 
 
 [The Curtain falls. 
 End of Act I. 
 
OHESTES. [act II. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene. Mycence. The Throne-room of the Palace. 
 .^GiSTHUS discovered, sitting in deep thought. 
 
 .Mgis. 'Twill do, 'twill do. This is the same brain 
 still 
 That, being once mine only friend, was yet 
 Found friend enough. 
 
 Enter Clytemnestra. 
 
 Cly. Is my good lord at leisure 
 
 To spare me some brief words ? 
 
 /Egis. Well, well ? Speak on. 
 
 Cly. What of yon stranger youth ? Hath further 
 quest 
 Made you more sure, or less, in' those same thoughts 
 You had of him last night ? 
 
 jEgis. Nor more, nor less. 
 
 Search hath but found on him two things of note — 
 A dagger first, which was or was not meant 
 
ACTii.J ORESTES. 22: 
 
 To make its target here ; and next, the ring 
 That Agamemnon sealed with. 
 
 Cly. What ! that ring ! 
 
 Orestes then indeed ! 
 
 yEgis. I say not so ; 
 
 That may be or may not. The youth affirms 
 That from your son's dead finger it was stripped, 
 And giv'n to him to prove his story true. 
 
 Cly. O, if I might but know ! And tell me then. 
 What purpose you to do ? being doubtful still, 
 You cannot deal as though you were assured. 
 
 ^gis. Whate'er he be or not, my purpose is 
 To turn him unto use. 
 
 Cly. Use, say you ! How ? 
 
 Mgis. Why, thus. An absolute belief I'll feign 
 In that which he would have me to believe. 
 But pray him of his courtesy ere he go 
 That all the tale, both of Orestes' death, 
 And of its manner, as to me already 
 He hath rehearsed it in his prison-house. 
 He will again recount, in solemn council 
 Of the nobles and chief elders of the state. 
 These even now I wait for, having sent 
 To bid their instant presence ; 'twixt resolve 
 And act, I love to take the nearest way. 
 
 Cly. Yet unto me it seems that this resolve 
 Is needless lengthening out of what should scarce 
 To you or me be pastime. 
 
 ./Egis. What ! you think 
 
2 22 ORESTES. [act ii. 
 
 I seek herein the tickling of mine ear, 
 
 And no end else ? Not so. A fair occasion 
 
 I see of soldering an ancient flaw 
 
 Within the state, and will not let it pass. 
 
 You know right well how many in their hearts 
 
 Murmur against our rule because we rule, 
 
 And, for no cause save that he rules them not, 
 
 Sigh for Orestes, since all men are prone 
 
 To think what might be fairer than what is. 
 
 Is't not to us worth much that these should learn, 
 
 From other lips than ours, that he is dead, 
 
 We of his death being clear ? True tale or false. 
 
 It serves me well — and sets me free to deal. 
 
 Cly. I see your meaning now, and see it wise. 
 And when the youth hath spoken what he knows, 
 You will, as you have promised, let him part ? 
 
 ^gis. Leave all to me ; you will find my meaning 
 wise 
 In this as in the rest. 
 
 Cly. Is it, I say. 
 
 To let him part ? Your answer I must have. 
 
 .^gis. Are you so stiff? Why then, methinks my 
 meaning 
 Is, not to let him part. 
 
 Cly. Not? And if not, 
 
 What else ? to keep him in perpetual ward ? 
 
 ^gis. 'Tis not my meaning either. 
 
 Cly. Say what is. 
 
 /£gts. Ask not ; not seeking, you shall never know. 
 
ACT II.J OJiESTES. 223 
 
 What is to do shall be in silence done, 
 And unto none give scandal. 
 
 Cly. 'Tis my will 
 
 That youth go forth unharmed. Full sure I am 
 He is not what you deem, and shame 'twould be 
 •Upon our name for ever if our house 
 Were for a guiltless stranger not found safe. 
 You hear ; I say he must go forth unharmed ; 
 Orestes is it not. 
 
 ^gis. And if 'tis not, 
 
 So much the less to you. Leave all to me. 
 
 Cly. But if it be Orestes, 'tis my son — 
 Forget not that, I pray. 
 
 ^gis. A duteous son — 
 
 The father's son more than the mother's, sure. 
 What ! heard you not yourself the youth declare 
 The account that your Orestes held you in ? 
 
 Cly. The hardship of a mother's nature 'tis 
 That whom she hath borne she cannot wholly hate. 
 
 JSgts. If hate you cannot, fear. Think of your 
 dream — 
 The serpent that you suckled with your blood. 
 Be sure that while he lives your danger lives. 
 
 Cly. Then let my danger live, for he must live. 
 'Tis mine, and I will front it. 
 
 jEgis. And mine too ; 
 
 But that you reck not of. No, I must take 
 The chance of a dagger hissing in my throat. 
 So he, my foe, and my foe's son, be safe. 
 
224 ORESTES. [act ii. 
 
 Talk not to me of love if this be love. 
 
 Cly. Nay, not from thee that look, I pray thee 
 nay — 
 From thee, that art mine all. Be kind to me, 
 Or I must die of loneliness ; thou knowest 
 That I have nought but thee. 
 
 ^gis. Am I so dear? 
 
 Then show thyself more careful of my weal 
 , Than by safeguarding him who of my life 
 Hath stronger thirst than fever hath of drink. 
 
 Cly. 'Tis true, 'tis true — he hath; and he shall die — 
 If need be — die. To thee I give him up, 
 To deal with as thou wilt ; he is thy foe. 
 And wherefore should I care? 
 
 ^gis. Now dost thou speak 
 
 As she should speak who loves me. 
 
 Cly. [Kissing his hand.'] What ! at last 
 
 Thou feel'st that this is so ? — But I would fain, 
 When thou shalt give him audience, not be by. 
 I would not hear him more — nor look on him. 
 
 ./Sgis. No need thou shouldst. 
 
 Cly. Not that indeed I think 
 
 Orestes he can be — and if he is, 
 'Tis Agamemnon's son — ^but still 'twere best 
 That with that voice and with that face of his 
 He troubled me no more. 
 
 j^gis. I pray you look ; 
 
 Here doth one come to whom you should not seem 
 Less than a queen in presence. 
 
ACT II. J ORESTES. 225 
 
 Enter an Attendant. 
 
 Att. Gracious liege, 
 
 The chiefs of the city, even as you bade, 
 Are to your palace gathered, and at hand 
 Await your further pleasure. 
 
 ^gis. This is well ; 
 
 I will receive them straight. Stay yet. That youth 
 Who hath lain in ward all night — let him be brought. 
 Close-guarded as before, to where my summons 
 May find him ready. 
 
 Att. In all points I'll see 
 
 Your sovereign bidding done. S^Exit. 
 
 Cly. I will be gone ; 
 
 Albeit not Orestes, yet he comes 
 To tell a tale of blood, and I of blood 
 Have heard, and seen, enough. 
 
 ySgis. Ay, ay. Farewell. 
 
 In all things trust to me. 
 
 Cly. I do — and will. 
 
 And then I know Orestes he is not. \_Extt 
 
 y£gis. That battle's fought and won. Now for the 
 next. \Seats himself on the throne. 
 
 Enter Attendants (some with lyres, flutes, and 
 other musical instruments slung at their sides), 
 and range themselves round the room. An as- 
 sembly of Nobles and Citizens follow, making 
 obeisance to .iSIgisthus. 
 
226 ORESTES. [act ii. 
 
 Hailed be the leaders of our Argive state, 
 And hailed in them the state herself, in them 
 Made visible to my eyes. 
 
 ij-^ Noble. You have been pleased. 
 
 Great king, to bid our presence, and we come 
 Obedient to your summons. 
 
 yEgis. An obedience 
 
 For which I owe you thanks, and with my heart 
 I am sorry the occasion which hath brought 
 To pass so fair a meeting should be sad ; 
 But Fortune must be blamed, and not my will. 
 Which fain would make to you more blithe report 
 Than now I must — that to our sorrowing ears 
 There came last night the hews that young Orestes, 
 My kinsman, and my dear queen's son, is dead. 
 
 \^All start, and look at each other. 
 I see you all are moved, and scarce believe, 
 As I myself at first could scarce believe, 
 That death dared come near aught so young and 
 
 strong. 
 And even therefore 'twas I judged it well 
 That TiKjm the lips of him who brought the tale 
 Yourselves should learn it, and, from one who saw. 
 Hear how Orestes, at the Pythian games. 
 Was from his chariot flung, and gave his blood. 
 And life together, to the greedy earth. 
 Call forth the messenger. 
 
 \_An Attendant goes to the side of the stage, and 
 beckons. 
 
ACT II.] ORESTES. 227 
 
 Enter Orestes, guarded. 
 
 Good youth, I grieve 
 You should have suffered hardship where your pains 
 Ought to have earned you thanks; but your ill news, 
 And our unwillingness to think it true, 
 O'ermuch did discommend you. Now at last. 
 Since I have heard your story word by word, 
 Too well I trust it, and to you intend 
 Both liberty and reward, as unto one 
 Who hath been a faithful messenger. But first, 
 Ere, thanked, you take your leave, I have to pray 
 That unto this assembly of whate'er 
 Is in our city greatest and most wise 
 You shall recount at large your tale of woe, 
 E'en as to me in private audience told. 
 Speak then, and have no fear. 
 
 Ores. Is't not enough 
 
 You know Orestes dead ? and, as the dead, 
 Strengthless, and numbed, and null ? 
 
 ^gis. 'Tis to content 
 
 These, not myself, that I would hear once more 
 The manner of his death. Are you forgetful 
 Of what so late you told ? 
 
 Ores. A little dazed 
 
 By such a gathering of nobleness. 
 And sight of majesty enthroned — 'tis past — 
 And I remember now all that I should — 
 The Pythian games, and race of chariots, 
 
228 ORESTES. [act ii. 
 
 And bloody end thereof; as blood indeed 
 
 Oft ends what with no thought of blood began. — 
 
 Long well-nigh side by side the rival cars 
 
 Rushed round the rattling course, and filled the air 
 
 With ever-whitening whirl of dust and foam ; 
 
 And still as one sped forward did he strive 
 
 The more to leave the others' wheels behind, 
 
 And they the more leaned o'er their eager steeds 
 
 To urge them to o'ertake, till half it seemed 
 
 The men to the horses owed their motion not. 
 
 But the horses to the men — while from the host 
 
 Of gathered lookers-on rose shout on shout, 
 
 So mingling with the clank of hoof and wheel, 
 
 That many sounds went up to heaven as one. 
 
 But now you wait to hear of the evil chance 
 
 That there I saw befall a friend I loved, 
 
 And hear you shall. In the foremost of the front 
 
 He steered his panting coursers, and at last 
 
 So far had pressed before the whirling throng 
 
 That victory out of doubt seemed his, when lo, 
 
 E'en as he made the turning of the course. 
 
 His axle struck upon the pillar's edge, 
 
 At blow whereof his chariot shook and reeled, 
 
 Then bounded and fell o'er, he being whelmed 
 
 And hidden by its ruin — and thereon 
 
 Came other ruin crashing, all the tide 
 
 Of following horse and car, that broke against 
 
 That hindrance as wild waves upon a rock. 
 
 And piled disaster on disaster's top, 
 
ACT II.] OHESTES. 229 
 
 And crushed superfluously what was crushed. 
 
 ^gis. You hear, my lords, you hear — crushed and 
 made nought 
 As a fly my foot hath trod on. 
 
 Ores. Thus indeed. 
 
 For when at length, drawn forth from that huge wreck, 
 He lay upon the sward, with what had been 
 His face upturned to heaven, he seemed a thing 
 So dead, 'twas hard to think he e'er had lived. 
 This can I vouch, who with my eyes have looked 
 Upon a friend so slain, and hope to look 
 On such a sight ne'er more. But now to turn 
 To Orestes once again. 
 
 ^gis. Was't not of him 
 
 That even now you spake ? 
 
 Ores. Ay, ay, so 'twas — 
 Now to pursue. Long lay he in this swoon 
 
 ^gis. A swoon ! you told me not 'twas but a swoon. 
 
 Ores. Said I not so ? I needs must have forgot. 
 For dead outright Orestes yet was not ; 
 Nay, but had much to do and much to bear 
 Ere that sweet rest could come for which he longed. 
 Will you not listen, king ? methinks the tale 
 Of his strugglings and his pains should please you well. 
 
 ^gts. I understand not this. Say on, say on. 
 
 Ores. Out of his deathlike trance at last he woke — 
 But O, what waking 'twas ! To find himself 
 No more the self that all his life he had known. 
 With limbs and sinews subject to his will. 
 
230 ORESTES. [act ii. 
 
 And strong enough to make his will prevail, 
 
 But a poor palsied cripple, reft of power, 
 
 Whate'er he wished, to put his wish in act. 
 
 All his strength gone, and into weakness waned — 
 
 Was not this pain ? But more than all the rest 
 
 One torture racked his soul, and made it writhe 
 
 In the statue-seeming body ; 'twas the thought 
 
 That from his life's great goal he was now barred out. 
 
 The avenging of his father — this the dream 
 
 Which during weary years of banishment 
 
 Had made him to himself seem worth the pains 
 
 Of caring for and husbanding; and now 
 
 Fulfilment might not be. O ! when of this 
 
 He thought with that clear brain which the helpless 
 
 limbs 
 And muscles mocked at, such fierce pangs he felt 
 Of ravenous impotence, his direst foe 
 Could not have wished him worse — such pangs as 
 
 those 
 May feel who, starving, are chained up from food. 
 Or, hating, are restrained from what they hate. 
 ^gis. What of all this ? 
 
 Ores. Hear yet ; the end is near. 
 
 Long did Orestes bear, until at length 
 His anguish grew past bearing, and he wailed 
 ' Must it be always thus ? Is there no help ? 
 Not e'en in death ? O ! help me, help me, death ! ' 
 And then, as one upon self-slaughter bent, 
 With his hand that palsy left still free he groped 
 
ACT II.] ORESTES. 231 
 
 Vainly to find his weapon ; there was none. 
 
 ' No help,' he groaned, ' what must I do ? ' and looked 
 
 In frenzy round on them that near him stood. 
 
 And saw in the belt of one a dagger glance. 
 
 ' O ! here is help,' he cried ; and, stretching forth 
 
 Faintly his longing fingers, drew the steel 
 
 From his neighbour's girdle — thus. 
 
 \Takes a dagger from the belt of one of the by- 
 standers. 
 y£gis. Ha ! Give it back 
 
 What insolence is this ? Guards, have a care. 
 
 Ores. Nay, king, what harm is here? Good friends, 
 
 fear not ; 
 'Tis but to show what poor Orestes did 
 In that supremest moment of his life 
 And living torment. And, being thus possessed 
 Of that dear helper he had lacked before 
 To death and freedom, even as to a bride 
 He gave it welcome, kissed it with his lips — 
 His kindest, sweetest friend — and lovingly 
 On his bare throat and bosom fondled it, 
 Preluding as it were with dalliance 
 The fiercer joy he longed for, till at last 
 With tightened grip he brandished it on high, 
 Took well his aim, and cried with mighty shout 
 ' I am Orestes — die.' 
 
 [Flies upon ^gisthus, who for the last few mo- 
 ments has been sitting with his hand on his 
 sword, intently watching him. On seeing this 
 
232 ORESTES. [act ii. 
 
 attack made by Orestes, the others rusk fofward, 
 endeavouring to hold him back. 
 Several. Ho ! treason ! treason ! 
 yE^s. Off! Help! Save! 
 
 Ores. Die ! die ! 
 
 \Kills ^GISTHUS, whose dead body falls heavily 
 from the throne. 
 Too weak to match with me. 
 
 Several. Treason ! 
 
 [Orestes is surrounded, but with an effort he 
 shakes off his assailants, and comes forward. 
 Ores. Not so — 
 
 Treason was here, but now is treason dead 
 I am your king — Orestes. 
 
 Enter Electra and Agenor, who kneel to Orestes. 
 
 Elec. Yea, our king — 
 
 My father's son — our king — as who should be 
 In Argos king but Agamemnon's heir ? 
 Hail to the king 1 
 
 Agen. My master's son ! All hail ! 
 
 \st Noble. Orestes is't indeed ? 
 
 An Old Citizen. The son of him 
 
 Who led us unto Troy ? 
 
 2nd Noble. Why then our king. 
 
 All. Hail 1 hail ! Long live the king ! long live 
 the king 1 
 
 Ores. People of Argos, thanks — as you are mine, 
 So I am wholly yours. My sister, thanks. 
 
ACT II.] ORESTES. 233 
 
 \_Raistng Electra, who kisses Ms hand, 
 ist Noble. Come, king, 'tis time we lead you to 
 your throne, 
 That ancient seat of warlike majesty. 
 Which hath so long its true possessor lacked. 
 
 [Orestes looks towards the throne, but sees the 
 dead body (t/'^gisthus, and turns away. 
 Ores. There's carrion in the way. Forth with it, 
 forth. 
 Ere with abhorred pollution it shall blight 
 All gracious things and wholesome. Nevermore 
 I'll look on't, nevermore. 
 
