ACT TWO
Reading edition
I
The back of Circe’s palace, late in the afternoon, one year later than the occurrences of the First Act. The back of the building lies toward the setting sun, whose declining rays are now intercepted and softened into shade by foliage and flitting clouds. The pale yellow walls and tall narrow windows and the one central entrance on this side are not obscured by vines and trailing plants, but cleanly sheltered by a lofty colonnade which runs the entire length of the edifice, with wide low pavement only a step higher than the lawn that borders it. The veranda-floor and the plinth are dewy with freshly sprinkled water. The green sward of the foreground is varied by flower-beds and dotted with luxuriant trees, a bower and seats near by. Here there is no fountain; but a streamlet, issuing from an archway at the Right corner of the palace, winds its way downward across the flowery slope. A peacock struts and spreads his fan in one of the open places. Some utterances of persons represented indicate that the situation affords glimpses of the sea.
There are no suggestions of witchcraft or magic in the present scene. Where the anterior façade of the palace seemed weird or uncanny, the rear elevation and its belongings wear rather an idyllic aspect.
The curtain rising discovers three couples severally grouped. Upon the veranda, at the Left, Circe and Ulysses are seated opposite each other at a small table, upon which are cups and a vase of flowers, while a nymph occasionally passes to and fro, serving them with wine from within. Circe is not attired as enchantress. She wears neither her black robe nor the coronal of pearls. The prevailing color of her Grecian dress is amethyst, and her hair is loosely confined by a narrow band of gold.—On the Right, at the farther end of the veranda, Philemon and Philinna sit side by side in confidential attitude.—Upon the lawn, in the foreground near the centre, far enough from the others to converse gently without being overheard by them, are seen Xenias and Thermia: the former seated carelessly facing sidewise toward the colonnade; the latter standing by a tall shrub, cutting flowers which she gathers in the fold of her garment.
Thermia
[Who stands with her back to the veranda]
If you will take a good long look, Xenias, just where you are looking now, you will see exactly why you and I are a whole lot luckier than some others I might name.
Xenias
How is that? What’s the mystification now, Miss Inscrutable? I see only what we see every day; and no great signs of bad luck about them yet.
Thermia
Of course we see it every day! And every day is making it worse for them, friend Xenias. Do you suppose they can keep this sort of thing up forever?
Xenias
Well, what if they can’t? I’ve no doubt the illusion is mighty pleasant while it lasts.
Thermia
And so much the more painful when it comes to an end—but you and I have kept our wits about us, Xenias.
Xenias
And have been uncommon good friends all the time, you mean, Thermia—Well, I admit it’s the best way. But they don’t think so.
Thermia
They think of nothing! But it will set them thinking, when the time comes for you to sail away.
Xenias
If that time ever does come! The commander has got to order it; and he doesn’t seem very likely to speak the word until your lady orders him. It’s true some of the lads are getting restive and tired of dilly-dallying, as they call it, here in this blessed island!
Thermia
Yes, and Graea gives me to understand that Eurylochus is going about secretly stirring them up and wants them to put on a bold front and demand that something shall be done.
Xenias
Ah, so? He hasn’t said a word to me or Philemon. I reckon he thinks Philemon and Xenias are in the same box.
Thermia
Eurylochus doesn’t know the difference, of course! I shall be sorry when you have to go, Xenias; I shall miss you sadly after you are gone. But it will simply kill Philinna.
Xenias
Well now, what if Philemon should take her home to Ithaca with him for his wife? He hasn’t got any Penelope waiting for him there.
Thermia
O heavens! And do you believe Philinna would ever leave Circe, or that Circe would ever let her go?
Xenias
And do you believe Philemon would ever leave Philinna behind, or that Philinna would ever let him go without her?
Thermia
Xenias, it’s a pity about them both—the greatest pity in the world! As for Circe, she really admires your captain; great men are scarce enough, she says; but Circe will never lose her head, even if Ulysses has lost his; nor will either of them be quite heart-broken, be sure. But Philinna! Philinna!
[Circe, who has been laughing merrily with Ulysses, claps her hands twice.]
Yes, now; here comes the music they feed on.
[Thermia begins to move away as Thrattis the lute-girl enters from the palace in response to Circe’s summons.]
Xenias
But stay, Thermia, and let us hear it.
Thermia
O, it will only be the same old songs! Besides, I have my vases to fill.
[She goes out round the Right corner of the building. Xenias settles himself in a listening attitude.]
Circe
Thrattis, we need thee still.—’Tis strange, Ulysses, How, like some thirst or hunger, each day return These tuneful memories!
Ulysses
Yet, fair Circe, charged With a more strange forgetfulness of all else Than that they celebrate.
Circe
Hist, listen now!
Thrattis
[Standing midway between the two couples on the veranda, after a brief prelude upon her instrument, sings.]
Forget, forget! Ah, linger not By dreams of yesterday! Each vanish’d hour shall be forgot, Fresh phantasies hold sway. No lowlier crown the linden weaves Of tassel’d verdure now Because the old year’s scatter’d leaves Return not to the bough.
Circe
[While an interlude is played] Our Thrattis echoes thy thought, Ulysses; and indeed I find a certain sort of wisdom in the ditty.
Ulysses
Yet methinks it carries somewhat of a different effect from the open intention of it.
Circe
Wait, listen!
Thrattis
[Sings] Forget, forget! In love’s demesnes No faded chaplet wear; Nor conjure phantoms from lost scenes, To sit unbidden there. Round heaven her sign swift Iris sets, Flings forth her jewel’d zone: O, who beholds it but forgets The frowning storm-cloud flown?
[The singer bends her head to hide her face as she sweeps the strings again.]
Circe
Good Thrattis, thou art tired standing. Sit and sip of the wine. Thou need’st sing no farther now.