 [^GiSTHUs's body is carried out. Orestes ad- 
 ' vances to the throne. 
 
 So now at last 
 Mine own is mine again, which I may take 
 With none to say me nay ; and thou at last, 
 
 father, art avenged — avenged as far 
 
 As vengeance is for me. \_Again turning from the 
 
 throne, and abruptly approaching Electra. 
 Where is the queen ? 
 Elec. In her chamber — wherefore ask ? But no — 
 lo there. 
 Where even now she comes — disturbed, belike, 
 By sound of our acclaim. 
 
 Ores. She ! let me hence ! 
 
 1 will not see her — will not — dare not. No — 
 
 Not her who is my mother— no, not her. \Exit. 
 
234 ORESTES. [act ii. 
 
 Enter Clytemnestra. 
 
 Cly. What outcry was't I heard ? Girl, what hath 
 chanced ? 
 O, some great evil, sure ! 
 
 Elet. Nay, on my word — 
 
 No evil ; all is well. Pray you get back 
 Unto your chamber ; I will follow straight, 
 And answer to whate'er you ask. Now go — 
 Beseech you go. 
 
 Cly. The king ! where is the king ? 
 
 Elec. Well — on my honour, well — as all is well. 
 Unto your chamber. 
 
 Cly. And the youth — that youth 
 
 Who brought us news last night ? 
 
 Elec. Where the king is 
 
 There is he too ; have patience ; all is welL 
 
 Cly, That will I know myself. Back ! let me pass. 
 
 Elec. Mother ! I pray you, no. 'Tis the king's wish 
 Not now to see you. 
 
 1st Noble. She hath said the truth ; 
 
 'Twere best attempt it not. 
 
 Agen. Ay, best indeed — 
 
 Lady, most royal lady 
 
 Cly. Off, ye flies ! 
 
 If I am queen in aught, I am queen in this. 
 That what I would I will. Make way, and fear. 
 
 \Exit, followed by Agenor. 
 
 Elec. O ! what is now to come ? More shame and 
 more ! 
 
ACT II. J OJiESTES. 235 
 
 Cly. [Behind the scene.'\ ^gisthus! Thou! ^gisthus! 
 
 Elec. 'Tis the corse — 
 
 She hath seen now, and knows. 
 
 Cly. My love ! my life ! 
 
 Elec. Ho ! music, music — and, if may be, drown 
 The sound of our great shame. 
 
 [A strain of loud music is played, Electra burying 
 her face in her hands. Presently the music ceases 
 abruptly, with a discordant crash, and she raises 
 her head. As she does so, Orestes enters, with 
 distraught looks, followed by Agenor luringing 
 his hands. 
 
 Saw'st thou the queen ? 
 Ores. I saw her, yea. 
 
 Elec. Where is she ? tell me — where ? 
 
 Ores. \Laughing wildly. ^ Where ! How am I to 
 know ? In the air perchance — 
 Close-hovering o'er my head, or at my hand. 
 How should I know where they be that are killed ? 
 Elec. Killed ! What is this you mean ? what have 
 
 you done ? 
 Ores. Did I not say she was killed? and killed she is; 
 Yet that she is, is strange — for, as I think, 
 My purpose it was not. 
 
 Elec. What have you done ? 
 
 Ores. I know not, nor know aught save only this — 
 Since I went hence I have been mad ; the gods. 
 Being angry with my anger, willed it so. 
 And who indeed would not have been made mad 
 
236 ORESTES. [act 11. 
 
 To see her weep and wail upon his corse, 
 
 And kiss, and finger over his dead breast, 
 
 To find his wounds and cleanse them with her tears ? 
 
 Would you not too have done it ? 
 
 Elec. What ? say what. 
 
 Ores. And yet methinks to kill her I meant not — 
 Not even then ; 'twas but to pluck her off 
 Her paramour's heart I touched her — and forgot 
 That in the hand I raised a dagger was. 
 I say I meant it not — so with that word 
 I may defy you, Heavens, to your worst. 
 
 Agen. O ! this is true ; he knew not what he did. 
 I saw, and saw he struck as a blind man — 
 Conscious of nought but wrath. 
 
 Elec. Ay, here indeed 
 
 With pressure ten times double the curse doth bind. 
 O ! what in earth or heaven can help us now ? 
 
 \I)raws from her bosom the scroll given her by 
 Orestes in the First Act, and looks it over 
 silently, 
 ist Noble. King, take good courage, and give up 
 yourself 
 To the comfort of your people. What is done 
 Was done in error ; think of it no more, 
 Remembering only this — you are our king. 
 And we your faithful subjects. 
 
 Several. Yea, our king — 
 
 Our king — long live our king ! 
 
 Several others. I-ong live the king ! 
 
ACT II.] ORESTES. 237 
 
 Ores. [ Who has seemed not to hear what 
 
 has been said, and gazes with a horrified expres- 
 sion into vacancy. 
 Look, look ! see you nought there ? But I can see. 
 Those shadows yonder — shadows in the air, 
 As though 'twere waxing solid and took shape ! 
 And lo ! more dark and dark, like fragments fallen 
 From night upon the face of the wholesome day ! 
 What ! now you needs must see — they move, they 
 
 move; 
 Black out of black ii^ wriggling mass uncoils — 
 Black streaked with red. Look, look ! 
 
 ist Noble. Nay, nought is there 
 
 But your own fantasy. My lord, turn back 
 To us and to yourself 
 
 Ores. Nought ! say you nought ? 
 
 Not shapes of women over-crawled with snakes. 
 That sit cuirl'd up amid their hair, and hang 
 In tumid necklaces about their throats ? — 
 Women ! can these be women — these with cheeks 
 And lips blue-green with festering decay. 
 And blear eyes oozing blood ? O me ! those eyes, 
 Thai: roll from side to side, and keep grim time 
 With the flexions of the snakes — what is't they seek ? 
 Something — what? what? Stand close and shield 
 me, friends. 
 Elec. [Heading.] Nor shalt thou e'er deliverance gain 
 Unless by purge of prayer and pain. 
 And by another interceding 
 
238 OH^ESTES. [act II. 
 
 With true hearfs lobe for thee much needing. 
 Which in the end may lead thee right. 
 Through storm to calm, through dark to light. 
 Ores. Look, they have found now what they sought 
 for — me — 
 And each crook'd finger points, and each snake-crest 
 Is reared — and all one way;. Take oif your hands. 
 And let me forth — I must be gone — must fly 
 Before them to the bounds of the world, arid thence 
 Over the edge of creation into space 
 And primal darkness — yet e'en there to be 
 By avenging Furies followed. Let me forth. 
 
 Elec. But not alone. Where thou go'st I go too. 
 Ores. Thou ! thou hast done no 'ill. 
 
 \To Nobles and Citizens, wipo detain him. 
 Take off your hands. 
 Elec. No ill, and so can help thee better. Come ; 
 Together we will wander through the earth 
 In search of pity, and at every shrine 
 We pass will kneel, and pray unto the gods 
 To take our curse away ; and thou shalt see 
 That, striving so, we shall at last prevail ; 
 And prayer, and faith, and love shall conquer Fat-^ 
 Ores. If thou canst help, help quick ! See how 
 they stare. 
 And point, and gather up themselves to spring. 
 Let me be gone — haste, haste ! 
 
 Elec. Give me thy hand ; 
 
 I'll be thy guide. 
 
ACT II.] ORESTES. 239 
 
 [She takes his hand, and leads him through the 
 assembled bystanders, who fall back, making way. 
 As he goes, he continues to gaze behind him with 
 a look of horror. 
 
 Dear brother, have no fear ; 
 Nor doubt a true heart's love shall lead thee right, 
 Bring thee through storm to calm, through dark to light. 
 
 \The Curtain falls. 
 
 The End. 
 
PANDORA, 
 
PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Divinities. 
 
 Hermes, Messenger of the Gods. 
 Zephyrus, Spirit of the Air. 
 
 Hope, a wonder-working Power. 
 
 Children of the Air, subject to Zephyrus. 
 
 Men and Women. 
 
 Epimetheus, King of Men. 
 Cleanthes, his Friend. 
 MoscHUS, a Lord of th^ Court. 
 Adrastus, Captain of the Guard. 
 Amyntas, a Page. 
 
 Pandora, the All-Gifted. 
 
 MoscHA, Wife to Moschus. 
 
 Cyrene, their Daughter. 
 
 Aglaia, ] 
 
 -J. > Maids of Honour. 
 
 Lords, Ladies, and other Subjects of Epimetheus. 
 
 The Scene is laid during part of the First Act in a 
 Cloud, during the rest of the Play in and near 
 Fpimetheufs Capital. 
 
PANDORA. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. The inside of a Cloud. 
 
 Zephyrus discovered reclining in front, Hermes looking 
 out at the back, where portions of the cloud overlap 
 each other. 
 
 Her. Pandora ! what ! still peeping o'er the edge ! 
 Beware ; we travel fast, and thou: may-st fall, 
 With well-nigh such a fall from heaven to earth 
 As lamed thy friend the fire-god for the space 
 Of his immortal godhead. Have a care. 
 
 Z^ph. Fear nought ; my little brothers are at hand, 
 To slip their silken wings 'twixt her and harm. 
 But Hermes, gentle messenger of gods. 
 Tell me (there just is time before our cloud 
 Descending graze the poplars), who and what 
 Should this fair creature, this Pandora, be ? 
 And why have we the charge to carry her 
 Down to the world of men ? 
 
 Her. If we may trust 
 
 Your brothers to be careful Listen then, 
 
 s 
 
246 PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 Good Zephyrus, since this your present service 
 Gives you the right to know. She whom we call 
 Pandora, is a woman — nothing more — 
 But the most fair and perfect that there is ; 
 Shaped by Hephaestus out of finest clay, 
 Which our great king's own lips breathed into life. 
 Thus formed, thus made alive, she hath withal 
 By every god and goddess been endowed 
 With separate gifts, each gift a quality 
 Or art of pleasing, so that heaven's blue walls 
 Scarce hold within their bounds so much delight 
 As her slight girdle clasps. 
 
 Zeph. But such a treasure 
 
 Will heaven part with ? part with to the earth ? 
 
 Her. Expressly as a gift from heaven to earth 
 She is designed and framed, and even now 
 I travel down commissioned in the name 
 Of the king of gods, this boon beyond all price 
 To bring to Epimetheus, king of men. 
 
 Zeph. Men ! those new-fangled upstarts ! I had 
 thought 
 That all of them were held by all of you 
 In hate and scorn as vast as the untrod fields 
 Of space beyond my empire. 
 
 Her. So they are — 
 
 As apes would be by them, decked in their gear. 
 And mimicking the owners. Are not they 
 Apes of our greatness, since that theft of thefts 
 Prometheus made ? stealing for their base use 
 
SCENE I.] PANDORA. 247 
 
 The sacred fire from heaven, that hath warmed 
 Their sluggish powers of reason and delight 
 Even to godlike heat 
 
 Zeph. Indeed since then 
 
 With gods they are well-nigh equal. 
 
 Her. And will be, 
 
 So long as Fate exempts them from the lot 
 That waits on all things living on the earth 
 Save hitherto on them ; were men but made. 
 As other creatures on that lower sphere. 
 Mortal, corruptible, their stolen share 
 Of joy we need not grudge, more than we grudge 
 Its brightness to the lightning — born and dead 
 In the same breath. 
 
 Zeph. I see, not more than I 
 
 Have you forgiven them. But have the king 
 And the great council of the gods forgiven. 
 That unto men they send this gift, to make 
 Their gladness gladder yet ? 
 
 Her. To ruin them. 
 
 Say rather. 
 
 Zeph. Then I would the gods might seek 
 E'en so to ruin me. Go on, I pray ; 
 Unriddle. 
 
 Her. You, the traveller, Jhave you not 
 
 In all your travels learned that of most ills, 
 Griefs, discords, cares, the cause is feminine ? 
 That one soft dimple, heaving up and down 
 On one white bosom, may contain more strife 
 
248 ■ PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 Than e'er was flashed from 'neath the war-god's 
 
 brows ? 
 'Tis so in heaven, and should be so on earth. 
 And then you know — but none must hear — [Looking 
 round cautiously, and lowering his voice.] you know 
 Of yonder chest in Epimetheus' house, 
 And of the stored-up doom it holds, a doom 
 Only to be let loose by human hands. 
 Either of man — or woman. Do you now 
 Marvel that heaven should send the king of men 
 A woman for a gift ? 
 
 ZeJ>L- But there are women 
 
 Already on the earth ; could they not serve 
 All needful ends of mischief? 
 
 Jler. Not so well 
 
 As this far fairer woman that we bring — 
 More perfect, so more deadly. Hush, she comes. 
 
 Enter Pandora, from the opening behind, followed by 
 Children of the Air, who gambol round her. 
 
 Pan. Hermes, the earth ! the green, the lovely 
 earth ! 
 We are close at hand ; I now can well-nigh count 
 The trees, and little lambs that dot the grass 
 As cloudlets fleck the sky. O ! 'tis so fair ! 
 And here and there it sparkles, like the light 
 Of the heavenly queen's own diamonds — and they call 
 The sparkles, lakes and rivers \ but I think 
 
SCENE II.] PANDORA. 249 
 
 They are living things trembling with joy of life, 
 E'en as the birds that quiver through the air, 
 And the tall trees, and I. 
 
 Her. [To Zephyrus.] Are we so near ? 
 ZepA. Near ! nay, arrived ; did you n6t feel our 
 cloud 
 Light on the earth, though softly as a dove 
 On Aphrodite's bosom ? Brothers, ho ! 
 Puff out your rosy cheeks, to blow away 
 These piled-up vapours that have served their turn. 
 And give the golden lances of the sun 
 The entrance that they seek. 
 
 [As he speaks, the white flooring of the tloud is 
 rolled up, and they step down on the green earth. 
 At the same time the back and sides of the cloud 
 open and roll away, and there appears 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 A Forest Glade, sheltered by rocks. The towers of a 
 distant city in the back-ground. 
 
 Hermes and Pandora remain in front, while Zephyrus 
 and the others disperse themselves over the scene, as 
 though to explore. 
 
 Pan. Did I not say ? 
 
 Behold how fair ! And look you, flowers — sweet 
 
 flowers — 
 
 E'en as in heaven. But earth, I see, is only 
 
2SO PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 Another name for heaven. 
 
 Her. Maybe so — now. 
 
 Pan. How good it is to live ! yon sun, new dimbed 
 Out of the darkness to the morning's lap, 
 Is not more glad than I. O ! how I love 
 The world, and all things in't — this glorious world. 
 So beautiful, so living, giving joy. 
 And taking while it gives. World, love me too. 
 Dear birds, flowers, love me, for I live like you. 
 And come to live for ever in your midst. 
 Your queen and loving mistress.— Can it be 
 I am queen of all this beauty ? 
 
 Her. If indeed 
 
 King Epimetheus take thee. 
 
 Pan. If! You deem 
 
 I could be offered him, and he not take ! — 
 I saw a mirror ere I came from heaven, 
 And scarce can think you are right. 
 
 Her. He may at first 
 
 Endeavour not to take ; but yet for that 
 Be not discouraged ; thou art panoplied 
 For conquest by the gods, and will not fail, 
 So thou but use thy weapons. 
 
 Pan. True, I feel 
 
 A power within me to be absolute 
 Over ten thousand kings. 
 
 Her. Well said. \Horns sound.] Hark there ! 
 
 The hunter's horn ! This morning is a hunt 
 Appointed in these woods, whereto the greatest 
 
SCENE II.] PANDORA. 251 
 
 Of all the land are summoned. There they go — 
 Look ! trooping to the trysting-place hard by, 
 To await their king's approach. 
 
 \Lords, Ladies, and Huntsmen appear at the back, 
 crossing the stage. 
 Pan. So these are men ? 
 
 Her. And women too. 
 
 Pan. They seem a goodly race — 
 
 I mean the men ; the women are not much. 
 
 [ Watching the last of the procession as they go out. 
 None there was Epimetheus ? 
 
 Her. Patience yet ; 
 
 He will come anon. 
 
 Pan. If he excel the rest 
 
 As much in form and feature as in rank, 
 He must be good to look oa 
 
 ZrCph. {Descending from a rock.] Here he comes — 
 The king — in converse with his closest friend 
 And counsellor, Cleanthes ; e'en this way 
 They bend their steps. 
 
 Her. Haste, let us forth ; 'twere best 
 
 To find him by himself; we'll wait and watch 
 Our fit occasion. Zephyrus, go play. 
 You and your brothers, on the mountain-tops, 
 And leave this place in peace. 
 
 [Zephyrus and the others bound off. 
 Pandora, come. 
 Pan. \Going, but looking back.] Were all men like 
 that one, who goes in front, 
 
252 PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 Nought would be left to choose 'twixt men and gods. 
 Is't Epimetheus ? 
 
 Her. Yes. Come quick. 
 
 Pan. I am glad. 
 
 Her. [Aside.] Nought left to choose 'twixt men 
 and gods, unless [Exif, with Pandora. 
 
 Enter Epimetheus and Cleanthes. 
 
 Epi. What is it then, Cleanthes, that you seek 
 So privately to be unbosomed of? 
 Come, speak, and tarry not ; our friends already 
 Must wonder at our stay. 
 
 Cle. My lord and king, 
 
 I have a thing to ask that much imports 
 To me, perchance to you. Are you yet bent 
 Never to grant your subjects that one wish 
 That your wise rule still leaves them unfulfilled ? 
 
 Epi. What wish, Cleanthes ? 
 
 Cle. Sire, that of so many 
 
 Fair maidens in their midst you should choose one 
 Worthy to show them as your queen and theirs. 
 You know what joy 'twould give them. 
 
 Epi. And you know 
 
 Why it can never be ; how my wise brother 
 Prometheus — ere he went to meet that doom 
 'Neath which his great brave bosom expiates still 
 His service done to men — gave to my charge 
 His kingdom and his power, with strict advice, 
 
SCENE II.] PANDORA. 253 
 
 As I would keep and use them both for good, 
 To let no woman share them. I obey, 
 And will obey hini always. 
 
 Cle. Yet so strange 
 The counsel seems — so causeless 
 
 Epi. All is strange 
 
 In the world of men, though causeless maybe not. 
 To you alone of all that live I have told 
 The aim and mission of ray power — to guard 
 Yon fateful chest that stands within my halls, 
 Familiar, unsuspected, yet nathless 
 Charged full of unknown ills. To guard it well. 
 And keep them prisoned, wise Prometheus said 
 Two things in me, the king, were chief required- 
 First, from the gods to take no gift, and next, 
 Still to remain unwed. Why this was said 
 I know not, but enough for me 'twas said. 
 Seek not to move my purpose. 
 
 Cle. Not to move it 
 
 I sought, but to be sure that still it held. 
 For since I find it doth, now will I ask 
 Your leave to woo C)Tene, the fair daughter 
 Of Moschus, for my wife. I have sometimes thought 
 You saw her with more favour than the rest ; 
 So till I knew your mind I would not speak. 
 Being loth to let so slight a thing as love 
 Breathe the least stain of dimness on the gold 
 Of our tried friendship. 
 Epi. O my best Cleanthes ! 
 
2 54 PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 But danger to our friendship there is none. 
 The maid is fair, 'tis true, and it might be. 
 
 If I were not so bound But bound I am, 
 
 And can without repining see her yours. 
 Go, friend, and make your suit, and may it thrive 
 Like April buds that with one kiss of the sun 
 Smile themselves into flowers. 
 
 Cle. Your words, kind lord, 
 
 Are wine unto my heart. The maid herself. 
 Her father, and her mother, were to join 
 The royal hunt to-day ; I'll seek them straight. 
 And to my suit crave her consent and theirs. 
 And tell them I have yours. Thanks, ten times thanks ! 
 
 \_Exit. 
 Epi. [Seating himself, while he looks after Clei- 
 ANTHES.] How happy must he be ! he shines 
 with joy, 
 E'en as a lake when first its cold heart feels 
 A warming touch from heaven. There must needs 
 Be something marvellous pleasant in this love. 
 That it should have such power to tint with gold 
 
 All that it falls upon. But unto me 
 
 Another lot is given, to be strong 
 
 In mine own strength, and live my life alone. 
 
 Re-enter Hermes and Pandora, the latter of 
 whom advances and stands before Epimetheus, 
 at first unobserved by him. 
 Pan. So sad ! Can I not comfort you ? 
 Epi. Who? what? 
 
SCENE II.] PANDORA. 255 
 
 Pan. A woman, see you not ? — Why are you 
 dumb? 
 Say what you think of me. 
 
 Epi. I think— I think 
 
 That never since myself first knew myself 
 
 What art thou ? speak. 
 
 Pan. Pandora is my name. 
 
 Epi. But how: — how Where hast dwelt that 
 
 thou alone 
 Of all my subjects shouldst have gone till now 
 Unseen of me, the king ? 
 
 Pan. You could not then 
 
 Have seen me, and forgot ? 
 
 Epi. Shall he who once 
 
 Hath looked on light forget that there is light ? 
 Pandora, sayest thou ? More ! tell me more ! 
 
 Her. [Advandng.] That office shall be mine. 
 Good Epimetheus, 
 This is a gift sent by the king of gods 
 In token of good-will, and brought by me. 
 His messenger, to thee, the king of men. 
 
 Epi. O ! he is kind ! To me ! Such gift !— 
 \Checking himself i\ A gift ! 
 Hermes, I thank him, but I cannot take. 
 
 Her. You cannot ! That is strange. I should 
 have thought 
 'Twere harder to refuse. 
 
 Epi. So 'tis ! so 'tis ! 
 
 But must be. From my heart I thank your king. 
 
25 6 PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 You, and all gods, for this that might have been 
 My choicest, dearest treasure, and will be 
 For ever my regret. Take back your gift. 
 
 Her. But why ? 
 
 Pan. O ! ask him not, but take me back ! 
 
 Epi. Because I promised one who had the right 
 To exact a promise, never to accept 
 From the gods' hands a gift. 
 
 Her. Nay, if 'tis thus, 
 
 I will not urge you more, content to bear 
 This fair charge back to heaven, her native place, 
 Where welcome will not fail her. But I- pray 
 Your courtesy to give her harbourage 
 Till I can fly to Hades and return. 
 Having an errand there that must be done. 
 'Twill not be long ; with the oath of gods I swear 
 Here to be back e'en as the noontide brings 
 The shade of yon tall tree to kiss this rock. 
 Till then you'll keep her ? 
 
 Epi. Ay, and only glad 
 
 To be host to such a guest. 
 
 Pan. But, but 
 
 Her. [To Pandora.] Wait here 
 
 My coming back, and with this courteous king 
 Be not offended that he cannot give 
 All the full welcome that he would ; he hath made 
 A promise, and to break their promises 
 Is what men should not do. [Aside to her.] Use all 
 thine arts. 
 
SCENE 11.] PANDORA. 257 
 
 And thou shalt yet prevail. [Aloud, pointing to a 
 
 shadow on the ground.^ Till this hath moved 
 As far as this, farewell. [Exit. 
 
 Epi. Brief time indeed, 
 
 But precious as eternity. [Looking at her.] So fair ! 
 
 ! how shall memory image her, once gone ? 
 As much too fair for memory of man 
 
 As golden-powdered butterflies for touch, 
 
 Fan. Why do you gaze so hard ? 
 
 Epi. Who would not feast 
 
 Before an endless fast ? Upon this hour 
 Of looking I must live throughout all time. 
 
 Pan. To look at me I thought you cared no more 
 Than I to look at you. 
 
 Epi. You turn away ? 
 
 You are displeased ? O ! how ? What have I done ? 
 
 Pan. Nay, not displeased. But since I am not 
 yours, 
 
 1 have nought to do with you, nor you with me. 
 Epi I see, you are angry with my wretchedness, 
 
 Because I am doomed to live without delight. 
 You think of my free will I gave you up ? , 
 
 At mine own choice, and pleasure ? 
 
 Pan. If you did. 
 
 You did it with full right. No man is bound 
 To accept a proffered gift. 
 
 Epi. You are angry still — 
 
 Angry because I am hapless. 
 
 Pan. But the gift. 
 
2s8 PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 If not of senseless metal, wood, or stone. 
 May, on rejection, wonder, and regret 
 It was not made more precious. 
 
 Efi. O ! so precious 
 
 Was nothing ever yet in earth or heaven — 
 Nor aught as I so wretched. To be offered 
 Such gift, and not to take, what punishment, 
 For an offence commensurate with the sky. 
 Could be devised more hard ? 
 
 Pan. If 'tis so hard, 
 
 Why do you choose to bear it ? 
 
 Epi. Still you chide ? 
 
 ! understand me better. By two laws 
 
 1 have sworn to rule my life ; and breaking one, 
 I feel, must make me break the other too. 
 
 As sure as lifting the eyelid from the eye 
 Must lead to seeing. One is, not to take 
 A present from the gods. 
 
 Pan. And to that law 
 
 I see you yield obedience. Well, say on ; 
 What is the other law ? 
 
 Epi. That to no woman 
 
 I must be more than friend — and O ! most fair, 
 Most peerless-perfect, gazing on thy face 
 Hath taught me that near thee I could not live 
 And not be wholly thine — and make thee mine, 
 Submiss to my submission. So submiss 
 Thou wouldst have been, Pandora ? Say, O say ! 
 
 \She covers her face with her hands. 
 
SCENE II.] PANDORA. 259 
 
 Thou wouldst ! thou wouldst ! I see it in the blush 
 Quivering behind thy fingers, like the streak 
 Of summer lightning through a summer cloud. 
 
 Pan. What would have been you have no right to 
 ask. 
 Go. — Go, I say. 
 
 Epi. So angry ! and indeed 
 
 With seeming justice. Yet couldst thou but know 
 The secret of what weighty issues hang 
 Upon my faith or unfaith to the laws 
 That bind me, thou wouldst pardon. But that secret 
 Thou canst not, may'st not, learn. 
 
 Pan. May not ! And why ? 
 
 What is it then ? 
 
 Epi. Ask not — but tell me this. 
 
 Art thou so angry, dost thou so much hate. 
 That thou wouldst have me by a breach of law 
 Undo and lose myself, with loss so huge 
 That unborn myriads should be reached and crushed 
 By ruins of my ruin ? 
 
 Pan. And that this 
 
 Would be, how canst thou know ? 
 
 Epi. Because my brother. 
 
 Wisest of men, foretold. 
 
 Pan. Perchance to wreak 
 
 On thee his spite, and jealousy of joys 
 To him denied, he told thee what was false. 
 
 Epi. That could not surely be. Nay, he spoke 
 true J 
 
26o PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 And if true, wouldst thou have me lose myself 
 With utter loss, for want of strength to say 
 ' Ye gods, take back your gift ' ? 
 
 Pan. Lose thyself — thou — 
 
 With utter loss ! — no, no ! the pity of it 
 Would be too much. — Yet better that than mate 
 Thy goodliness with one of yonder things 
 You have hitherto called women. 
 
 Epi. Nay, by them 
 
 I ne'er was greatly perilled, and henceforth 
 Am wholly safe — as one who once hath felt 
 The lily breathe in his face can never more 
 Be cheated by the hemlock. 
 
 Pan. Say'st thou so ? 
 
 Then I forgive thee quite, and we'll be friends 
 For what short space remains — ^the shadow, look. 
 Hath crept a foot already. Come, let's haste ; 
 We will pluck flowers, and make a garland up 
 For me to take to heaven, and show the gods 
 That earth hath bright things too. Haste, tarry not ; 
 Whate'er is fairest, gather. 
 
 \She goes to a bank and pulls flowers. Epime- 
 THEUS does the same, but inattentively, always 
 gazing at Pandora. 
 
 Epi. Here is but 
 
 One fairest, and one fair. 
 
 Re-enter Cleanthes. 
 Cle. King, give me joy ! 
 
SCENE II.] PANDORA. 261 
 
 Cyrene is mine own ! [Seeing Pandora.] How now ! 
 
 Fan. [Aside.'] He sees 
 
 What seems to amaze hijn much. There's nought in 
 
 him 
 To make me wonder ; I'll go pick my flowers. 
 
 Cle. She— say — what is she? 
 
 Epi. Nothing but a guest, 
 
 A passing guest , Gleanthes, the great gods 
 In bounty sent her hither as a gift 
 To my unworthiness ; but I, remembering 
 My brother's counsel, have not dared to accept. 
 She doth but sojourn here while Hermes goes 
 An errand into Hades ; ere the shade 
 Of yon tree cross this rock, he will be back, 
 And I must bid farewell, and see her part. 
 
 Cle. You mean it ? You might keep her, and will 
 not? 
 Give her up — her ! You will indeed ? you can ? 
 
 Fan. \Who still seems busy with her flo7uers, hut 
 furtively watches the speakers. Aside.] He could not 
 
 Epi. Know you not I must? No more ; 
 
 Nor let me longer. hinder you from what 
 You have so newly won, your fair Cyrene— - 
 That she is yours I am glad. Go, heed not me ; 
 Seek her, or she will wonder. 
 
 Cle. Nay, but hither 
 
 She was to come, father and mother too. 
 They did but send me on to tell the news 
 Of her and their consent. [Still looking at Pandora. 
 
262 PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 Epi. Go meet them then, 
 
 And say how I rejoice. I must not let 
 My selfish friendship chain you from the call 
 Of beauty and delight. 
 
 Cle. O ! so much beauty, 
 
 Containing what delight ! 
 
 Epi. 'Twas not of her 
 
 I spoke, but of Cyrene. Friend, I pray, 
 Gaze not with such fixed gaze, to make her think 
 Our manners are so gross ; she likes it not. 
 
 Cle. How know you that ? she smiles. 
 
 Epi. {Sharply.'] She likes it not. 
 
 Pan. [Aside.] That Epimetheus likes it not is 
 plain ; 
 I have power to make him feel. — Did I say power ? 
 And shall not power breed power ? O ! now I see ; 
 What Hermes said was, 'Use thine arts.' I will. 
 
 Epi. Cleanthes, in mere courtesy to our guest 
 I must entreat your absence ; she loves quiet. 
 And a strange face disturbs her. 
 
 Pan. Not for me ; 
 
 Send him not hence for me. As for his face, 
 I like it much. [To Cleanthes.] Come nearer ; let 
 
 me see 
 More closely what thou art. Now on my word, 
 I am glad I missed him not Is he not thought 
 A wondrous handsome man ? 
 
 Epi. How should I know ? 
 
 Men have no eyes for men. It well may be 
 
SCENE II.J PANDORA. 263 
 
 Cjnrene thinks him so. 
 
 Pan. And who is she ? 
 
 Here, take these ends, and hold them while I plait. 
 
 [Putting trails of ivy into Cleanthes's hand. 
 Be careful ; let none slip. 
 
 Epi Cyrene is 
 
 The maid Cleanthes loves, his promised wife. 
 I will hold these. 
 
 Pan. [ Who has begun to plait^ No, no, touch not ! 
 touch not ! 
 If you but shake his hand, my pains are lost 
 
 \To Cleanthes.] Thy promised wife — a woman 
 born and bred 
 Upon the earth ! Poor man ! — What is she like ? 
 I fain would know — like me ? 
 
 Cle. Nought is like thee ; 
 
 Thou stand'st alone — as much alone as the moon 
 In presence of the stars. 
 
 Pan. Thou mak'st me feel 
 
 That I should hide my face behind a cloud, 
 And I would make a cloud of these my hands. 
 If they were not so busy. 
 
 Cle. So much beauty 
 
 Thou hast no more right to hide than I to steal 
 The bread that feeds my neighbour. 
 
 Epi. Here is store 
 
 Of neat-turned phrase ! But now with compliment 
 'Tis time to have 'done, for there Cyrene comes, 
 Moschus and Moscha with her. Fly, man, fly, 
 
264 PANDORA. [act 1. 
 
 And give your love a greeting. 
 
 Pan. No, not yet — 
 
 I cannot spare him yet. \To Cleanthes.] Be still 
 
 and see 
 Thou keep tight hold. 
 
 Enter, at the back, M.oscHUS, Moscha, and Cyrene. 
 
 Epi. Look where in sight they stand, 
 
 And wonder at your slackness. Best make haste, 
 If past all pardon you would not offend. 
 Cle. That may be as it may ; I must obey. 
 Pan. \To Epimetheus.] Go you, and tell them 
 what their eyes might see, 
 That he with me is busy ; tell them too 
 I am a guest — only a passing guest, 
 As you yourself declared ; they are not, sure. 
 So churlish as to grudge their friend to one 
 Whose time must be so short. 
 
 [Imperiously, as Epimetheus lingers. 
 Thou art a king, 
 But I command thee, do as I have said. 
 
 [Epimetheus 'goes slowly to the back, and speaks to 
 Cyrene ««(/ the otfiers. 
 Pan. {Looking after him.\ O rare ! is he not 
 vexed ? 
 
 \To Cleanthes. Come, speak to me ; 
 Why dost not speak ? Thou know'st that I must part 
 Soon as that shadow falls athwart that rock ? 
 
SCENK II.] PANDORA. 265 
 
 There is scant time. 
 
 Cle. So scant that what there is 
 
 I needs must use in looking. 
 
 Pan. Thou art sorry 
 
 To think that I must part ? 
 
 Cle. As thou wouldst be, 
 
 If, having once known colour, thou wert doomed 
 
 To grey perpetual dusk. 
 
 Pan. Now that indeed 
 
 Is spoken like a friend — more of a friend 
 
 Than Epimetheus is. If thou wert he. 
 
 Thou wouldst not let me go ? \Aside, with vexation, 
 
 looking towards Epimetheus.] Still so far off ! 
 
 Too far to hear a word. 
 