Philinna
She weeps, my lady.
[As Thrattis, declining the offered refreshment, turns and goes within.]
Circe
Poor soul! truly I pity her.
Philemon
But why does the girl weep, sweet Philinna? Has she some express sorrow attending her?
Philinna
O yes, Philemon; nor will she put it entirely away. ’Tis three years agone since she floated to our island, lashed to some fragment of a vessel from the north which the hurricane had wrecked; but her father and two brothers who so saved her life themselves perished in the sea.
Philemon
O, sad story; unhappy Thrattis! Yet so I do much wonder at the song she chose to sing.
Philinna
We could do little to assuage her grief. But Circe has been kind to her and taught her the songs she sings so sweetly to her lute.
Ulysses
Perchance some such strains would comfort the child as the captive Trojan maidens might listen to betimes among us at the ships when the harp was struck.
Circe
Pray what, Ulysses?
Ulysses
Such as sounded praise Not for the living and the days we lived (Which with their moil and megrim did afford Scant food, I grant, for eulogy); but ever With vision backward turn’d the bard would seek Among long-treasured memories one most apt And draw it forth. Then did we lose all sense Of aching limbs, sore wounds, and comrades slain, Whilst in high-swelling measures like great waves Of Iphitus or Heracles he sang— Glories of ancient men.
Circe
It was fair medicine To still the pains ye dwelt in. In my isle Such cordials find not place.—But come, Ulysses, And see me prove the powers of that rare herb Whereof I promised.—Philinna, attend us. Of simples My sampler art thou.
[Circe laughs heartily as she utters the last words and she and Ulysses rise from their seats. Ulysses joins in the laugh. Philinna smiles faintly and seems loth to part from Philemon as these two also rise.]
Circe
[Laughing again] Thy Philemon Will not forget so soon.
[Circe and Ulysses go into the palace followed by Philinna.]
Xenias
[As Philemon turns toward him, stepping down from the veranda]
The commander and our Lady of the Herbs seem to be in a right merry mood, Philemon.
Philemon
That they are indeed, to judge by the colors they fly.
Xenias
You take it not quite so. And yet methinks you have as good cause as they to be blithe.
Philemon
I take your meaning, Xenias. Nevertheless I’m sheer doubtful now and then—as though too great happiness should somehow have a sobering effect, as you might say, upon a fellow.
Xenias
Then belike when the commander sobers down a bit he will pass the word for a home start.
Philemon
Ay, truly I have thought of it.
Xenias
[Laughing and clapping his friend on the shoulder]
But you’re not in a raking hurry about it; eh, Philemon?
[Re-enter Thermia round the Right corner. She comes quickly toward the men.]
But here’s Thermia again, in a hurry about something or other surely.
Thermia
O Xenias! I’ve seen Graea again and have learnt that Eurylochus has called all the men to a meeting at the shore to-morrow morning early about that business.
Philemon
Ah, what business, Thermia?
Thermia
You tell him, Xenias.
Xenias
Philemon and I were just upon the same matter—about the commander passing the word to cast off.
Philemon
Well, it seems the mate hasn’t invited me yet.
Xenias
No, nor me; he thinks you and I would pull on the wrong quarter, laddie. But I shall be on hand just the same to see how the wind does blow. Don’t you go, Philemon; you haven’t the heart for it.
Thermia
Ah, thou art sad, Philemon; I feel for thee.
Philemon
O, let it come; let it come!
Thermia
Yes, the day is bound to come, sooner or later. I would I could belate it. But farewell now. [She goes out.]
Philemon
Xenias, I would not ask thee to hold back And thine own sentiments belie because Mine do enchain me so to Circe’s isle As in its soil the roots of yonder oak Are wove and knotted. No; it is for you all Timely and reasonable—nor for Ulysses least— To set your faces homeward. But to me That home so dimly beckons now, I know not If it be there or here!
Xenias
[Stepping closer to his friend] ’Twas not thy wont To doubt, Philemon, with faint wavering heart, When we together oft by chilly Troy Crouch’d with our captain in an ambuscade Or sprang from the galley’s prow full-arm’d ashore At Tenedos or Chryse. Be thyself; be bold! The girl is not to the island rooted fast, Even though, as they pretend, their mothers be Fig-trees and fountains. We go: take her! Herself, I’ll wager, nothing loth.
[While the last words are exchanged between the two men the figure of Graea the swine-maiden, unobserved by them, is seen passing furtively behind and occasionally halting as if to listen.]
Philemon
Ah, Xenias, Thou knowest not Philinna. She is true Not to me only.
Xenias
I know. Untie them! If need be, cut the knot! Love glories In shifts and stratagems.
Philemon
Ah, ’twere not easy!
Xenias
Think; ponder! Swear it: If with Ulysses’ crew Philemon sail, Philinna shall sail too.
[Xenias seizes the hand of Philemon and they go out together at the Left.]
II
The Seashore, early in the forenoon of the next day. The scene is the same as in the First Act, but the signs of a temporary encampment have disappeared and the hull of the vessel is encumbered with grass and weeds. The curtain rising discovers both watches of the crew (excepting Glaucus and Philemon) disposed in scattered groups; some of the men sitting or reclining; others standing. All seem pre-occupied and the faces of most wear an anxious look. The demeanor of Eurylochus, who stands in a conspicuous position, is more confident and dignified than in former scenes.
First Sailor
Well, I suppose the devil knows how long we have got to wait before they show up.
Second Sailor
We’re lucky if they ever show up at all. Ten to one Glauc’ll come back without him.
First Sailor
Ay, ay! It’s a question whether even Glaucus can get the commander’s ear—leastwise he’ll have to get Madam Circe out of the way first.
Phorbas
Mark me; we aren’t safe yet! There’s no knowing what sort of beasts she might turn us all into even now, just to keep him with her a year longer!