 Cle. Not let thee go 
 
 Beyond the reach of my hand, lest, being so fair, 
 
 Thou shouldst dissolve away. 
 
 Pan. Of that no fear ; 
 
 I am flesh and blood like thee. Thou hast my leave 
 
 To touch my arm, and feel. S^Aside, looking towards 
 
 Epimetheus.] If he hears not. 
 
 At least he will see. 
 
 [Cleanthes touches with onehandV PLvmov-f^sarm, 
 
 with the other still holding the ivy. Epimetheus 
 
 hastily comes forward, the others following. 
 
 Epi. [To Cleanthes.] Cyrene, your betrothed, 
 
 Awaits your welcome. 
 
 Cyr. _ O ! not so, not so ! 
 
 He is free to take his time. 
 
266 PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 Pan. We'll not be long; 
 
 You see we have well-nigh done. So this is she 
 Of whom I have heard — the maid so fortunate ? 
 
 Cyr. You think it ? Fortunate ? 
 
 Pan. 'Why, surely yes, 
 
 With such a friend — the friendliest, kindest far, 
 Of men yet known to me. I cannot tell 
 What courteous words he hath said, and how he grieves 
 Because I must not stay ; and I indeed 
 Grieve too, from him to part. 
 
 Cyr. How much unwilling 
 
 Each is to give up each I well can see, 
 Being fortunate at least in having eyes. 
 
 Pan. What ails you ? I should think you were 
 displeased, 
 But what can we have done ? 
 
 Cyr. Displeased ! O no ! 
 
 Mightily pleased — delighted — that I care 
 So little for what's proved not worth my care, 
 And can so easily say. Farewell, farewell. \_Exit. 
 
 Pan. She is displeased, though. There, 'tis done ; 
 you are free. \Taking the ivy from Cleanthes. 
 Go, follow quick. 
 
 cu. 
 
 
 But- 
 
 
 
 Pan. 
 
 
 
 Go. 
 
 
 Cle. 
 
 
 
 
 But 
 
 Epi. 
 
 
 
 
 Go, for shame ! 
 
 Moscha. 
 
 Go, 
 
 wretch, 
 
 and when 
 
 my daughter thou 
 
 hast found 
 
 
 
 
SCENE II.] PANDORA. 267 
 
 Make of the earth a cushion for thy knees 
 Until she bid thee rise ; she is fond and weak — 
 Too like her mother maybe for her peace — ■ 
 And so perchance may hear thee. 
 
 \Exit, reluctantly, Cleanthes. 
 Recreant ! 
 After such insult done my child and me, 
 She never should be his, but that I feel 
 He would escape too lightly with a wife 
 Whose mother I was not. 
 
 Moschus. \LookingatVtsMVta?ih..\ How pleasant 'tis 
 To look on aught so fair ! it rests the eye. 
 Like a fresh bed of roses coming after 
 A tract of kitchen herbs. I pray thee, turn 
 Thy head a little round. 
 
 Moscha. What dost thou there ? 
 
 Moschus. Nothing but look, and thou thyself must 
 see 
 I am compelled to looL 
 
 Moscha. And why shouldst thou 
 
 Be more compelled than I ? I am not compelled. 
 Come hence with me, and help to find and soothe 
 Our poor insulted child. 
 
 Moschus. Were not that task 
 
 More fitting for a mother's tender touch ? 
 I'll follow later. 
 
 Moscha. Thou shalt follow now ; 
 
 Nay, better — lead the way. Lead on, I say, 
 Or I will teach thee what compelling means. 
 
268 ■ PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 \Exeunt MoscHUS and Moscha. 
 
 Pan. What droll men-mimicking things these 
 women are 
 When they are angry !— Art thou angry too ? 
 Canst thou not speak, or smile ? 
 
 Epi. I have forgot 
 
 The way to smile. 
 
 Pan. I'll teach it thee again, 
 
 If thou wilt look. 
 
 Epi. . I have looked enough. Keep all 
 
 Thy lessons for Cleanthes ; 'tis a pupil 
 More apt than I can be. 
 
 Pan. He is hot here^- 
 
 More is the pity. 
 
 Epi. What ! this to my face ! 
 
 Pan. [Aside.] I have found the pin to prick him 
 with. [Aloud.] Why not 
 This to thy face ? He is pleasant, and my friend — 
 The only friend to mourn when I aril gone. 
 What harm to say, 'tis pity he's not here ? 
 
 Epi. Behold, thou hast thy wish. 
 
 Re-enter Cleanthes. 
 
 Pan. [Aside.] No wish of mine. 
 
 Cle. Grant me a word, my lord. 
 [Taking Epimetheus aside.] You are resolved 
 You will not keep this gift the gods have sent ? 
 . Epi. How much soe'er 'twere my desire to keep, 
 
SCENE II.] PANDORA. 269 
 
 How should I dare ? Yes — yes— I am resolved. 
 
 Cle. Hark then to me! Since wilfully to let 
 Such priceless treasure pass from earth to heaven 
 Would on our world and the whole race of men 
 Cast slur and shame for ever — ^ 
 
 Epi. Think you so ? 
 
 Cle. Who would not think it ? But there is a way 
 To keep this fair perfection for the earth, 
 This t3rpe for all the beauty yet to be, 
 And still infringe no law. You are forbid 
 Either to accept frorn gods a gift, or wed 
 A woman for a wife. So am not I ; 
 This gift let me accept then, and this woman 
 Wed for my wife, leaving to you the share 
 Of safety, and rejoicing in my joy. 
 
 Epi. O villain ! traitor ! 
 
 Cle. How have I deserved 
 
 Such names as these ? 
 
 Epi. Traitor, if not to me, 
 
 To poor Cyrene, thy betrothed, and so 
 Traitor enough. This gift thou wouldst accept ? 
 This woman thou wouldst wed ? O ! perjured wretch, 
 How shall I punish ? \Laying hold of him. 
 
 Cle. Nay, first hear me out. 
 
 Cyrene leaves me free. 'Twas even now 
 I followed, and caressed her with soft words, 
 Striving to make my peace ; she, in reply, 
 Stoned me with hard ones, and instead of pardon 
 Hath given me back my faith. 
 
2^o PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 Ej)i. And wisely too ! 
 
 Fan. [ Who from the other side of the stage has been 
 watching them.] The rage that he is in ! All 
 about me, 
 I will be sworn. I'll make him angrier yet. 
 
 \^Advana'ng. 
 Poor, poor Cleanthes ! Hurt him not, I pray. 
 
 E^i. Thou car'st for him so much ? 
 
 Fan. And if I cared, 
 
 Were it a fault ? 
 
 Epi. Nay, nay, no fault at all ; 
 
 He cares for thee. \^Aside.^ O ! were not this a way 
 To cure my pain^o pluck it from my heart 
 Even by the roots ? sharp cure, but sure, and brief. 
 [^A/oud.] Pandora, if thou wilt, what thou so lovest 
 Shall be thine own ; behold, I give thee to him. 
 
 Fan. You give me — me — to him ? 
 
 Epi. And him to thee. 
 
 The husband to the wife. 
 
 Cle. Mine ! mine ! 
 
 [ Trying to take hold of her. 
 
 Pan. Dare not ! 
 
 / care for theel I scorn thee, and I hate ; 
 I did but scorn before, but now I hate. 
 Hence— hence — or to be longer in thy sight 
 Will make me hate myself. 
 
 Cle. And my offence — 
 
 What is it then ? 
 
 Pan. Offence enough to me 
 
SCENE II.J PANDORA. 271 
 
 That thou art thou. Away ; to be forgiven, 
 Let me ne'er see thee more. 
 
 Cle. All beauty's false, 
 
 And so is perfect beauty perfect false. '\_Exit. 
 
 Pan. O ! would that I were gone out of this world — 
 This hideous world ! 
 
 Epi. What ! weep ! so fair, and weep ! 
 
 No, pray you, no ; each tear of yours falls hot 
 And scalding on my heart. Still weep ? Say why — 
 Say why, that I may comfort. 
 
 Pan. Not with sorrow — 
 
 Think not — but only shame. You would have looked. 
 And seen me matched with him. 
 
 Epi. Because I deemed 
 
 'Twas giving you your wish. 
 
 Pan. You deemed ! I see 
 
 You hate me much, but since I hate you too. 
 That makes us even. 
 
 Epi. Hate me ! Say not so — 
 
 'Tis more than I can bear. 
 
 Pan. I said it. 
 
 Epi. Ay, 
 
 But did not mean, could not ; hate could not live 
 In presence of such love. And then besides, 
 When to Cleanthes that word ' hate ' you spake, 
 You bade him go ; but — how my heart leaps up 
 To think what it may mean ! — to me you say 
 You hate me, and no more. 
 
 Pan. I hate. 
 
272 PANDORA. [act i. 
 
 Epi. I love. 
 
 \Folding her in his arms. 
 If I offend, if thou wouldst have me gone, 
 Bid me, and I obey ; if not, say nought. 
 And thou shalt keep me always, as I thee. 
 Thou precious gift of gods, that art not made 
 Less dear by danger, but mak'st danger dear. 
 Pandora, well ? 
 'Pan. I hate^I hate— that ii, 
 
 [Breaking into a sudden smile, and laying her 
 head on his shoulder. 
 Would hate thee were it not I love thee so. 
 
 Epi. Mine own ! rny wife ! — O, look ! the shadow 
 falls 
 Due on the rock, e'en as my choice is made. 
 Ask her not back, ye gods ! I accept your gift. 
 
 \A light laugh is heard overhead. 
 What sound was that ? of laughter ? 
 
 Pan. Or the spdtt 
 
 Of breezes 'mong the leaves. Be it as it will. 
 For we are happy. 
 
 Epi. Happy so that now 
 
 I see that first I learn what ' happy ' means. 
 And lo, my subjects come to seek their king, 
 And from his joy take joy, as wood takes fire, 
 Increasing what it borrows. 
 
 Enter Lords, Ladies, Huntsmen, &=€., who con- 
 tinue to arrive. 
 
 Friends, great news ! 
 
SCENE II.J PANDORA. 273 
 
 Your queen that you so long have asked me for 
 I here have found, and wear her next my heart. 
 Behold, and. hail — Pandora, first, last queen 
 Of you and me. • 
 
 Alk Hail, hail ! Pandora ! queen ! 
 
 \The Curtain falls. 
 
 End of Act I. 
 
274 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene. A Hall in the Palace of Epimetheus. At the 
 back, beyond a row of supporting ;pillars, a Garden 
 is seen. At one side of the stage stands a large stone 
 coffer, but so harmonising with the decorations as not 
 to appear specially remarkable. 
 
 Youths and Maidens discovered dancing, among them 
 Amyntas, Aglaia, and Myrtis — Q.x'3CBSi% playing 
 to them on a lute ; MoscHUS and Moscha looking 
 on. 
 
 Agl. \As the dance comes to an end.] O ! the brave 
 time ! I would with all my heart 
 'Twere always honeymoon. 
 
 Myr. And so 'twill be 
 
 Here in this house, where man and wife so love 
 As our good king and queen. 
 
 Amyn. And where the man 
 
 Hath such a wife to love, with beauty flowering 
 For ever into new and yet the same. 
 
 Agl. As for such wondrous beauty I know not. 
 Enough for me they love, and that their love 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 275 
 
 For us means music, flowers, and holiday. 
 Happy themselves, they would see us happy too. 
 Amyn. Would have us happy, yea — but out of 
 sight. 
 There's no such service we can do them now 
 As by our absence wholly leaving them 
 Unto each other's presence. 
 
 Agl. So much more 
 
 Our freedom to be happy. Lend your arm 
 Until I find my breath again to dance. 
 
 [The partners in the dance walk about arm in arm. 
 Gyrene remains sitting. 
 Cyr. [Aside.] All happy — all — save me. 
 Moscha. Poor girl, so sad ? 
 
 I know the cause ; you are thinking still of him — 
 Cleanthes, that false traitor. 
 
 Cyr. If 'tis so, 
 
 I am to blame for harbouring a thought 
 Of aught so base ; and thus I lay it down. 
 
 [Putting down her lute, and rising. 
 Moscha. Lay it down, child ! nay, fling it, hurl it, 
 hence. 
 
 [Making a movement to take up the lute, but 
 checking herself. 
 I'd show you how, but I should break your lute. 
 
 Moschus. N ow there is the mistake of both of you — 
 Too hot, too spirited ; would you but be 
 More gentle with him, take my word he'd come 
 Back to your feet, as birds in winter come. 
 
276 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 If not scared off, to where they haVe once been fed. 
 
 Cyr. Who told you that I want him at my feet ? 
 
 Moschus. My knowledge, child, of women. 
 
 Cyr. If he came, 
 
 I would but bid him go. Father, no more ; 
 Insult me not. 
 
 Moscha. Moschus, insult her not. 
 
 Enter Cleanthes. 
 
 Cle. I pray you, friends — — 
 \Stops suddenly on seeing Cyrene. She starts on 
 seeing him, then turns haughtily away, as does 
 her mother. 
 
 Agl. Cleanthes ! This is well ; 
 
 You come to help our dance ? 
 
 Cle. To dance just now, 
 
 I have no mind. My errand is with the king, 
 To let him know the council, which to-day 
 He appointed to debate on state affairs 
 That have too long given way to wedding feasts, 
 Is met, and waits his presence. One of you 
 Go tell him this forthwith. Have you not heard ? 
 
 Amyn. But, good Cleanthes, as it chances now, 
 The king is in the garden with the queen. 
 Walking, and talking more, and gazing most ; 
 And in a walk and talk and gaze so sweet 
 Which of us dare disturb him ? 
 
 Cle. That's to say. 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 277 
 
 Because you are shy the council needs must wait. 
 
 Moscha. And why so shy yourself that you seek not 
 Your lord, and try what welcome you will find ? 
 You, his dear friend, his trustiest councillor. 
 His shadow who stood so near him that you seemed 
 To us poor folk as great a king as he. 
 
 Cle. Indeed I once was honoured as his friend 
 And well-nigh .other self; but now a woman 
 Hath ta'en from me that post. You should be pleased 
 That women are accounted worthier 
 Of trust than men, for 'twas not always so. 
 
 Moscha. Because perchance it was not always known 
 How false a man can be. 
 
 Cle. Of woman's faith — 
 
 The faith that loves, and can forgive a fault 
 In what it loves — I have not yet seen much. 
 \7o Cyrene.] You have had a merry dance? 
 
 Cyr. I doubtless should. 
 
 Had I seen fit to join. 
 
 Cle. You have not danced ? 
 
 But now you wiU, belike ? 
 
 Cyr. \Afier a pause of hesitation, turning away.] 
 Whether I dance 
 Or not, is nought to you. [Aside.] He thought my 
 
 spirit 
 Was poorer than he finds. 
 
 Cle. [Aside.] The face is fair, 
 
 But hot the temper ; better as it is. 
 [Aloud.] I'll to the council then, and let them know 
 
2 78 PANDORA. [act ii 
 
 They have nought to do but wait. 
 
 Cyr. You go so soon ? 
 
 I thought you meant to dance. 
 
 Cle. Why should I? No 
 
 I'm not in dancing mood. \Exit. 
 
 Cyr. [Aside, looking after him.] The temper of him ! 
 But it must make him wretched ; so far good. 
 
 Moscha. [To MoscHUS.] Follow that man, and 
 beat him. 
 
 Moschus. What, my love ? 
 
 Moscha. Follow that man, and beat him. Saw you not 
 How he again insulted our poor child ? 
 And have you not some spirit ? 
 
 Moschus. Spirit — yes — 
 
 But he has firmer flesh and stronger bones, 
 And, if he did not take my beating well. 
 Might beat me back again. Dear wife, reflect ! 
 
 Moscha. Are you a man ? 
 
 Moschus. Yes, sweet, but so is he — 
 
 A fine man too. 
 
 Moscha. Poltroon ! 
 
 Moschus. So fine a man 
 
 That were I you, indeed I would forgive. 
 
 Moscha. Forgive before he asks ! 
 
 Moschus. He is too proud 
 
 To ask, but yet he longs. And his first fault 
 Was the queen's fault — not his ; she tempted him 
 With looks and smiles. Such looks and smiles as 
 hers 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 279 
 
 I cannot blame the man. 
 
 Moscha. O ! can you not ? 
 
 Blame or not blame, yet shall you beat him, though. 
 You shall, you shall. 
 
 Moschus. And if he beat me too ? 
 
 Moscha. So much the better. Stir yourself. 
 
 Moschus. He is gone — 
 
 I know not whither. 
 
 Moscha. I will help you find. 
 
 Come hence with me. \Laying her hand on his arm. 
 Nay, come. O ! you shall see 
 I'm not the poor tame creature that you thought. 
 
 Moschus. I never thought you so in all my life. 
 
 [Exeunt Moschus and Moscha, Cyrene 
 following. 
 
 Agl. Well, shall we dance again ? 
 
 Myr. \Who has been looking into the gardeni\ Not 
 now, not now ; 
 Here come the king and queen — we had best away. 
 They are deep wrapped in talk. 
 
 Amyn. So deep indeed 
 
 That everything must seem importunate 
 
 To each except the other. Haste, then, haste, 
 
 And let us show most zeal by most neglect. 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Enter, from the garden, Epimetheus a/z;/ Pandora. 
 
 Pan. Now tell me true ; this love you have for me, 
 Or say you have, you never felt before — 
 
28o PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 Never — for any woman — save for me ? 
 
 Epi. Never — I swear it by those eyes of thine, 
 That give my being light ; till taught by thee 
 I knew not what love was, and had I thought 
 To know, should, being taught by thee, find out 
 That now I know it first. 
 
 Pan. I taught it you ? 
 
 Teach me again ; what is this love of yours ? 
 Say what 'tis like. 
 
 Epi. 'Tis living all my life 
 
 Not in myself, but thee — for thee, by thee ; 
 So that in all I see, or hear, or feel, 
 I see, hear, feel but thee — so peerless fair. 
 So infinitely dear, that to be lost 
 In thee is first to find what faculty 
 Of joy is in myself. Yet faculty 
 Of joy sometimes falls short, and borrows that 
 Of pain to help it out, so that a, sigh 
 Gives more ease than a smile. And when 'tis thus, 
 When the full heart aches with a pain divine 
 That, although pain, it would not change for joy-^ 
 Then is the very ecstasy of love. 
 Such love as mine for thee. Dost thou sigh too ? 
 
 Pan. Because I too am glad — glad to have found 
 Thy love so much like mine. I need not now 
 Of mine be so ashamed. 
 
 Epi. 'Twixt mine and thine, 
 
 I see, this difference is; of mine I am proud. 
 And thou ashamed of thine. 
 
ACT II. J PANDORA. 281 
 
 Pan. Dost prize it less 
 
 Because 'tis hidden here ? And now no more. 
 Faith, I will punish thee, and roundly too, 
 That I have said so much. 
 
 Epi. How wilt thou punish ? 
 
 Come, sit thee down and think, and I will wait, 
 Thy prisoner at thy feet. \Seating her on a couch, and 
 throwing himself on the ground before her.] What 
 wilt thou do ? 
 
 Pan. I know not what ; thou art too great and 
 strong 
 For me to bind and beat thee — as in sooth 
 Thy sauciness deserves. 
 
 £pi. O ! bind and beat, 
 
 And I will bear. Come, one hand thus, to bind. 
 The other thus, to beat. [Drawing one of her hands 
 round his neck, and bringing the other down in 
 light strokes upon his shoulder.] And now as long 
 E'en as thou wilt, go on. 
 
 Pan. But I believe 
 
 Thou art enjoying it. 
 
 Epi. I am ; go on. 
 
 Pan. Let loose, and I'll forgive thee for this once, 
 Seeing I cannot punish. 
 
 Epi. Thou canst not ; 
 
 Thou hast made me drink so deeply of delight, 
 I am proof against all punishment, all ills. 
 Done to myself or others. And indeed 
 Therein I feel my fault, that in my joy 
 
282 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 I care not for the sorrow of my friend, 
 My poor Cleanthes. There is the one cloud 
 On my blue sky ; and yet, since it hides not 
 My sunshine, I forget it. 
 
 Pan. And why now 
 
 Remember it ? he is not worth thy pains — 
 A coxcomb, who, because I led him on 
 That I might lead on thee, could deem himself 
 Preferred to thee in earnest. After this. 
 The wooden handle of the angling-rod 
 Might think the angler's hand in love with it, 
 For e'en so wooden a thing Cleanthes seems 
 Compared with Epimetheus, my dear lord. 
 
 Epi. Thou mak'st me a false friend, since from 
 thy lips 
 My friend's dispraise hath a so pleasant sound. 
 But I'll forgive thee all, wilt thou but help 
 To mend what thou hast marred, and set in tune 
 Cleanthes and Gyrene's jarring loves. 
 Might I but join their hands, and see them glad 
 With something of our gladness, 'twould make ours 
 Taste sweeter to me yet. Say, thou wilt help ? 
 
 Pan. To please thee, yea. But of this friend of 
 thine 
 Thou takest too much heed. Hast thou not me 
 Now for thy friend ? and am not I enough ? 
 
 Epi. Thee for my only love and only joy. 
 My golden treasure, worn upon my heart ; 
 But he's my friend — or was, and what he was 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 283 
 
 Must be again, to help me in my work. 
 ■You know the tiller of the earth is fain 
 To till with iron rather than with gold. 
 
 Pan. Your iron and your gold ! You only mean 
 That you would trust your friend, and trust not me. 
 
 Epi. I mean that thou, my jewel past all price, 
 Shouldst not be dimmed with fumes of care or toil, 
 But be kept bright by kisses — thus, and thus. 
 
 Pan. I'll not be so put off. You told me once 
 There was a secret that I might not know. 
 The secret of the cause that you so feared 
 To take me by the hand and make me yours. 
 I have not asked you for that secret yet, 
 Though I have not forgot, but now I ask 
 This — does Cleanthes know it ? 
 
 Epi. Thou'rt as much 
 
 More near me than Cleanthes as the heart 
 Is nearer than the hand. O ! let that serve ! 
 
 Pan. He knows, and I know not. You tell your 
 hand 
 The secrets that you keep hid from your heart ? 
 
 Epi. The secret of my heart, the holiest 
 And dearest thing it knows, is how I love ; 
 And this thou knowest too, and only thou. 
 
 Pan. How should I when you will not give me 
 proof? 
 'Tis only trust proves love. No kisses — no ; 
 I'll never kiss again. 
 
 Epi. Pandora ! Nay 
 
284 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 Pan. Never again. Had only he not known, 
 I might have been content — perchance content — 
 Not to be told myself; but now— but now 
 
 Epi. Thou weepest ! 
 
 Pan. Yea, I weep. 
 
 Epi. [Aside.] What shall I do ? 
 
 brother, thou hast made my task too hard ! — 
 But stay, he said not ' Keep it from thy wife ' — 
 He was too wise to think such thing could be. 
 What he said was, * 'Twere best thou have no wife. 
 Since in the book of Fate 'tis writ that only 
 
 By woman man shall fall.' But had he known 
 
 1 was to wed a woman like to her, 
 Perfect in womanhood, then had he seen 
 
 That she would prove my help and not my bane, 
 
 My colleague and dear comrade in my task. 
 
 This shall she be. [Aloud, turning to her.] Pandora ! 
 
 Pan. Well ?— O ! would 
 
 I had a secret I might keep from you. 
 
 Epi. I will keep none from thee, but since thou wilt, 
 I'll speak, and lay on thy dear heart a care. 
 Though making mine more light when of its load 
 Thou sharest. Shall I tell ? Thou dost not fear ? 
 
 Pan. Now have I found my lord and love again ! 
 I knew I should, or had been angrier far. — 
 Tell, and tell all ; I was not made for fear, 
 Save but the fear, not to be loved by thee. 
 
 Epi. Mine own ! — Thou'lt kiss me now ? 
 
 Pan. Yes, yes. But tell. 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 285 
 
 Epi. List then. Thou know'st me for a mighty 
 king; 
 But know'st not yet why I was made a king, 
 What duty with my royalty is joined, 
 What danger, if my duty be not done. 
 Look upon this — this little golden key ; 
 
 [ Taking from his bosom a small key fastened to a 
 chain worn on his neck. 
 That I might keep this safe, and let it never 
 Turn in that only lock wherein 'twould fit, 
 My brother set me here, and gave me power. 
 
 Pan. The lock wherein 'twould fit ! What lock is 
 that? 
 
 Epi. Seest thou yon chest of stone ? 
 
 Pan. So little a key 
 
 To open aught so great ? 
 
 Epi. As smallest cause 
 
 May mightiest issues work. Where now it stands 
 That chest hath stood fixed by the will of Fate 
 Since time for men began ; and, as my brother. 
 The wise Prometheus, said, while it shall stand 
 Unopened still, inviolate, even so long 
 The race of men shall flourish, and be ruled 
 By the same laws as now. But if unlocked 
 By human hand (and human hand alone 
 Hath power to unlock), then from their prison of stone 
 Where Fate hath stored them shall a cloud of ills,- 
 Unknown as yet, arise, and o'er the earth 
 Roll even from verge to verge, and settle down. 
 
286 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 Never to lift again till time shall end. 
 
 Pain, sickness, famine, and a thousand names 
 
 Of such like evil sound those ills shall have, 
 
 Which all the sons and daughters of mankind. 
 
 Some more, some less, must test. And one of them, 
 
 More level in its working, must be shared 
 
 In equal shares by each, and that the one 
 
 Grimmest of all, called death. Thou sawest this morn 
 
 A linnet die, and as the little wings 
 
 Dropped quivering into stillness didst thou weep ; 
 
 And to that death which birds and beasts die now 
 
 Men likewise must be subject, should yon chest 
 
 Let 'scape its prisoned curse — all, all be brought 
 
 Under the law of death ; e'en I, the king. 
 
 E'en thou, more sovereign still. — Nay, loved one, nay ! 
 
 Fan. O ! hide me in thy bosom ! Thou to die I 
 Thou shalt not — I will keep thee ; keep thou me. 
 
 Epi. As the rock keeps the diamond. Have no 
 fear; 
 There is no cause of fear ; I cannot die, 
 Nor thou, while still the chest unrifled stands ; 
 And who shall dare attempt it ? 
 
 Fan. No one, sure; 
 
 Unless Didst thou not say Cleanthes knew ? 
 
 And knowing so much, a longing to know more 
 Would be but human. O ! what if he dared. 
 In spite of danger 
 
 Eft. Nay, thy fears are vain. 
 
 The lock would only yield unto this key, 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 287 
 
 Which in my bosom lies both night and day 
 Chained to my neck with gold, and ne'er shall come 
 Within another's keeping. 
 
 Pan. Save in mine ; 
 
 Thou wouldst trust it unto me ? 
 
 Epi. Not e'en to thee, 
 
 My sweetest sweet ; the charge is mine alone. 
 And mine alone shall be. 
 
 Pan. Thou meanest indeed 
 
 That if I set my heart on it, and begged 
 And prayed, thou wouldst deny ? deny thy wife 
 One little hour of trust ? 
 
 Epi. Thou foolish wench ! — 
 
 See, who come here ? Cleanthes — Moschus too — 
 And prisoners both ? how now ? 
 
 Enter Adrastus and Guards, bringing in 
 Cleanthes and Moschus. 
 
 Adras. My liege, these lords 
 
 In the precincts of your court were found at blows, 
 Which being a thing forbid we bring them hither 
 To your royal feet for judgment. 
 
 Cle. Of my part 
 
 Herein, I have but to speak and clear myself 
 This man, as peaceably I passed along. 
 Set at me from behind. Was I to blame 
 For setting at him too ? 
 
 Moschus. Alas ! my lord, 
 
288 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 He would not hear me explain ; but, suddenly 
 As water splashes up beneath a stone, 
 At my first little touch turned round in qdge. 
 And shook and pommelled all my breath away ; 
 Or else I had made it clear, not for myself 
 But for my wife I struck him. As for me, 
 I felt quite friendly ; but you know, my lord, 
 That one must please one's wife. 
 
 Epi. I see how 'tis, 
 
 And see the cause of all — the pride of love 
 That will not stoop to say to love, ' Forgive.' 
 Would but Cleanthes and Cyrene speak 
 That little word to each other, all were well. 
 And both made happy in contented love 
 That now is fain to mask itself in hate. 
 O ! let me be the means of bringing peace 
 Out of this strife — and thou, Pandora, help. 
 Moschus, I know he loves your daughter still ; 
 Accept him for your son, and take his hand. 
 
 Moschus. Yes, so I will, if it come not to me 
 In shape of a fist ; of fists I have had enough. 
 
 Epi. Cleanthes, to your father give your hand. 
 
 Cle. But if Cyrene will not be my wife. 
 He cannot be my father ; and so oft 
 As I come near, she frowns and turns away. 
 
 Pan. What if I promise when you approach her 
 next 
 That she shall smile and stay ? how would that be ? 
 You would stay too ? 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 289 
 
 Cle. I would, most penitent 
 
 That I was fool enough to wander once. 
 
 Pan. Indeed 'twas something foolish j but to please 
 My dear lord here, I'll make all smooth again 
 That I have ruffled, and will find a way 
 To tame your wild Cyrenei 
 
 Epi. And doubt not 
 
 She will ; who could be wild whom she would tame ? 
 So there, shake hands in peace. 
 
 Moschus. But gently, pray ; 
 
 My bones are aching yet. 
 
 [Cleanthes and Moschus shake hands. 
 
 Epi. And now to me 
 
 Your hand, my good Cleanthes, and if she 
 Or I have e'er offended you, forgive. 
 
 Cle. That aught so high should ask from aught so 
 low 
 Forgiveness, is not fit. Sire, I take leave ; 
 I see you have no leisure now, or else 
 Would dare remind you that the council waits 
 Your high presiding presence. 
 
 Epi. True indeed ; 
 
 I had forgot the council. Go, and make 
 For my tardiness what best excuse you can, 
 And say I come forthwith. 
 
 Cle. My lord, I will ; 
 
 The tidings will be welcome. 
 
 Moschus. Take me too. 
 
 Good, friendly, kind Cleanthes. I would fain 
 
290 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 Not meet my wife alone. 
 
 \Exeunt Cleanthes ««^Moschus, arm in arm. 
 Adrastus and. Guards go out another way. 
 
 Pan. Well, are you pleased 
 
 That I have spoke the sulky fellow fair 
 Because 'twas your desire ? But for your sake, 
 I would have laughed in his face. 
 
 Epi. I thank thee well. 
 
 And will yet more when thou hast kept thy word 
 To join Gyrene's love and his again. 
 'Tis all I have left to wish. 
 
 Pan. It shall be done. 
 
 Because you wish it done. To me they are nought — 
 A pair of 'wrangling churls — but you are much, 
 And therefore will I please you. Ah ! I fear 
 I would do more for you than you for me. 
 
 Epi. That scarce could be, since for my dearest love 
 I'd do all things. 
 
 Pan. You would in sooth ? Why then 
 
 When do you go to the council ? 
 
 Epi. Now — e'en now ; 
 
 I must not tarry. 
 
 Pan. Then while you are gone. 
 
 Give me that key to keep. 
 
 Epi. Wife ! wife ! jest not 
 
 Where jest so unholy sounds. 
 
 Pan. I do not jest ; 
 
 There's nought in the world so much imports my 
 heart — 
 
ACT 11.] PANDORA. 291 
 
 So deeply, dearly — as to find out now 
 Whether you trust, or not. 
 
 Epi. Let this kiss prove ; 
 
 But ask no more for what I must not give. 
 
 Pan. You mean you wiU not ? 
 
 Epi. ' Must not ' always means 
 
 ' Will not ' where honour is. 
 
 Pan. To ask a boon 
 
 So small, and be denied ! All that I wished 
 Was but to find that there was giv'n to me 
 A little larger measure of your trust 
 Than to your friend Cleanthes — that was alL 
 
 ! if you feel it, prove it ! pray you prove ! 
 
 Epi. Such trust as ever I have shown my friend 
 
 1 have shown thee, my love. This key to him 
 Was never lent, nor shall be. 
 
 Pan. That I know ; 
 
 And therefore did I ask it, for a sign 
 That I was trusted something more than he ; 
 But I am not. You go, and do not trust ? 
 
 Epi. I go ; but soon, full soon, I will be back, 
 And with my kisses dry away the haze 
 From those dear eyes until their smile shines forth. 
 The council waits ; farewell, for brief, brief space. 
 
 Pan. For brief, brief space, but all too long, it 
 seems. 
 For any trust to be accorded me — 
 Me whom you called so perfect, so far raised 
 Above the women of earth. 
 
292 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 Epi. And this thou art. 
 
 Pan. But none of them is trusted less than I, 
 Or counted more a baby fool than I — 
 A baby fool, who would delighted rush 
 To unlock the doom of the world, myself, and you. 
 What have I done that you should think me steeped 
 In folly through and through ? 
 
 Epi. I think it not ; 
 
 I think 
 
 Pan. That I am treacherous then, and false, 
 
 On the watch to break my word, and to betray 
 There where I say I love. I am right glad 
 I think not so of you. 
 
 Epi. Could I think thus, 
 
 My fear of yonder stone were past and gone, 
 ■ Since death and all the ills that wait on death 
 Could not be worse than doubt of thee. No, no, 
 I doubt thee not — be sure. 
 
 Pan. And how be surS ? 
 
 Epi. O ! could I show my heart ! 
 
 Pan. If it had been 
 
 A heart of love and faith, there was a way 
 Of showing, O ! so easy — nothing more 
 Thanletting this gold chain lie round my neck. 
 With its pendant in my bosom, for an hour. 
 Only an hour I wished it, and would then 
 Have giv'n it back content, and ne'er again 
 Have asked to wear it. And so safe, so warm, 
 I would have kept it, close against my heart, 
 
ACT 11.] PANDORA. 293 
 
 Loving to feel there what had come from yours. 
 I should have thought you too would prize it more 
 After my wearing ; but no, 'tis not so ; 
 Or is it ? say. 
 