Second Sailor
I’ve a notion we’d have done better to send a man of the commander’s own watch—some one that never was a hog.
Xenias
Bravo! where will you find such a one? Glauc’s all right; it’s enough to have a man who wasn’t always a hog.
First Sailor
Ha, ha! Theron, that’s one on you.
Theron
To hell with it! hang the hogs!
Elpenor
My father sticks his.
First Sailor
That’s the talk, Elpy; keep the culinary department straight!
Second Sailor
But what if he’s so bewitched he won’t come and talk anyway?
Eurylochus
Peace, peace! ’Tis scarce an hour since we despatch’d our comrade On no brief errand. Be patient; have good hope! It hangs, I know, On the razor’s edge; yet leans the weightier cause Toward consummation. Witchery there is still; Else were there little need to prompt Ulysses To his plain duty. Drugs have their antidotes, Which to employ are easy when once found: More subtle—ay, more deadly! than her potions Are these soft blandishments, cared she to play them To their full scope. But it has stood forth clear, Though once I did mistrust the promised convoy: Not in malevolence the enchantress binds Ulysses’ will. And when good Glaucus comes, Fearless and plain of speech and charged with all The prayerful hot commands we laid upon him; When he, unheard of Circe, bids his captain Arise, for old Laertes’ sake; and, backward With stern reproachful finger pointing, names The faithful wife who waits, Penelope, Icarius’ daughter:—then, perhaps, this cord Of crimson devilment will snap—remembrance, Conscience awake.
Xenias
Eurylochus, was it not Here on this very shore a twelvemonth since, Launching the half-mann’d pinnace, you would fly, Your mates left in the lurch?
Eurylochus
But for Ulysses (This you would add) the doors of their foul prison Had closed on them forever.
Xenias
But to-day They jest and laugh, though ’tis in Circe’s isle.
Theron
Damn me, too, if we’re the only ones that have learnt to mumble spoon-victuals and dance with tree-toads in the moonlight!
Eurylochus
Xenias, there is a fear to which all others Are as soft zephyrs to the tempest: it is When spirits uncanny mock the paltry arts Of mortal courage. But for my fear, no tidings, No warning, no alarm had reach’d you.
First Sailor
Hi, yi! [He points upward to the Right] They’re coming! There’s old Glauc digging down this way.
Second Sailor
[Spying through his hand] Alone! by the living gods!
[Groans are uttered by some of the men, with gestures of disgust and disappointment.]
Eurylochus
Hold; wait! He waves his staff; he smiles; he brings, be sure, No grievous answer!
[Enter Glaucus bare-headed, carrying a staff with oak-leaves attached, which he waves to and fro.]
Glaucus
All’s well! all’s well, lads! It’s a go; the commander has struck his colors. We’re off, sure!
[The men throng about Glaucus, some hurrahing and throwing up their caps.]
Several Voices
But where is he? What’d he say? When’s he coming?
Glaucus
O, belay there! Everything takes time. He had to go and talk with madam first, of course—and not take French leave like an orang-outang. He’ll be here in a jiffy.
Phorbas
Yes; but what’ll she make him say when he does come? I tell you we’re not well out of this kettle of fish till we’ve cut loose into high water!
Glaucus
Avast! He’ll say what comes into his head. The lady’s got a head on her too: she’s not the kind of a craft to capsize at the first catspaw of wind, don’t you believe it!
First Sailor
Put on a life-preserver, Phorb! Shin up the mast!
Elpenor
The mast isn’t shinned up itself yet.
Eurylochus
Glaucus, we owe thee thanks.
Glaucus
Not a bit of it! I doubt if we’d have dared to tackle him for another year if you hadn’t put us up to it, old man. But you may set me to walk the plank if he doesn’t talk fair now.
Xenias
Hold on, lads! Seats again! there he comes! Stilly, stilly!
[Enter Ulysses at the Right, wearing sword and helmet. His aspect is gracious as he comes to a stand near the men, who sit in silence. Before speaking he casts a contemplative glance seaward, then turns toward the vessel.]
Ulysses
Our good ship! Ah yes; the seams Gape in her sun-parch’d sides, and rank weeds twine Their prickly meshes round her shriveling keel. Yes, yes, my men; full long we have sat still, Basking in languorous fancy, rapt, unheeding This summons to the wave. Nor tarried others Behind, to follow and seize us: as when those Who clomb the banks of Lotus-land and straying Ate of the flowery food, their souls Steep’d in forgetfulness, we seized and bound, Stifled their cries and dragg’d them to the shore.— To-day they are no more: so many Death’s winged minions snatch’d and in wild sport Flung them to feed the sea-god’s ravenous brood; Or, on strange shores their white bones strewing, sign’d The landmarks of our course.—What wonder, then! What wonder, O brave comrades, if, so spent, So spared, beaching beside enchanted bowers Our single bark, lull’d under lustrous skies, Encircled by fond arms, we linger’d fondly And long. But now, welcome the tug and strain Once more, as ye have will’d it: the bent oar, The creaking rowlock, Zephyrus’ shrill pipe, The thundrous pounding surge! Nor now, as then, Shall we unpiloted and blindly plow Our swift sea-furrow; but wise Circe’s words Will be to us as beacons. We shall know What winds press homeward; on which hand to hold (When oft to night course our sick yearning prompts) Orion and the Bear.—If only Her solemn friendly warnings ye can heed, Which in good time I shall expressly cite, All may be well.
Eurylochus
Trust your men, sir, for that—leastwise if past experience avail them anything in the way of instruction for the future.
Ulysses
So prove it! On the third morn we start. Meanwhile Let none stand idle! To-day remains in part; One other day to-morrow, whilst we urge The labors needful to our voyage. Draw water; The wine-jars and the barley-crates replenish; Refit the tackle.—Now let the old ship drink And plume herself again!