 Epi. 'Tis so — yea, yea — 'tis so ! 
 
 Take, take — and wear ; [Putting the chain, with the 
 key attached, round her neck.] and see my trust, 
 and see 
 That of my trust I am proud. 
 
 Pan. And I more proud 
 
 To have than thou to give — and prouder still 
 Shall be to render up. O ! thou dear charge. 
 Proof of my husband's love, I'll guard thee here — 
 Close to the heart he lives in. 
 
 [Putting the key in her bosom. 
 
 Epi. And as safe 
 
 'Tis on that heart as mine, for mine is thine. 
 Now for a while, Pandora, trusted one, 
 I leave thee. 
 
 Pan. Thou shalt find a great work done 
 
 When thou returnest, for, to give thee proof 
 Of my love too, I'll use the time to win 
 Cyrene for thy friend, and make thee glad. 
 I have thought already how to soften her — 
 With some rich gift, the costliest ornament 
 Of any that I have, for her to wear. 
 So, as thou goest out, I pray thee send 
 My maidens hither with my chest of jewels ; 
 I will make choice at once, and they shall help. 
 
 X 
 
294 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 Epi. I'll send them straight, and this sweet zeal of 
 thine 
 To please me shall be kept for evermore 
 In my heart's record. Now farewell ; I fain 
 Would say again, ' Be careful,' but will not 
 Insult with needless warning. 
 
 Pan. Neither I 
 
 With needless promise ; love is trust, and love 
 Is also worthy of trust. \Exit Epimetheus. 
 
 Yea, worthy of trust ; 
 I would some great temptation, some great test. 
 Might come and show how worthy ; he should see 
 That I can be as good a friend as e'er 
 Cleanthes was — and better, as much better 
 As I am trusted more. Ah ! how he loves, 
 That he can trust me thus ! and how I love, 
 That I am thus to be trusted ! for methinks 
 E'en could I be made sure no penalty 
 Would follow on infringement, and no harm. 
 E'en then methinks I could not wish to infringe, 
 Since not to infringe he trusted me. Dear love ! 
 He never doubts the penalty is all 
 His brother said, nor doubts that he hath given 
 To me the key of life and death to keep. 
 But is it so indeed ? O ! how I wonder ! 
 And doubt, though he doubts not. Had I been he, 
 I know not if I could have borne to be 
 So like a child restrained, and to remain 
 In ignorant nonage always. Wise perchance 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 29s 
 
 So to be ignorant, and yet to me 
 Such wisdom seems but tame, and the folly brave 
 That would learn all, prove all, both good and ill. 
 And dare to be a man. To have yon stone 
 Before him always, and not long to know 
 And see its secret face to face — I marvel 
 How he can bear. For me, I have no wish 
 To know, for I am trusted, and besides 
 Am not like common creatures feminine. 
 Made up of feebleness and strong desires 
 To which their feebleness must yield, but stand 
 Supreme, a perfect woman. — O ! see there ! 
 My maidens come ; how little, do they guess 
 What I am guardian of! 
 
 Enter Aglaia, Myrtis, and other Maidens. They 
 bring forward a table, on which they place a casket. 
 
 Agl. My lady queen 
 
 Sent for her jewels ; therefore are they here. 
 
 [Opening the casket, which is filled with ornaments. 
 
 Pan. It was that I might choose among them all 
 The best for poor Cyrene, whom I fain 
 Would comfort with a gift. Come, pray you help. 
 Which think you is the best ? 
 
 Agl. The very best ? 
 
 The diamonds, past all doubt. 
 
 Pan. The diamonds ! 
 
 They sparkle so ! — Nay, not the diamonds. 
 
296 PANDORA. [act 11. 
 
 The next best — which ? 
 
 Agl, I think the pearls. 
 
 Pan. I wore 
 
 The pearls but once, and then he said that never 
 My neck had seemed so white. Must I give these ? 
 No, they would not become her ; 'twere not kind. 
 For her we must find something rich and warm, 
 Something to help her out. These rubies, mixed 
 With topazes ; what say you ? in themselves 
 Not best perchance, but yet the best for her. 
 Is it not so ? Why then, our choice is made ; 
 I thank you for your help. Shut down the lid, 
 And one of you go bid C)T:ene come — 
 Her mother too ; say we await them here. 
 
 \_One of the maidens goes out. 
 A precious casket, full of precious things — 
 And yet because we know what things they are. 
 We care not much to look, and are content 
 To have them hid away. How would it be 
 If in this chest were stored we knew not what. 
 And were forbid to know ? would you not long 
 To open, and to see ? Nay, answer, girls, 
 And answer true, that I may prove what stuff 
 You are made of, come. 
 
 Agl. You ask if we would long 
 
 To see those jewels ? 
 
 Pan. You understand me not. 
 
 Say that this chest, fast shut, as now it is. 
 Were giv'n to you to keep ; say he that gave 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 297 
 
 Had told you that a secret lay therein 
 Of dreadful import, which if once let 'scape 
 Would burst into as many undreamed-of ills 
 As a ripe poppy-head doth scatter seed. 
 Would you then wish to look, or would you eat, 
 And sleep, and deck yourself, and take no heed ? 
 
 Agl. Madam, to say I should not wish to look 
 Would make you not believe me. 
 
 Pan. Think you so ? 
 
 Why now indeed I see that men are right 
 When they call women prying ; so they are — 
 That is, most women. Myrtis, what say you ? 
 Would you too wish to open and to look ? 
 
 Myr. Being warned of such a secret ? Nay, in 
 faith — 
 Nay, I should fear too much what I might find. 
 
 Pan. So 'twould be only fear would keep you back ? 
 Men are right too in calling women cowards — 
 That is, most women. 'Tis a happy thing 
 That nought is staked on your fidelity. 
 
 Enter Moscha and Cyrene. 
 
 In good time ! let us see what these will say. 
 Cyrene, we are talking of what trust 
 'Tis safe to put in women, and would fain 
 Have your voice too. Suppose that one you loved 
 Gave you this chest to keep, [Showing casket.'] with 
 warning strict 
 
298 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 That a great perilous secret lay inside 
 Which you must never learn or seek to learn. 
 Could you be faithful, think you ? never once 
 Lift up the lid and peep ? Nay, now, the truth. 
 
 Cyr. A secret that I was forbid to know 
 I would not care to know. 
 
 Pan. O ! pattern woman ! 
 
 [Aside.] If aught so cold and sluggish can be called 
 Woman at all. She might be trusted, she ! 
 So might a snail, a fish. [A/oud.'] You, Moscha, too. 
 Would have' this sense to be insensible. 
 And, if your husband laid such charge on you, 
 Would never seek to break it ? 
 
 Moscha. Would I not ? 
 
 Nay, if 'twere shut beneath ten thousand lids. 
 And he astride on the topmost with the keys 
 I'd have that secret out, for I should know 
 The more he wished to keep it back, the more 
 It had to do with a woman. 
 
 Pan. Ha !— 'Tis well 
 
 All women have not husbands they can trust 
 ,So little as you yours. 
 
 Moscha. Mine is as good 
 
 As any that there is. 
 
 Pan. You think it ? — Pshaw 1 
 
 There now — enough of folly. All I said 
 I did but say in jest, for, as you see, 
 There is no secret here — \Opening casket?\ none, save 
 these jewels, [Taking out a necklace. 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 299 
 
 That as a wedding-gift I fain would lay 
 On fair Cyrene's neck. Nay, if so shy, 
 Take, and clasp on yourself. 
 
 [Putting the necklace in Cyrene's hand. 
 
 Cyr. Your pardon, madam ; 
 
 I do not understand. 
 
 Pan. Doth maiden live 
 
 Who understands not jewels ? They are from me. 
 To deck your wedding with ; and in return 
 I ask but this, that it shall be at once, 
 With the good knight Cleanthes as the groom. 
 For trust me, as another wedding-gift, 
 I'll bring him to your feet. Are these terms hard ? 
 
 Cyr. You think that what you took you can give 
 back? 
 And so you might perchance, if I would have ; 
 But I will not, for I have done with him. 
 So therefore, as the wedding cannot be 
 Which by your royal bounty was designed, 
 I must, with reverence due, renounce a gift 
 For me too precious — \Laying down the necklace.] 
 
 next, take humble leave, 
 Being not well to-day, and all unfit 
 To serve so high a mistress. \Exit. 
 
 Pan. Only see 
 
 What jealousy can be ! So mean a vice. 
 So all unreasonable, so feminine ! 
 Those women — ah ! those women ! 
 
 Moscha. If my girl 
 
300 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 Hath made a fault, I pray the queen to excuse, 
 And think how spoilt she hath been — so courted, 
 praised, 
 
 Till till a while ago, with every lord 
 
 And man about the court, ay, as it seemed, 
 Even the king himself, sick for her love. 
 Until the fashion changed. 
 
 Pan. The king ! the king ! 
 
 You know you speak not true. 
 
 Moscha. He used to gaze 
 
 As though he found a nourishment in her smile. 
 Dear child ! and when she smiles, she is so like me ! 
 
 Pan. Not true ! not true ! — 'Twere best you follow 
 her. 
 Since, as you say, she hath been so spoilt, and things 
 So much have changed, she should be comforted. 
 Go then ; you have my leave. 
 
 Moscha. The queen is kind. 
 
 \Going, but pausing as she sees the necklace. 
 If 'tis your will my poor girl still should take 
 These jewels, she shall take them, and give thanks. 
 \Aside^^ 'Tis just as well she should. 
 
 Pan. Take all — but go. 
 
 \Exit Moscha, taking the necklace. 
 A lie-^a wicked lie — on purpose told 
 To eat away my heart. Good maidens, say, 
 I pray you, say — it never seemed to you. 
 Not even in the time before I came. 
 That Epimetheus, our great lord arid king, 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 301 
 
 Could care for this Cyrene ? as well deem 
 The sun could fall in love with a drop of dew 
 That in his presence sparkles. 
 
 Agl. That 'twas love 
 
 I will not say ; that he looked long and oft, 
 And liked to look, is true. 
 
 Pan. True that at her 
 
 He looked, and liked to look ! 
 
 Myr. The men, it seemed. 
 
 All liked it — though I know not what they saw, 
 And think indeed 'twas but because the king 
 Had set the fashion first. 
 
 Pan. Peace with your prate ! 
 
 Your loves and looks and likings — 'tis enough 
 To drive me dazed. Leave me alone awhile ; 
 You have troubled all my thoughts ; in silence only 
 Can they grow clear again. Leave me, I say. 
 
 \_Exeunt Aglaia, Myrtis, and the others. 
 He to have loved her first ! He unto me 
 The first, the last, the only — I to him 
 A second, newer fancy ! — Nay, not so — 
 I know — I feel — not so ; he never loved 
 But me, but me ; he swore it, and swore true — 
 Me whom above all others he hath praised, 
 Above all others trusted. Here is proof — 
 
 \Taking the key from her bosom, and kissing it. 
 Most dear, most precious proof; the key of secrets 
 
 Too vast, too dread, for e'en himself to know 
 
 Yon Moscha, though, would say they were his own, 
 
302 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 And so much closer hidden, so much more 
 Having to do with a woman. O ! if thus 
 
 \Makes a movement towards the stone coffer, then 
 
 stands still, gazing on it. 
 No, no, he is true, and I may trust him — trust 
 As he trusts me ; he is true, and so am I. 
 No greater evil could be prisoned there 
 Than want of truth 'twixt us. — O ! is't not strange. 
 The mystery of that stone ? Filled full of ills ! 
 What ills ? they had need be great, to outweigh the ill 
 Of slavish blind submission to decree , 
 Of law not understood. Filled full of ills ! 
 But yet of knowledge too ; how wise were he — 
 Or she — who had proved them all, and knew them all ! 
 Wise enough peradventure to o'ercome, 
 And hold them in subjection, make them means 
 Maybe of unguessed good. So strange ! so strange ! — 
 I'll look no more, lest it should grow to be 
 The only thing to think of in the world, 
 And the world is wide and fair. 
 
 \Turns away, then suddenly catches sight of Epi- 
 
 METHEUS and Cyrene, who, walking together, 
 
 appear in the garden at back. Pandora stands 
 
 breathlessly watching them. 
 
 He there ! and she ! 
 Walking so close — and each so riveted 
 On what the other says 'twould well-nigh seem 
 Their very spirits mingle. How she lifts 
 Her face to his, as though she fain would charm 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 303 
 
 His down to meet it ! Ah ! — Now her hps move, 
 And he — he Ustens both with eyes and ears, 
 But most with eyes. Now his lips answer hers ; 
 And now high time, they think, to pass from sight 
 Into the faithful shade. Pass on, pass on ! 
 Ha ! does he take her hand ? yea, holds it too. 
 As if for a boon he pleaded. Gone ! tis well ; 
 I could not bear it more ; \_Returning to the f rent as 
 Epimetheus and Gyrene /aw out of sight.'] with 
 what I have borne 
 Already, I must choke. They hand in hand ! 
 
 [^Seeing the coffer, and standing before it. 
 And I, the poor tame fool, who mounted guard 
 Upon his secret here so faithfully ! 
 His secret — hers no less perchance — who knows ? 
 Their secret ! and they think I will not look ? 
 The key ! where is't ? \Grasps the key, and kneels 
 down to pass it into the lock, then suddenly pauses. 
 
 And yet — yet What if true 
 
 The tale of doom he told ? of prisoned ills, 
 Of prisoned death, that did but here await 
 Their letting loose to invade and rule mankind — 
 Death, such as I have watched dumb creatures die — 
 Death, which means ending. 
 
 [Epimetheus and Gyrene again appear in the 
 garden, and are seen by Pandora, who still 
 kneels before the coffer. On something which 
 Gyrene says, he kisses her hand. 
 
 So he loves ! he loves ! 
 
304 PANDORA. [act ii. 
 
 And kisses what he loves ! If here death dwell, 
 Let death come forth — for me, for him, for her. 
 And give us all an end in endless night. 
 Whate'er be here, I'll look it in the face. 
 
 [Unlocks the coffer, and partly raises the lid, then 
 presses it down again in wild terror at what she 
 has seen within. 
 No ! no ! down ! down ! [Frantically endeavouring to 
 re-lock the coffer, from which smoke issuesl\ 
 O horror ! can I not ? 
 I cannot ! — Help ! Help ! Hither ! Husband, help ! 
 [Rushes towards the back, then, seeing Epimetheus 
 in the act of placing Gyrene's hand in that of 
 Cleanthes, wJio has by this time joined them, 
 remains transfixed to watch them. 
 He gives her up ! he gives her to his friend ! 
 And smiles with joy to give ! O ! joy for him ! 
 For me ! he loves her not, and never loved — 
 No, never loved but me t Dear lord, true lord, 
 How have I wronged thee ! 
 
 [A rutttbling as of thunder heard from the coffer, 
 the lid of which flies open, while fumes of many - 
 coloured smoke issue forth. Pandora turns to 
 look, and stands paralysed with terror. The 
 stage grows dark, and more rumbling is heard. 
 O ! too late ! they 'scape ! 
 They 'scape ! dim, formless, faceless presences. 
 That spread and spread like snakes unrolled, and suck 
 The world within their folds. This way and that 
 
ACT II.] PANDORA. 305 
 
 They spread, and still they spread. Tush — all a dream, 
 That I will thus shut out. [Covering her eyes.] But 
 
 still those sounds — 
 And the earth reels and rocks. I'll look again. 
 
 [Zooh'ng up. 
 Ay, more and more — each blending into each — 
 Grim changing into grimmer. O ! to fly ! 
 To fly ! but whither ? whithersoe'er I turn, 
 They are there before me, being everywhere, 
 Oppressing light with darkness, good with ill. 
 
 Destroying, kilhng Killing ! Ah ! death ! death ! 
 
 \Shrieks, and sinks down on her knees. A clap of 
 thunder sounds, the stage becomes quite dark, and 
 the hall, as though by an earthquake, is thrown 
 down in ruins around her. The Curtain falls. 
 
 End of Act II. 
 
3o6 PANDORA. [act hi. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene. The Hall of the Second Act in ruins, the coffer 
 still standing open with displaced lid. At the back 
 the Garden is still visible, but blighted and desolate. 
 The darkness has partly cleared away. 
 
 Pandora discovered crouching in the same attitude as at 
 the end of the Second Act. Presently she raises her 
 head, and looks round. 
 
 Pan. All still at last ? And I, methinks, live yet — 
 I see and hear, draw breath, so therefore live. 
 Lo, and can move, \_Slowly rising?^ can firmly stand 
 
 once more 
 On the earth, once more grown firm. But I had thought 
 To live was to be glad ; can this be life. 
 That hates and loathes itself? yea, yea, for life 
 Is blended now with death, and tastes of death ; 
 Death now is loose in the world. And I live yet, 
 The one that did it all ! live yet to bear 
 
 The anger of his eyes — the scorn O ! hide ! 
 
 Fly ! hide ! before he comes. — He ! I said ' he,' 
 But he comes not — where is he ? Ah ! if, if 
 
ACT iii.J PANDORA. 307 
 
 I still to be — I and this earth to be — 
 
 He not ! — No, no, if he were not indeed, 
 
 Why then could nothing be ; he is, still is. 
 
 But where ? but where ? My lord, my love, my world 
 
 Wherein I live, my all, which if I lose 
 
 I have nought left — my husband ! Answer ! where ? — 
 
 ! had I only died ! I thought death hard. 
 Now seems it childish-easy ; but all things 
 Are easier than this. 
 
 Enter Epimetheus, wandering in distractedly, without 
 at first noticing her. 
 
 'Tis he ! Ah ! he ! 
 And well — then all is well. Look, mine own, look ! 
 Be happy ; I am found, and thou art found. 
 
 Epi. Thou ! — Spakest thou to me ? 
 
 Pan. Is't so ? — True, true, 
 
 1 have sinned. But O ! I love — so dearly love ! 
 
 \Falling an her knees. 
 
 Epi. Out of my sight ! 
 
 Pan. Out of the sight of thee 
 
 I cannot live, and now to live I am fain. 
 Forgive ! forgive ! I love ! 
 
 Epi. Had I been cause 
 
 Of thy undoing, as thou art of mine. 
 Thou wouldst hate me, as I thee. 
 
 Pan. Not that ! not that ! 
 
 Punish me — strike — tread down — but say not that ! — 
 
3o8 FANDORA. [act hi. 
 
 So stony hard ? O ! punish, punish quick, 
 That I may think forgiveness is begun. 
 
 Epi. Forgiveness ! 
 
 Pan. Nay, I know I have no right — 
 
 No excuse, no httle plea to set in the scale 
 Against my heavy fault that weighs me down ; 
 Nought save my love — but then so huge my love, 
 So mighty, it must conquer. O ! forgive ! 
 
 Epi. I thank thee that thou givest me new cause 
 For my new hate — by yet another lie. 
 Yes, I believe in thy protested love 
 As in thy faith and honour, proved to-day. 
 False lying traitress, hence ! 
 
 Pan. O ! but my love 
 
 At least was true. Thus let me pour it forth 
 In kisses on thy feet ! 
 
 Epi. Beware ; we live 
 
 Under new laws. I saw a man just now 
 Crushed out of life by nothing but the stroke 
 Of a falling tree — no harder stroke than I 
 Could deal, being too much tempted. 
 
 Pan. [Rising in terror.'\ Ha ! thou meanest 
 
 What wouldst thou do ? 
 
 Epi. Spare thee — and so begone. 
 
 Pan. [Aside.] I must, for now I fear him. [Aloud.] 
 If I keep 
 Aloof, and speak no word unless you speak, 
 May I not stay where I can look at you ? 
 
 Epi. No I — Hated thing, away ! or 
 
ACT III.] PANDORA. 309 
 
 Pan. Nay ! nay ! See — 
 
 I obey, and go, since so you will. I go. 
 
 \Exit, but slowly and reluctantly. Epimetheus 
 seats himself on a broken column. 
 Epi. Alone ! death all around me, and death 
 here, 
 Worse than the death of men — the death of love 
 And faith and trust, that lie in their grave and rot, 
 Their grave in my dead heart. 
 
 Enter Cleanthes. At the first sound of his voice 
 Epimetheus looks up for a moment, then relapses 
 into apathy. 
 
 Cle. \Speaking to others who follow himi\ He is 
 here ! he is here ! 
 Our foe and our destroyer. Hither ! come ! 
 And look on what hath marred us. 
 
 Enter, confusedly, a crowd of Men and Women, 
 among them Cyrene. 
 
 \st Man. How ! the king ! 
 
 2,nd Man. He ! Epimetheus ! 
 
 Epi. Do so many still 
 
 Among mankind yet live ? 
 
 Cle. Yea, 'tis the king, 
 
 'Tis Epimetheus, and the cause of all 
 The evUs that we bear. I promised you 
 
 ' Y 
 
310 PANDORA. [act hi. 
 
 That you should see that cause, and now, behold ! 
 \st Man. [^Threateningly.] O ! if 'twere so 
 
 2nd Man. If so 
 
 [Several make angry gestures at Epimetheus. 
 
 Cle. The cause he is ; 
 
 Let him deny. Unhappy fellow-men. 
 Whom I must now call mortals, you knew not 
 That, by the will of Fate, within yon chest. 
 Which now, you see, empty and rifled stands. 
 Were penned disease and death, and all the ills 
 That could change life from blessing into curse. 
 And the key to him entrusted, which while safe 
 Kept safe the race of men. To none but him 
 Was power to ruin given ; on none but him 
 The guilt of ruin lies. Dost thou deny ? 
 
 Epi. I deny nought. Do with me as you will ; 
 I care not. 
 
 \st Man. Traitor ! murderer of us all ! 
 Down with him ! 
 
 Several. Down ! ay, down ! 
 
 znd Man. Cleanthes, haste ! 
 
 Give us revenge. 
 
 Several. Revenge ! revenge ! 
 
 Cle. Indeed 
 
 Revenge means justice here — on a false king, 
 And a false friend alike. Ho ! seize him, seize ! 
 He shall not 'cape his doom. 
 
 [Epimetheus, still making no resistance, is 
 surrounded and seized. 
 
ACT III.] PANDORA. 311 
 
 Re-enter Pandora. 
 
 Pan. Let go ! let go ! 
 
 I did it — I alone. 
 
 Cle. Ha ! 
 
 Pan. Yea, 'twas I — 
 
 Not he, but wicked wretched I — too weak 
 To brook a secret that I might not know. 
 Too faithless to believe in what he said 
 Of the penalty of knowledge ; then besides 
 I thought he loved Cyrene more than me 
 (0 ! foolish ! but I see my folly now). 
 So cared not what I did. 'Twas I alone. 
 
 \Several in the crowd groan at her menacingly. 
 
 Cle. I might have known all mischief came from 
 thee. 
 
 Cyr. This 'tis to be perfection, this it is 
 To trust perfection. Faith, I scarce can tell 
 Which most to blame — the woman or the man. 
 
 Pan. Blame me that made him trust — coaxed, 
 lured, beguiled. 
 So that he could not choose. 
 
 Cyr. [Scornfully.^ He could not choose ! 
 
 Pan. No, first I made him helpless, and then 
 stole 
 What else he had not yielded — stole, I say. 
 For stealing 'twas. Hear me, I stole the key 
 Of doom, and wrought your ruin. Set him free. 
 And think what I deserve, who have betrayed 
 
312 PANDORA. [act III. 
 
 Him, and you all, to death. 
 
 \st Woman. She hath said the word. 
 
 Let it be death. 
 
 Several. {Threatening Pandora.] Death ! death ! 
 
 Cle. 'T would well-nigh seem 
 
 She hath earned no less who hath doomed us all to 
 die. 
 
 Cyr. And some are dead already by her means. 
 I myself saw a boat upon the lake 
 Whirl round and round as rose-leaves on the wind, 
 Then into the foaming jaws of darkness plunge 
 With all the creatures in her — no sign left 
 To tell where they had been. 
 
 Cle. Drowned in the lake ! 
 
 I have sometimes seen a wounded stag so die, 
 Driven thither by the chase, but never men 
 Till now, by her foul trespass. 
 
 2nd Woman. 'Twould be well 
 
 If into the same death she too were driven. 
 Cleanthes, shall it be ? 
 
 Several. Well said 1 well said ! 
 
 To the lake with her ! the lake ! 
 
 [The people crowd angrily round Pandora. 
 
 Pan. [^Covering her eyes.'\ O! death so soon ! 
 
 Such death as this ! 
 
 Cyr. Is the perfect one afraid ? 
 
 Cle. Yes, now will she be fain to ask for mercy 
 From him she once despised. 
 
 Pan. [Looking up.] I ask from thee 
 
ACT III.] PANDORA. 313 
 
 Nothing, and more despise thee than till now 
 I knew I could despise. 
 
 Cle. Thou dost ! Come then — 
 
 Come forth to die. 
 
 \Seizes her roughly by the wrist, and drags her 
 along a few paces, when Epimetheus suddenly 
 pushes aside his guards, who since Pandora's 
 entrance have relaxed their care of him, and, 
 rushing forward, dashes Cleanthes to the 
 ground. 
 Epi. Wouldst thou ? Lie there ! — Give up 
 Thy weapon, man. 
 
 [ Wrests a hunting-spear from one of the bystanders, 
 and throws himself before Pandora, who clings to 
 him, sinking on her knees in a transport of fear. 
 Now one and all, beware ; 
 For surely as this spear hath e'er dealt death 
 To hare or stag, so shall it now to him 
 Who but an inch shall lift up foot or hand 
 Towards what I love — with love so dear and true 
 That in love do I live, for love would die. \A pause. 
 What ! you all fear ? hate makes you not so strong 
 As love makes me ! O ! you are wise to fear. 
 Remembering now you are mortal. Ay, slink off; 
 You oifend the air she breathes. Haste, make more 
 
 haste ; 
 You know my aim is sure. 
 
 \The people look at him and each other, and go out 
 one by one. Meantime Cleanthes rises, assiste d 
 
314 PANDORA. [act hi. 
 
 to his feet by Cyrene. Epimetheus sees him, 
 and brandishes his weapon. 
 
 One step this way, 
 And 'tis thy last. Hence, ere thou learn of death 
 What death is like. 
 
 Cle. I am dizzy still, and faint — 
 
 Or else 
 
 Cyr. Fly, my Cleanthes ! O ! till now 
 I knew not how I loved thee. Come with me. 
 Cle. Ay, for my strength is numbed. 
 
 \Exit, led out by Cyrene. 
 Epi. Follow him all ! 
 
 All ye that would not die — away, away ! 
 
 \The few who have still lingered go out. Epi- 
 metheus turns towards Pandora, who has 
 sunk down insensible. 
 They are gone now — none left save thee and me. 
 Pandora ! Nay, my wife, lift up thine eyes. 
 O ! what is this ? not sleep, or at my voice 
 She would waken with a smile. Pandora, speak ! 
 How ! neither word nor look, and in her hand 
 No answering clasp ! it falls as falls a stone — 
 A stone that hath no life. No life ! what else 
 Is that than to be dead ? Dead ! said I so ? 
 That word of her ! O ! let me kiss myself 
 Dead too upon her lips ! Wife, take me, wife ! 
 Take me, I pray, take me ! She hears me not, 
 Nor e'er can hear — not when I say, ' Forgive, 
 As I forgive and love.' O ! sure if death 
 
ACT III.] PANDORA. 315 
 
 Be, as 'tis called, the worst that can befall, 
 'Tis I am dead, not she, I that no more 
 Can tell her of my love. List, sweet one, list ; 
 I love thee, love thee so ! Nay, still no smile — 
 So winsome was she when she smiled. Was ! was t 
 Pandora — was I [Hangs over her sobbing. 
 
 \In the tneantime a bright light has appeared, 
 shining from the inside of the coffer, from which 
 now Hope, in the form of a young and beautiful 
 goddess, slowly rises, but unperceived by Epi- 
 METHEUS. When she has fully appeared, she 
 steps out, and, standing on a fragment of ruin, 
 touches him with her wand. 
 Hope. King Epimetheus. 
 
 Epi. Ha ! 
 
 Who speaks ? 
 
 Hope. A friend. 
 
 Epi. A friend ! My friend is here — 
 
 Was here, but now is not [Turning again to Pandora. 
 Hope. I am the friend 
 
 Of her and thee alike ; and what should friendship 
 Mean, if not comfort ? 
 
 Epi. Canst thou bring her back ? 
 
 Speak not of comfort else, for there is none. 
 Hope. This comfort I can give thee. 
 Epi. O ! thou canst ? 
 
 Hope. Thou think'st her dead ; she doth but swoon 
 beneath 
 The burden of great sorrow. Breathe my name 
 
3i6 PANDOEA. [act iii. 
 
 Into her ear ; 'twill wake her and revive. ' 
 
 Epi. Thy name — what is thy name ? I know thee 
 
 not. 
 Hope. Nay, in the past thou hadst of me no 
 need; 
 Now shalt thou know me well. My name is Hope. 
 Speak to her in my name, and with my name. 
 
 Epi. Hope, my Pandora ! Hope ! — She moves ! 
 
 she lives ! 
 Pan. Who is't that calls ? 
 
 Epi. I — I, thy love — and Hope. 
 
 Pan. So sweet — so sweet — music that pierces 
 through 
 The clouds, and rolls them back ; and, rolling back. 
 They show the gold they are made of. ! so bright 
 That cloudland is ! if thou and I might once 
 
 But reach it and we will; I heard a voice 
 
 Of music call us thither. — What ! love, thou ? 
 Did thy voice make the music — thy dear eyes. 
 Watching, the dream ? no wonder if 'twas fair. 
 
 Epi. O ! but no dream so fair as this ! thou 
 livest. 
 Art given to me again ! 
 
 Pan. I know I live. 
 
 Because I know I love. \Half rising. ] Yea, and my 
 
 hfe 
 Moves strong and joyful in me, feeling still 
 The joy of that good dream. What the dream was, 
 I cannot tell ; but it hath made me glad. 
 
ACT III. j PANDORA. 317 
 
 Epi. So may'st thou ever be ! 
 
 Pan. \_Starting to her feet, as her eyes fall on the 
 ruins.] It comes all back ! 
 Glad ! said I ? to be glad I have no cause. 
 
 £pi. Both thou and I have cause; we have a friend, 
 With power to prove her friendship. Lo, behold ! 
 
 Pan. [&«/«^HoPE.] How! Yea, a friend in sooth, 
 albeit unknown ; 
 Only a friend could smile such comfort out 
 Of eyes where through the tear of pity gleams 
 The sun of promise. Yet declare thyself ; 
 That thou art great as well as kind I see, 
 But what ? and how come hither? how, and whence ? 
 
 Jifope. From whence the evils came that thou hast 
 loosed 
 Thence came I too, since, though divinely sprung, 
 'Twas Fate's decree that only in their midst 
 I could to godhead ripen. I am Hope, 
 Ordained to follow evils, and to heal — 
 My reign with theirs beginning, but my power 
 Over their power supreme. 
 
 Pan. And thou our friend ! 
 
 Ifope. A. friend more strong to help than all your 
 foes 
 To do you harm, than all the Olympian gods, 
 Who see their malice balked. True, in the world 
 Must now be sorrow and pain, and many cares ; 
 But I will be at hand, and who trusts me 
 Shall learn for every ill I have a cure 
 
3i8 PANDORA. [act hi. 
 
 Tliat either makes it pass or brightens it 
 With promise of good, as darkness streaked by dawn. 
 The husbandman who finds the earth grown hard 
 I will help to work, and when he is weary show him 
 Pictures of rosy sunset and sweet rest. 
 The hunter fainting on his way shall see 
 In my bright mirror the evening banquet spread. 
 The warrior (for soon must there be wars) 
 A wreath of triumph and the loved one's smile — 
 Yea, even he who lies and groans in pain 
 Shall taste my comfort, knowing pain must cease. 
 Pan. And he who dies? Hast thou a cure for 
 
 death ? 
 Hope. \Pointing upwards.'\ Ay, yonder. He who 
 dies, will he but look 
 Where my name stands plain written 'mong the stars. 
 Dying, shall conquer death. 
 
 Pan. \Who, with Epimetheus, kneels.] O ! for 
 these tidings 
 Of good, how shall we thank ? Thou mightiest. 
 Thou most benignant, thou great guide of the world. 
 We give ourselves to thee, and in thee rest. 
 Secure that all is well. 
 
 \At this moment there appears in the garden behind, 
 slowly crossing the stage, a procession of Men, 
 Women, and Children, most of them carrying 
 vases, boxes, wine-skins, &'c., headed by Cle- 
 ANTHES and Cyrene. Pandora, seeing them, 
 rises from her knees. 
 
ACT III.J PANDORA. 319 
 
 But yonder, see, 
 Are more that want thy comfort. Have I leave 
 To call them hither, and make glad their hearts 
 With that same news that so hath lifted ours ? 
 
 Hope. No need ; already have they felt my 
 power, 
 And at my bidding follow their new king 
 Cleanthes, and Cyrene their new queen, 
 To the broad plains beyond the west, till now 
 Only in misty distance dimly viewed 
 By some far-venturing huntsman from the crest 
 Of the hills where every night ye lose the sun. 
 There, shown by me, they see in thought new homes 
 Rise smiling up from midst of golden fields, 
 And thither go to seek. 
 
 Pan. There may they find 
 
 All that they would, and thrive. With me they were 
 
 harsh, 
 Yet had I given them cause, and will but now 
 Send after them kind thoughts. — Still more and 
 
 more ! 
 Do they all follow that new king ? 
 