Several Voices
[As the men, who have already sprung from their seats, gather round the vessel]
Hurrah! hurrah! Off with her! Rush her out!
Glaucus
Look lively, lads! Knock away those props! Clear out the ways there for’ard!
Several Voices
Clear it is! Lively, lively!
Ulysses
Eurylochus, I depute To you the furtherance of these tasks. My presence Another foresight claims.
Eurylochus
Very well; very well, sir!—
[To the men, some of whom have climbed on deck]
Drop the bow-chains over there, boys! Catch on, half a hundred of you! There she goes; steady, steady!
[The curtain falls as Ulysses goes out at the Right and the ship, pulled and pushed by many hands, begins to move toward the water.]
III
The back of the palace, in the evening of the same day as Scene II.—As the curtain rises Ulysses and Circe are discovered in the foreground: the former occupying a low seat by a tree; the latter reclining near him. Upon the veranda, forming a group by themselves though not far removed from the others, Philemon, Xenias, Thermia, and Philinna are seated at a table, apparently playing at some game by the light of a hanging lamp. Ulysses and Circe are revealed to view by the rays of the moon, which near its full is rising above the palace roof.
Circe
Those children are making a brave effort to play at their game, Ulysses. They pretend to-morrow will be soon enough for parting salutations.
Thermia
[Who has overheard the remark] O Circe! Philinna cannot play at all; she throws amiss every time.
Circe
Well, I doubt if her Philemon does much better.—There are at least two aching hearts over there, Ulysses.
Ulysses
Yet I have remarked Philemon seems not exactly depressed by it. Indeed both he and Xenias surprise me, how cheerily they await the event.
Circe
They are men: new scenes, new labors summon them; thoughts of their home. But my poor nymphs must rest contented hereafter with only me and the even sameness of our days.
Ulysses
Even so ye lived blithe-hearted ere we came.
Circe
Hearts more than blithe we knew not ere ye came.
Ulysses
Counts not the added bliss as gain meanwhile?
Circe
True gain or loss the final balance shows.
Ulysses
Then, till it’s struck, hope for the winning scale.
Circe
Such hopes help mortals cheat themselves, Ulysses, Even of the present profit.
Ulysses
But I note, Thy tacit precept, thine own example, leads us To drain the brimming cup and count as naught What pangs might follow.
Circe
Ulysses, my example (For in these closing hours I will confess it) Hath my soul’s truest insight much belied. Thou didst with moly baffle my magic art: The woman’s craft to baffle quite, no helper Could guide thee to a clue. Hate there was none— As well thou knowest: my bosom’s pride conceal’d No sinister, vindictive purpose. But Poor Circe, worsted, won her mastery back And turn’d to sportive vengeance her defeat, When with wise incantations wise Ulysses She sang to sleep.
Ulysses
There needed those more weary, If not more wise, to wake him.
Circe
But meanwhile My gentle partners, my sweet nymphs, I so Imperilling left—that same mischance whereof With a vague prescience more than once I warn’d them— In these new toils ensnared, when the spell broke, To droop as their own clipt flowers.
[While the last few words are pronounced there has been brisk talking, not distinctly overheard, on the part of the other group.]
Thermia
[Loudly] O, for shame, Philemon! What a thing to say!
Philinna
[Passionately] ’Tis he; ’tis he himself cares not!
Circe
[Turning toward the veranda, where Philemon and Xenias have just risen to their feet]
Ah, now! what coil is this? Philinna, speak!
Thermia
O Circe! ’tis Philemon—and Xenias too; they say We are but women’s women: at the last moment (They tell us) we choose you!
Circe
O foolish children! Must your vain quarreling blight such hours as these!— But whither? Philemon! Xenias! will you leave us?
Philemon
’Tis only, my lady, a certain business calls us forth expressly at this time.
Ulysses
So, my men? A strange time for business, is it not?
Xenias
It were so, sir, but for a slight affair of our own, to which we should properly give our attention by high moonlight only.
Circe
[Laughing] Holy Diana! Have they, too, turned to magic?
Xenias
Pray excuse us, all!
[The two young men go out by the Right corner. Philinna, bending over the table, covers her face with her hands, while Thermia rising attempts to soothe her.]
Circe
O, mind not, dear Philinna, his hasty words! Though heartless sounding, they did rather prove The same concern that draws thine own tears now. Lead her within; thou canst console her, Thermia: Thy stronger courage will avail.
[The two nymphs go into the palace.]
Ulysses
Circe, I like not this foolery of the high moonlight. Though it be a trifle ludicrous, the lads seemed right serious about it nevertheless. ’Tis unlike Philemon. I like it not.
Circe
O put the thought aside, Ulysses! It is some youthful prank, or a mere jest Fresh-coin’d with sober mouth. Nor falls amiss Thus on the girl’s untried, too tender spirit Some jar and crossing ere the final shock, So to forestall and break it. And this moon! Well she deserves, Ulysses, in thy sight. Have we not sought ourselves her soothing spell? Masking a farewell colloquy in smiles, As yonder silver’d wave-tips feign deliverance From the encircling gloom of envious night. Ah! if thou didst but know, Son of Laertes, half the struggles that wait thee By Neptune’s billowy realm and, rescued thence, In deadly strife at thy rude island-home, Then wouldst thou feel, perchance, less haste to leave Circe, the frail enchantress.—Ay, not all The signs to guide and perils that impend Canst thou learn now. Some, long in mystery wrapt (Nor wouldst thou choose to speed them), time will teach; Others, from ghostly lips compell’d, when soon, By Ocean’s stream thy lone bark moor’d, thou standest At the dark doors of Hades to evoke Theban Tiresias’ shade, the seer shall utter.
Ulysses
Dread Circe! O strange, unpitying prophetess, no mortal Reaches by sail or oar that awful strand.
Circe
Thou shalt be one, Ulysses, who, twice dying, Twice lives to rue his birth.—But hearken; And on the mindful tablets of thy soul Grave these my warnings. Back from the sunless shore Of pale Persephone the refluent tide Will bear thy bark unurged: till, facing The ruddy sources of recover’d day, Fresh-waken’d breath of quickening winds she feels Smite on her listless sail. So hold her prow, Toward Eos striving surely, from my isle Farther and farther speeding.
Ulysses
But how soon? How soon, O Circe, may our glad eyes behold Some signal of known lands?
Circe
So much not yet May be unveil’d; nor yet, what remnant lingers Of crew or vessel until that hour.—But hear, How (lest their doom be hasten’d) on thy helmsman, When ’twixt unlovely neighbors he must steer, The crisis hangs. On this side Scylla lurks, Snarling in her cliff-cavern; on that, Charybdis Retches, with swirling gorge. Thrice happy he Who, nor to the right inclining nor the left, Cleaves straight the midway mark with even keel.
Ulysses
But why not of the engulfing pest steer wide And with arm’d hand fend off the other’s onset?
Circe
Ah! Thus do presumptuous mortals vaunt their cunning, Or vain force, where alone swift vision wins.— If, then, alternate ruin ye elude, In some part scatheless, sweep with thankful hearts The gleaming waters’ wide unbroken waste. Then soon, Ulysses, as to my lay thou only Mightst listen and be saved, even so alone May’st thou, safe sailing, hear the Sirens’ song.
Ulysses
Breathe any so sweet a strain as that, O Circe, Which binds the caller at the moaning porch?
Circe
Not binds, but draws! No sense-benumbing spell Boast the sea-maidens, nor themselves are fair. Their theme, what men call glory; and the strain, Bell-like, o’er the hush’d seas far pealing, calls With a resistless summons to their shore. It, with white skulls and rotting wreckage lined. Thou shalt speed by, yet hear. Lash’d to the mast By thy men’s hands—themselves with wax-stopt ears— Bid them, when thou with frantic dumb entreaty Wouldst sign their stroke toward that melodious lure, Pull stronger and swerve not, with firmer bonds Lashing thee still, while yet one echo Of siren-voices lingers.
Ulysses
Circe, full long Thy tale of helps and hazards, though not few Still on their fixt oracular moment wait. Be these enough, while courage step by step, Conning each several danger, learn to face it.
Circe
’Tis well.
[Thus far Circe has been reclining, with occasional changes of attitude due to the earnestness of her discourse. She now rises to a sitting posture.]
[Laughing] But forget not, most prudent captain, The risks thy moonstruck followers would invite In these my precincts!
[She gives her hand to Ulysses, who assists her to rise.]
It were worth while to note Their traces. Come; they went this way.
[She leads out at the Right, Ulysses following with downward thoughtful look.]
IV
The grove upon sloping ground, at noon of the day following the previous scene.—Enter from the Left downward Myrto leading Mikkos. With a glance toward the path on the Right she seats herself under the tree by which Mercury appeared to Ulysses, while the ape, whose chain Myrto continues to hold, swings himself to a low branch above her.
Myrto
Well, Mikkos, they are not here yet.—But Graea never loiters and they will soon come. Now I charge thee once again; and be thou, as a reflecting animal, less slow to curb thy native animosities, Mikkos! Look not upon Eurylochus as thine enemy, receiving him with angry and unseemly gestures. Eurylochus is our friend to-day; and his co-operation in the present emergency is invaluable.—Hear’st thou, Mikkos? [The ape grins and wags his head.] Very well; now conduct thyself like a rational being! I hear them coming.
[Enter from the Right upward Eurylochus, followed closely by Graea. The former, after a suspicious glance at Mikkos, who shows his teeth and tries to shake his chain, turns inquiringly toward Myrto who remains seated while the others stand.]
Eurylochus
Graea has by her signs made known to me, Myrto, that you would have me attend you here at this time; and I have inferred from the earnestness of her manner that the message is of importance.
Myrto
Important indeed it is, Eurylochus: I need your assistance; and not for myself alone—perchance even somewhat for thine own weal; but especially on behalf of the lady Circe and all of us her poor companions—whom to be sure thou lovest not.
Eurylochus
One may love not, Myrto, and yet be nowise lacking in good-will. You would not have called in an unfriendly hand to aid you.
Myrto
In the present matter at any rate thou wilt be sure to side with us.—Wouldst thou choose to take one of us home with thee in the ship, Eurylochus?
Eurylochus
How? What? Forbid it, mighty Apollo! Is your mind wandering, Myrto?
Myrto
It is not I, but a pair of your pretty comrades whose wits are wandering; for they would carry away Philinna, unbeknown to Ulysses and the rest of you, hiding her in the vessel.
Eurylochus
Ah! we know of Philemon’s madness—and the girl consents to this?
Myrto
No indeed! they will put her to sleep with Circe’s drug—
Eurylochus
[Interrupting] O Heracles!
Myrto
And so bring her aboard the ship to-night, while you are all at the palace partaking of the farewell feast.
Eurylochus
Then if you have discovered this plot, why not warn her straightway and cut it short?
Myrto
Not so, Eurylochus!
[Myrto rises and addresses herself earnestly to him.]