 Hope. E'en so — 
 
 All that are left ; this king, for his great fault. 
 Since his with thine it was, must be content. 
 His subjects' trust being lost, to find himself. 
 When he comes forth, made subjectless. \Tc Epi- 
 
 METHEUS.J Yet, friend. 
 Let not the royalty of thy spirit flag; 
 
320 PANDORA. [act hi. 
 
 A fair new kingdom may be founded here 
 No less than there — and she is left thee still. 
 
 Pan. I only — I so imperfect, full of faults ! 
 Alas ! my love, what have I brought thee to ? 
 
 Epi. But fairer, sweeter, dearer in thy faults 
 Than even in thy perfectness before. 
 I have thee still, and so am still a king. 
 Most rich of men, most favoured. 
 
 Hope. Now 'tis time 
 
 That from your mortal sight I rise and pass, 
 My nature being to rise. But yet fear not ; 
 My spirit still shall guide you — yea, my face 
 Each still shall see, in one another's eyes. 
 So Love but help the search ; for Love hath power 
 To bring me nearer always, I to Love 
 Being full sister born. Farewell, farewell ; 
 My priest and priestess to each other be ; 
 Live happy, and die hopeful. 
 
 \A golden car, garlanded with fruit-laden branches 
 and stalks of wheat in full ear, has meantime 
 descended from above. Into this Hope enters, 
 and rises out of sight, looking upwards, and 
 singing. 
 
 Song. 
 Seek, seek, and seeking rise. 
 Higher and ever higher, 
 Past the portal of the skies, past the glow that fades 
 and dies — 
 
 Higher and ever higher. 
 
ACT hi:] pandora. 321 
 
 Strive, strive, and striving win 
 Nigher and ever nigher 
 To the Light with Life within, whence all life and light 
 begin, 
 
 Nigher and ever nigher. 
 [ With the final words of the song the car with its 
 occupant disappears, and, as the procession in the 
 garden had finished crossing the stage just before 
 Hope entered her car, Epimetheus and Pan- 
 dora are now alone. 
 Pan. \Picking up some stalks which have fallen 
 from the car.] 
 Lo, gifts of Hope ! These seeds we'll put in the earth, 
 Whence they shall sprout and climb once more to light, 
 And, cherished by our care and daily toil, 
 Clothe yet again our kingdom's wasted fields 
 With green and gold in seasonable change. 
 And comfort us and nourish. That thy toil 
 Is needed, I must grieve ; but for mine own, 
 Methinks the promise of our fruit and flowers 
 Will make it sweet. 
 
 £pi. Then O ! how tenfold sweet 
 
 Shall mine be made with promise of thy smile ! 
 No load shall seem too great, no labour hard. 
 So thou within our vine-clad bower prepare 
 My evening welcome home. 
 
 Pan. My life henceforth 
 
 I will but live to comfort thee, and make 
 Amends for fault with love. 
 
322 PANDORA. [act hi. 
 
 Epi. O helpmate dear ! 
 
 Pan. [Pointing to the horizon behind, on which a 
 rainbow has meantime appeared, gradually 
 brightening.'^ 
 Look there, and see ! our goddess sends us sign 
 The promise shall be kept — a sign in heaven 
 That our new kingdom, whereof Love and Hope 
 Are the upholders, shall not fall, but stand, 
 For Love and Hope fall not, when hand in hand. 
 
 \Take5 Epimetheus's hand as the Curtain falls. 
 
 The End. 
 
 London : Printed by Stbangewats & Sons, Tower Street, St, Martin's Lane. 
 
By -the Same Author. 
 
 LADY JANE GREY. 
 INEZ ; OR, The Bride of Portugal. 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette (Jan. 19, 1872). 
 
 " These two tragedies possess the features which are essential, 
 as Mr. Arnold has pointed out, to really fine poetry. In both 
 the action is noble, the expression beautiful and consistent ; in 
 both the reader will be less struck by isolated passages, remark- 
 able though many of these are, than by the congruity of the 
 whole. In the simple mode of telling his story, Mr. Ross Neil 
 resembles a careful chronicler ; in the distinctness of the charac- 
 ters he shows his skill as a dramatist ; and throughout his 
 tragedies the play of a carefully regulated imagination marks the 
 dominant faculty of the poet. Mr. Ross Neil is not the first 
 dramatist who has chosen Lady Jane Grey's misfortunes as the 
 subject for a tragedy ; but it may be safely said that he alone 
 has done justice to the theme." 
 
 Saturday Review [Dec. 16, 1871). 
 
 "If the choice of really dramatic subject-matter, and a treat- 
 ment as sound and delicate as it is completely free from affecta- 
 tion, are worth appreciation, these two plays deserve a sincere 
 
 welcome A composition of remarkable merit and strength. 
 
 .... The author's method is so simple and self-contained as to 
 suggest the pure severity of Greek drama." 
 
 AthkNjEUM (Dec. 30, 1871). 
 
 " Superior to anything that has lately appeared in the shape 
 of dramatic literature.'' 
 
Daily News {March 23, 1872). 
 
 " For the first time the beautiful character of Lady Jane Grey 
 may be said to have found a competent poetical interpreter." 
 
 THE CID. 
 
 THE KING AND THE ANGEL. 
 
 DUKE FOR A DAY ; or, The Tailor of Brussels. 
 
 Saturday Review (May 9, 1S74). 
 
 "The three plays which are contained in this volume are 
 marked by the same qualities of vigorous simplicity a.nd artistic 
 
 finish which distinguished Mr. Ross Neil's earlier efforts 
 
 Will be read with pleasure by all who can appreciate tender and 
 elevated poetry, as well as by those who relish the vividness of 
 dramatic recital. " 
 
 Spectator [July 25, 1874). 
 
 " If it were possible, as has been frequently proposed, to 
 have one theatre in London for the sole representation of the 
 poetical drama, and if this idea, so fruitful in suggestion, could 
 be carried out satisfactorily by actors who were proud of their 
 calling, and before a sympathetic audience, Mr. Neil's dramas 
 would be received, we think, with the approval they merit. Of 
 the three plays before us, the first appears eminently fitted for 
 the stage, or rather for what the stage was in the days of Mrs. 
 Siddons and John Kemble." 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette {Nov. 17, 1874). 
 
 "The artistic qualities manifest in Mr. Neil's tragedies, 
 ' Lady Jane Grey ' and ' Inez,' are equally evident in ' The Cid.' 
 .... The skill exhibited in the construction of the plot is striking, 
 and the play is generally free from those occasional marks of 
 weakness which destroy the symmetry of so many otherwise fine 
 productions.'' 
 
( 3 ) 
 
 Scotsman (July 17, 1874). 
 
 " It is difficult in reading these plays to say which the leader 
 will most admire, the exquisite sweetness of the poetry, or the 
 strength of their dramatic character. . . . They could scarcely 
 fail, if put upon the stage, to give as much pleasure to those who 
 witnessed them as they will to every one who may read them. . . . 
 The third play, ' Duke for a Day, ' is intensely humorous, and 
 it is also managed with infinite skill and elegance." 
 
 ELFINELLA ; OR, Home from Fairyland. 
 LORD AND LADY RUSSELL. 
 
 Athen^um {July 29, 1876). 
 
 "It ['Elfinella'] is very refined, elegant, and fanciful in 
 
 treatment, and displays much poetic taste and culture In 
 
 dealing with Lord and Lady Russell, Mr. Ross Neil has supplied 
 
 a striking picture of the court of the second Charles Mr. 
 
 Ross Neil's work is admirably firm and conscientious, and his 
 drama will maintain a place in literature. " 
 
 Saturday Review [Afril 29, 1876). 
 "This bare outline, however, gives a very insufficient idea of 
 the graceful mingling of humour and tenderness with which the 
 joyous but idle sportiveness of Fairyland is contrasted with the 
 deep and serious experiences of human life. ... A natural and 
 suggestive study of character, in which even the fairies are felt to 
 be at home. . . . Plays of this kind [' Lord and Lady Russell'], 
 dealing with subjects of national interest, and in ^ tone wliich 
 excites sympathy with the noblest emotions, might do much in 
 making public opinion not only more refined and intellectual, 
 but more robust." 
 
 Westminster Review (July, 1876). 
 "Mr. Neil's 'Elfinella; or. Home from Fairyland,' breathes 
 the same spirit as the ' Midsummer Night's Dream, ' or ' The 
 Faithful Shepherdess,' or 'The Sad Shepherd.'" 
 
( 4 ) 
 
 London Quarterly Review {Oct. 1876). 
 
 ' ' The subject [of ' Elfinella '] is most gracefully wound through 
 the four acts of the drama, and the conclusion is eminently satis- 
 factory. ' Lord and Lady Russell, ' though painful as any drama 
 on such a subject must be, is Ml of genuine pathos, and strong 
 in human interest throughout. . . . We can imagine that many 
 would select ' Lord and Lady Russell ' as Ross Neil's master- 
 piece.'' 
 
 Times [Bee. i, 1876). 
 
 "We have read with pleasure several of Mr. Ross Neil's 
 earlier dramas — 'Inez,' 'Duke for a Day,' 'Lady Jane Grey,' 
 and ' The Cid.' But as ' Elfinella ' has been actually submitted 
 to the practical test of the stage, we prefer to single that out for 
 notice. ,. . . While the gentle flow of domestic interest seizes on 
 our sympathy from the first, and carries it along to the end, the 
 author has concentrated his energies on certain effective situ- 
 ations, to which everything else is carefully subordinated. The 
 emotions excited by the action under thrilling circumstances of the 
 most exalted passions in our nature are relieved by a lively play 
 of fancy.'' 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette {May i, 1877). 
 
 ' ' We have left ourselves no space for any adequate criticism 
 of 'Lord and Lady Russell,' but we regret this the less since on 
 previous occasions we have given our impression of Mr. Neil's 
 merit as an historical dramatist. The play is admirably con- 
 ceived, and the execution is worthy of the conception." 
 
 Scotsman {April 21, 1876). 
 
 "The volumes which Mr. Neil has already published have 
 gained the good opinion of those who could understand what 
 real poetry was, and how much more powerful it may often be 
 made when poetic genius is allied with dramatic instinct. ... It 
 [' Elfinella '] is in truth one of the most interesting of Mr. Neil's 
 plays, because, perhaps, it is the most fanciful. . . . The 
 treatment of the story [' Lord and Lady Russell '] is suggestive 
 and eminently artistic throughout. . . . There is not a touch in 
 the whole piece that is not highly dramatic." 
 
( 5 ) 
 
 Temple Bar [Januaiy, 1878). 
 
 "We have lingered too long over 'Inez' to be able to say 
 much of the other plays. 'The Cid,' however, it may be said, 
 has the same qualities of dramatic fire and strength that belong 
 to ' Inez,' and is, as it stands, better suited for stage performance. 
 ' Duke for a Day' reveals unexpected traits of keen and unforced 
 humour and satire. . . . Our object has been to point out that 
 the art of dramatic poetry in England is not so destitute of new 
 life as it is sometimes said to be." 
 
 ARABELLA STUART. 
 
 THE HEIR OF LINNE. 
 
 TASSO. 
 
 Times (Orf. 28, 1879). 
 
 "The author has a, real poetic fancy, with a shrewd insight 
 into human nature, and lightens scenes that are often most sor- 
 rowfully pathetic with many a quaint touch of humour. ... It 
 [' The Heir of Linne '] abounds in dramatic situations, while 
 there is the tenderness of deep and genuine feeling in the charming 
 love scenes. . . . Nor can we easily conceive anything more 
 touching than the closing scene [in ' Arabella Stuart '] where 
 Seymour is re-united to his bride for a moment, to see her die 
 in her prison chamber of the passion he has inspired. ... In 
 ' Tasso,' we have a grand genius painted to the life, with all 
 the human foibles and imperfections which his nobler nature 
 triumphs over and atones for.'' 
 
 Saturday Review {Oct. 11, 1879). 
 
 "The story of Tasso, as here exhibited, gives great oppor- 
 tunities for picturesqueness of costume and of movement, and for 
 bringing all the scenic resources of a theatre to bear with ad- 
 vantage upon its illustration ; and the poet's representation of 
 the principal character should afford to a passionate and poetical 
 
( 6 ) 
 
 actor a fine occasion for the display of his powers. . . . The 
 change in Tasso's character, or it should rather be called the 
 development of its worse side under the influence of a thought- 
 lessly selfish woman, is worked out with rare skill and truth. . . . 
 The closing scene of the play is full of pathetic beauty. . . . 
 The characters in ' Arabella Stuart ' are all marked with that 
 truth to nature and that delicate, though decided, touch which 
 are special attributes of the writer's workmanship. King James I., 
 whose appearance on the scene is but brief, seems to us pecu- 
 liarly well hit off. . . . The comedy, 'The Heir of Linne,' is 
 full of nice touches of humour, and most aptly relieves the tragic 
 impression of the two fine plays which are placed on either side 
 of it." 
 
 Academy (Oct. 25, 1879). 
 
 " Coincidently with the signs of a wider and stronger move- 
 ment for a national theatre appears a worthy earnest that the 
 native land of Shakspeare is not likely to lack genius for the 
 production of dramas of genuine pathos, subtle plot, and human 
 interest. . . . No subject could have been devised to win the 
 heed of English ears more touching than the tragedy of Arabella 
 Stuart, and Ross Neil has transmuted the mixed ore and dross 
 of annalist and historical portrait-painter into the refined metal 
 of dramatic poetry. . . . The subject of Ross Neil's third drama, 
 'Tasso,' is perhaps the grandest and most poetic. It is cer- 
 tainly richest in scenic pageants, striking effects, and fine poetic 
 speeches. In its skilful working out, too, is displayed, perhaps 
 in a degree beyond its predecessors, a subtle contrasting of 
 characters.'' 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette [Oa. 27, 1879). 
 
 ' ' The author of these plays has won a deserved reputation 
 
 among all lovers of the poetical drama He has a fine 
 
 sense of what may be termed dramatic propriety ; and with this 
 sense of what is just he combines an exquisite command of 
 language, a knowledge of human nature as it is, and imagination 
 enough to conceive of the elevation to which under the stimulus 
 of the nobler passions it may attain." 
 
( 7 ) 
 
 Westminster Review {Jan. 1880). 
 
 " Ross Neil's plays are essentially dramatic, we do not mean 
 in mere situation, but in what is far more difficult, in the por- 
 trayal of the characters, and in their touches of human nature." 
 
 Examiner {Nov. 15, 1879). 
 
 "Mr. Ross Neil has, by common consent, succeeded in a 
 marked manner in uniting the qualities of poet and playwright. 
 .... Of the three plays a very vigorous actor might perhaps 
 make ' Tasso ' the most effective in these days of love for violent 
 passions and harrowing situations ; but the other two, properly 
 acted by actors and actresses who were at the same time ladies 
 and gentlemen, could hardly fail to please." 
 
 Scotsman {Oct. 14, 1879). 
 
 " The author could not have put into one volume three better 
 specimens of differing kinds of his poetic genius. In ' Arabella 
 Stuart ' the tragic element is strong ; in ' The Heir of Linne ' 
 we are in a more humorous atmosphere ; in ' Tasso ' tragedy 
 and comedy are combined ; the sad story of a sweet life is 
 
 depicted dramatically with intense power Delicacy and 
 
 polish are no less the characteristics of his productions than 
 their dramatic strength and their genuine poetic force." 
 
 Illustrated London News {New, i, 1879). 
 
 "In 'Arabella Stuart' and 'Tasso' we are delighted again 
 to recognize the true strength of Ross Neil's proper genius. 
 . . . . ' Arabella Stuart ' is a worthy companion piece to ' Lady 
 Jane Grey ' and to ' Lord and Lady Russell.' " 
 
 Theatre {Sept. 1880). 
 
 "Whatever be the faults of 'Arabella Stuart,' It certainly 
 
 contains the materials of a most effective tragedy ; and, with an 
 
 actress possessing any pretension to genius in the part of the 
 
 heroine, could scarcely fail to succeed even in its present shape. 
 
 . ' The Heir of Linne ' is perhaps the best acting play of 
 
( 8 ) 
 
 the three. It contains some very effective scenes and characters, 
 while the happy termination of the story would be an element 
 in its favour with our modern audiences, who are apt to resent 
 
 tragic conclusions No one can read this play [' Tasso '] 
 
 unmoved, and were it adequately represented on the stage it 
 ought to excite the deepest sympathies of the audience." 
 
 Edinburgh Theateical Programme (Nov. 1879). 
 
 " This new volume of plays calls for more than mere passing 
 note, as they emphatically stamp Ross Neil as a dramatic poet of 
 
 a very high order In the plays before us, we must account 
 
 ' Arabella Stuart ' as the best. Albeit that it is n tragedy, it is 
 full of lightsome writing, and one scene, on board ship and out 
 at sea, would be most picturesque if presented on the boards. 
 .... This suggests the passing remark that, whereas a dramatic 
 writer is not, of necessity, a stage carpenter as well, Ross Neil 
 appears to possess both requirements, and writes his plays as 
 ready for stage production." 
 
 London: ELLIS & WHITE, 29 New Bond Street.