Not till the latest moment must Philinna Perceive the strange and treacherous design Of him she loves, who, if he loved her less, Would spurn the trick his clever mate has taught him. Now hear me; and observe How thou shalt aid us, with least harm to foil This harmful scheme. Nothing the herb itself Of baneful sort to mind or body works: But whoso of its fragrance breathes in slumber, For six-and-thirty hours wakes not again, Nor feels, nor can be roused. They hold its leaves Gather’d beneath pale moonbeams, when the plant Best cools its juices and conserves its force. These they will bruise and spread About the pillow of Philinna’s couch, Where she each day—now at this very hour—Seeks her brief noontide sleep: by the moss’d bank So near the waterfall its gauzy spray Like an ethereal veil enshrouds the bower Where our companion rests; and muffled tones, Voiced by perpetual whirling waters, soothe The slumberer’s ear. Of vines her bed is join’d: Gnarl’d stems which from the vineyard pruning once We fashion’d to a woodland couch, to sit And watch the headlong stream. This lifting (So Graea heard them whisper) they will bear With its fond burden shoreward ere the dawn, While yet ye feast and revel. And they hope To hold her hidden (nor will she wake) until Too far at sea the flying ship hath sped For ruth or reparation.
Eurylochus
O great gods! Herself by good rights, waking then, should rue Her wanton witcheries.
Myrto
Peace, Eurylochus; peace! Perverse and all one-sided is thy sense: On the other side thy mother bore thee blind. Not yet hast thou been taught the part thou playest In the prevention.—At the feast this night, Ere the two plotters to their work slip out, I at my wheel (whom thou wilt watch) shall give thee This sign—with finger prest to lip: whereat Thyself withdrawing noiselessly to join Graea who waits without, with her wilt hie To poor Philinna’s bower: and both shall bear Hillward by the back path the couch and sleeper Into the banquet-hall to Circe.
Eurylochus
And what revenge Will Circe wreak upon the thieves?
Myrto
Circe is wise; Needs not our counsel.—And, Eurylochus, mark: Thy secrecy here will stand thee in good stead. A narrow pathway tread ye all, so long In this round isle ye linger! Go; and be mindful!—
[Eurylochus goes out at the Right downward.]
Now, Graea—for thy sharp ear no caution needs,— His part and thine are fixt. And further, Graea; When chilly night descends, visit her bower And lay soft fleeces o’er Philinna’s form, Sheltering her deep dishonest sleep.
[Graea by signs gives her assent, Mikkos jumps down from the tree, and all go out by the Left upward.]
V
The same as the first scene of the play. The Front of the Palace in the afternoon. The porch and its steps are already in the shade. The curtain rising discovers Thermia seated upon one of the lower steps thoughtfully regarding the fountain, which plays faintly. Enter Myrto upon the porch from within.
Myrto
[Taking her seat upon a step] Yes, there is shade here now; Circe will come soon.
Thermia
I know not why I feel so anxious, Myrto,—wondering what communication you can have to make while Ulysses and his men are away at the lading of their vessel.
Myrto
Now pray, Thermia, if what I shall say to Circe startle you in some degree, restrain yourself and show not perturbation. Circe, as you well know, likes not hasty suggestion in what concerns her deeply.
Thermia
’Tis true; I will be prudent. O, what can it be?
Myrto
Wait; here she comes now.
[Circe entering descends the stairs to a seat just within the lengthening shadow by the fountain. She wears her canary-colored tunic, but not the black robe.]
Circe
[Turning toward the stairs] Myrto! Thermia! Where is Philinna?
Myrto
She sleeps, my lady.
Circe
Sleeps still? ’Tis past midday more than two hours! Philinna is wont to sleep soundly, but not long.
Myrto
She will sleep long this time, Circe: Philinna will not wake to-day.
Circe
[Starting to her feet] What! Not wake to-day? Dost thou trifle with me, girl?
Myrto
Indeed I do not trifle with you. But fear not, dear lady; there has been mischief, but harm will not come to Philinna.
Circe
Mischief—mischief? Methinks I divine somewhat. But speak; explain thyself forthwith!
Myrto
They have given her the sleeping-plant which last night they gathered under the moon.
Thermia
[To herself] Ah, I see my precious Xenias’ finger here; the traitor!
Circe
O! O! Audacious, shameless souls! With my own drugs would they outwit me? O! I see! I see! Thus they will steal Philinna. But holy Diana! [Laughing scornfully] So sly, and yet so simple! They were twice foil’d, ere such a plot could prosper.
Myrto
Truly there needs small skill to circumvent them: Such I have summon’d.
Circe
But the herb?
Myrto
I show’d them.
Circe
What? Myrto, Myrto!
Myrto
Stay; hear me, Circe. Their plan I knew beforehand; and ’twas better She knew it not; should rather sleep; nor wake Till the whole farce were play’d—seest thou, my lady?
Circe
O clever Myrto! Not in vain thou sittest Demurely by thy wheel, as if its hum And spinster’s sordid finger-work were all Thy wits could compass!—thou, the nixie-born; With newts and water-beetles nurtured!—But how Came it to light?
Myrto
They came to me, To find for them the herb. The tale they told, How, when the ship had sail’d, among themselves Some sport they would devise. But Graea already Had overheard their whisperings and advised me.
Thermia
Graea is everywhere and hears all things!
Circe
Hush, Thermia!
Myrto
Because she hath no tongue they do forget Her sharpen’d ears.—Safely Philinna sleeps; And to your side shall she be brought to-night During the banquet.
Circe
Ah! ah!
Thermia
And will they dare, finding her not, To wait for such an issue?
Circe
Whither pray Might they seek refuge?—Two alone are guilty; And two alone shall answer for the guilt; Nor shall the feast be marr’d. Go now; And urge its preparation.
[The two nymphs go into the palace.]
Circe
Poor purblind men! O, how short of the mark their vision falls! Phantoms, bred of precipitate desire, Aiming to grasp, but comprehending not The check and natural limit.—So the same At whose achievement we should rave, in failure We pity and forgive. Ay; to know more And to see farther than for themselves they see Doth make forbearance easy. How would they change For sweet Philinna’s rainbow-guarded sleep Their own long slumber in the fishy deep!
[She ascends the steps and goes into the palace.]
VI
The banquet-hall late at night. The feasting is near its end and the wine has begun to be poured at the farewell entertainment given by Circe to her guests in the last hours before they set sail. The Enchantress sits at the head of her table, wearing her black robe and coronal of pearls. Thermia and Myrto are in their usual places; but Philinna is absent and the throne at Circe’s left has been removed. Ulysses sits at the head of the table by the dais. His demeanor is serious; but the men though orderly are in high spirits as they join in the chorus, with the exception of Philemon and Xenias, who seem pre-occupied, seated together near the exit behind Ulysses. Eurylochus is so placed as to face Myrto at her wheel. The first chorus following is sung before the rise of the curtain.
(Chorus of men’s voices behind the scenes)
Never fear for your ship if you handle her right; She will scamper all day and eats nothing at night. Stick her nose in the sand, she is safe in the stall; She’s a carriage and horses and stable and all.
[Curtain rises]
Glaucus
[Sings] We sampled his cheeses and bunk’d in his den, But when he came home he ate six of our men.— “People don’t come a-foot when they come to see me: Now where did you leave the old frigate?” cried he. (Chorus)
Glaucus
It was a big pickle, we forged a big lie: “A thunderbolt struck her, Sir Cyclops,” said I; “Tore a hole in her timbers as wide as a door; She sank to the bottom and we swam ashore.” (Chorus)
Glaucus
So we punch’d out his eye with a stake while he snored, Then broke for the landing and scrambled aboard.— His rock was a load for a twenty-mule team: “Heave hard there”! I shouted; “heave hard, Polypheme!” (Chorus)
Glaucus
First time he shot high; and the swashing great wave Sent her back on a dance to the mouth of his cave. His second fell short: ’twas a booster behind And scooted her for’ard, quite well to our mind. (Chorus) Never fear for your ship if you handle her right; She will scamper all day and eats nothing at night. Stick her nose in the sand, she is safe in the stall; She’s a carriage and horses and stable and all.
Circe
Our friend Glaucus would usurp the role of his captain, apparently, when he celebrates that famous scene, Ulysses.
Ulysses
And right welcome is he to any glory he may borrow therefrom. Verily there was little enough for me to boast of in the adventure.
Glaucus
It’s true the commander got us into the scrape, madam, if he will allow me; but there would need a longer song than any we have sung yet to tell the whole story, how cleverly he got us out of it.
Theron
Damme! a great song! Not a word about the tipple that did it all!
Elpenor
And the sheep-ride too.
A Voice
Ay, ay!—’twas the tipple that did for him. Let the old sinner play blind-man’s buff with his bell-wether now!
Ulysses
Enough! Now the cry homeward and the forward glance Shall banish retrospect. These claim our care. Fair winds suffice not; Nor the good hopes by gracious friends inspired, Where prudent counsel fails.
Circe
Most timely said! Experience ends not with each wondrous hap. Ye know not yet, good men, your several fates Cradled beyond my island’s guardian pale. Obedience and true caution shall avail you Not less because your course be pointed clear. These save while they endure.— But now our ancient welcome is exchanged For farewell greetings. Nor indeed comes song Amiss at such an hour.
[She claps her hands twice and Thrattis enters with her lute, standing by the sideboard. While the attention of all is thus drawn away Myrto gives the sign to Eurylochus, who slips out unobserved.]
Circe
Our guests have just sung a gay song in honor of their ship, Thrattis. Perchance thou canst match it with one from thine own store.
[Thrattis smiles faintly and begins a slow prelude upon her instrument in a minor key.]
Elpenor
She knows how to make it cry.
Theron
Hush, boy; mar not the music!
[The girl sings slowly with irregular pauses and interludes at significant points in the recital. The music itself is marked by chromatic changes, with the last two stanzas taking on distinctly the character of a funeral march. Before that part of the performance is reached Philemon and Xenias, taking advantage of the rapt attention of the company, steal out unnoticed.]
Thrattis
Sea-wind o’er the ripples crept; His cool breath my temples swept; Sea-wind whisper’d, as I slept Near to the wave. From his caverns, hollow-toned, Sea-wind mock’d my dream and moan’d. In my sleep I turn’d and groan’d As in the grave. Through lank grasses, swaying slow, Peering with green eyes a-glow Sea-wind stole and mutter’d low: “Wake not! sleep on, If my vision thou wouldst share:— The split mast; the lightning’s glare; Shrouds whirl’d wildly in mid-air! See! her helm gone, The vessel plunges. Lo! again Caught by the deadly hurricane, Crackling bolt and hissing rain, The hull spins round; Breaks, sinks! One man breasts the tide; Clutches spar and climbs astride; A sea-courser seems to ride.— Vague depths profound With white feet the others tread; Seek on ocean’s floor their bed; Or, to rude shores blindly led, Full nigh they draw; Ram-like, butt the flinty stones. The gray sea a dirge intones, Whilst the fat casing of their bones Dumb fishes gnaw.”
Ulysses
[After a pause, when the chords struck in conclusion of the song have ceased to sound]
The maid hath not sailed the south seas in vain, upon my soul, Circe!
Glaucus
By the twin gods, ye would think she came straight from Davy Jones’ locker, let out alive!
Circe
’Tis a brief step from life to death: why then Shall not the venturous errant fancy feign it Thrice taken and retraced? From death to life Were as from sleep to waking; nor, if dreams Might linger on the skirts of such a change, Should they unheeded pass.—
The words of Circe are interrupted by the entrance at the Right rear doorway of Eurylochus and Graea bearing the rustic couch upon which the form of Philinna is extended as upon a bier. As they enter, Graea, who sustains the rear end at the head of the sleeper, swings to her right backward and the two bearers set the couch and its burden down by Circe’s side in full view of the company. Eurylochus quickly resumes his seat among the men, while the swine-maiden, wearing her long whip coiled as a girdle round her waist, retires to a position near the lute-girl, where the two remain standing side by side. Mikkos, who had sprung into the room close behind the bearers, is seized by Myrto and tied fast with shortened chain to the spokes of her wheel. The form and features of Philinna are motionless as in death. She is clothed in her gauzy dress of noonday. The banqueters in profound silence gaze with horror at the apparition. Circe, laying hand upon her wand, faces her guests steadily with a trace of irony in her look, while a few notes of solemn music fall from the lute of Thrattis.
Ulysses
[Half rising from his chair with gesture of inquiry and deprecation]
What!—Circe? Thy Philinna?—is this death? Forbid it, ye kind gods!
Circe
Philinna?—or Philinna’s shade? Ask thine own followers, great commander; ask Pale Hecate’s twin votaries!
Ulysses
[Who has risen to his feet and scanning the company perceives for the first time that not all his men are present]
Ha! what? Philemon? Xenias?—where?
Eurylochus
[Saluting] They encountered us, sir, as we ascended hither bearing the sleeping maid. They were on their way to seize her, but when they saw themselves cheated of their prey they cried out and fled incontinently to the woods.
Ulysses
Great Zeus! no flight shall save them! Up, Eurylochus!
[With a stern gesture of command]
Take Glaucus and three others of your watch; go forth; seek out, arrest the caitiffs! Put them in irons and wait for us on board!
[Eurylochus and Glaucus stand up, several other men spring to their feet as volunteers. Mikkos exhibits excitement, and Graea slowly uncoils the whip from her waist. Thermia turns pale and cannot conceal her agitation.]
Circe
[Lifting her wand gently] Hold, Ulysses! Hold! Refrain; bend not thy thoughts to chains Or cruel punishment. Are they not even now By failure and humiliation scourged?
Ulysses
[To whom Eurylochus and Glaucus are looking expectantly]
Never! Never!
The door behind the dais opens, a golden light fills the passage-way thus revealed, and Mercury, brilliantly arrayed as in the second scene of the play, stands forth upon the platform. His step gives no sound; and, as he extends his hands (one holding the winged wand) gently forward over the company, all the men feel the soothing influence without turning their heads to observe its source; while Ulysses, and the others who stand, sink quietly to their seats in motionless attitude. Ulysses slightly bows his head. The inmates of the palace are not affected like the guests; they maintain their former demeanor; but Circe lowers her hand with the wand to the table before her.
Mercury
By the Father sent I come this time, to loose the tangled web Of crossing motive, Circe, in thy bowers. He in the scales of fate the fortunes weigh’d Of these thy mortal visitors all, thine own, Of thy beloved nymphs; and bade me speed, Taking my wand, wherewith for woe or weal I seal men’s eyes and, when I will, unseal. The offending youths—already are they Themselves in closer toils of slumber caught Than the charm’d herb upon the maiden brought. At my behest their living phantoms glide; Upward or downward their blind steps I guide.
[Without turning, the god raises his wand gently with backward movement of the hands, and in the wide opening behind him the forms of Philemon and Xenias appear, standing side by side. Their eyes are closed; their features pallid in the weird light; their look is of complete unconsciousness. Thrattis strikes major chords.]
Their fault the Father pardons; and decrees They shall be toss’d no more on billowy seas, But to their lives’ end tread the enchanted soil Which of its bloom they plotted to despoil.
[Mercury sways the wand slowly from behind forward, and the two sleepers (Philemon first, Xenias close behind him) guided by the spell pass across the dais, gliding down behind the banqueters until they reach a position between Thermia and Philinna’s couch. Their footsteps give no sound; their movement is mechanical; in the place indicated they stand stiff and motionless with closed eyes.]
Mercury
Arise, Ulysses!
[Ulysses stands up; and simultaneously his men all rise silently to their feet.]
Now thy waiting bark Swims in the darkling haven; but full soon Eos her saffron portals will unbar And wake the convoy breezes. Tarry not!— Thy crew the Father’s stern assignments claim; I sign them to march, Forward! in his name.
[The funeral march which closed the song of Thrattis is played softly, and the men pass out behind Mercury in single file, moving noiselessly and with the utmost precision, as if under the hypnotizing influence of the wand waved above them. The company of Eurylochus marches first, headed by their leader and Glaucus, Theron and Elpenor bringing up the rear. The other company, excepting Philemon and Xenias, immediately follows. Ulysses, who has donned his helmet, begins to speak as the last man passes and the music ceases.]
Ulysses
To gloom of future fates beholden fast, The parting hour yet beckons toward the past. What blessings lay beneath rapt moments hidden Now to the pictured memory rise unbidden; Each, as with pointed stylus’ steely smart, Prick’d and deep graven on the shrinking heart.— Farewell! O sorceress benign, farewell! He knows not life, who knows not Circe’s spell.
[Ulysses turns and goes out. The music begins again in the major key. Mercury, poised upon one foot in an attitude similar to that presented by a familiar statue of the god, leans far forward with wand pointed straight at the sleepers. Philinna opens her eyes and slowly rises to a sitting posture on her couch. Philemon and Xenias open their eyes and draw long breaths. Philinna, turning first toward Circe, with one hand clasps the left hand of the Enchantress; then, with the other, recognizing Philemon, takes his right. Thermia, when Xenias wakes, seizes his left hand with her own, and with a joyous look lays her right upon his shoulder. The two youths have themselves joined hands. Myrto seated, whom Mikkos strives to reach, holds him firmly at arm’s length by the collar. Graea, standing beside Thrattis, whip in hand, glares fiercely at the exit.
The countenance of Circe is deeply sad. Her wand lies relinquished upon the table. She continues to gaze, as if into vague distance, in the direction of her departed guest.]
CURTAIN