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GYCIA

A TRAGEDY

IN FIVE ACTS

by

LEWIS MORRIS

M.A.; HONORARY FELLOW OF JESUS COLLEGE, OXFORD

KNIGHT OF THE REDEEMER OF GREECE, ETC., ETC.

SECOND EDITION

LONDON

KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., 1, PATERNOSTER SQUARE

1886

(The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved.)

[PREFACE.]

The following Drama was written with a view to Stage representation, and it is therefore rather as an Acting Play than as a Dramatic Poem that it should be judged by its readers.

It follows as closely as possible the striking story recorded by Constantine Porphyrogenitus in his work, "De Administratione Imperii." Nor has the writer had occasion (except in the death of the heroine) to modify the powerful historical situations and incidents to which it is right to say his attention was first directed by his friend the well-known scholar and critic, Mr. W. Watkiss Lloyd.

The date of the story is circa 970 a.d.

[DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. ]

PEOPLE OF BOSPHORUS.

The King of Bosphorus.

Asander, Prince of Bosphorus.

Lysimachus, a statesman.

Megacles, a chamberlain from the Imperial Court of Constantinople.

Three Courtiers, accompanying Asander and accomplices in the plot.

Soldiers, etc.

PEOPLE OF CHERSON.

Lamachus, Archon of the Republic of Cherson.

Zetho, his successor.

Theodorus, a young noble (brother to Irene), in love with Gycia.

Bardanes, first Senator.

Ambassador to Bosphorus.

The Senators of Cherson.

Two Labourers.

Gycia, daughter of Lamachus.

Irene, a lady—her friend, in love with Asander.

Melissa, an elderly lady in waiting on Gycia.

Child, daughter of the Gaoler.

Citizens, etc.

GYCIA.

[ ACT I.]

[Scene I.]—Bosphorus. The King's palace. The King, in anxious thought. To him Lysimachus, afterwards Asander

Enter Lysimachus.

Lys. What ails the King, that thus his brow is bent

By such a load of care?

King.

Lysimachus,

The load of empire lies a weary weight,

On age-worn brains; tho' skies and seas may smile,

And steadfast favouring Fortune sit serene,

Guiding the helm of State, but well thou knowest—

None better in my realm—through what wild waves,

Quicksands, and rock-fanged straits, our Bosphorus,

Laden with all our love, reels madly on

To shipwreck and to ruin. From the North,

Storm-cloud on storm-cloud issuing vollies forth

Fresh thunderbolts of war. The Emperor

Dallies within his closed seraglios,

Letting his eunuchs waste the might of Rome,

While the fierce Scythian, in a surge of blood,

Bursts on our bare-swept plains. Upon the South,

Our rival Cherson, with a jealous eye,

Waits on our adverse chances, taking joy

Of her republican guile in every check

And buffet envious Fortune deals our State,

Which doth obey a King. Of all our foes

I hate and dread these chiefly, for I fear

Lest, when my crown falls from my palsied brow,

My son Asander's youth may prove too weak

To curb these crafty burghers. Speak, I pray thee,

Most trusty servant. Can thy loyal brain

Devise some scheme whereby our dear-loved realm

May break the mesh of Fate?

Lys.

Indeed, my liege,

Too well I know our need, and long have tossed

Through sleepless nights, if haply I might find

Some remedy, but that which I have found

Shows worse than the disease.

King.

Nay, speak; what is it?

I know how wise thy thought.

Lys.

My liege, it chances

The Archon Lamachus is old and spent.

He has an only child, a daughter, Gycia,

The treasure of his age, who now blooms forth

In early maidenhood. The girl is fair

As is a morn in springtide; and her father

A king in all but name, such reverence

His citizens accord him. Were it not well

The Prince Asander should contract himself

In marriage to this girl, and take the strength

Of Cherson for her dowry, and the power

Of their strong fleets and practised arms to thrust

The invading savage backward?

King.

Nay, my lord;

No more of this, I pray. There is no tribe

Of all the blighting locust swarms of war,

Which sweep our wasted fields, I would not rather

Take to my heart and cherish than these vipers.

Dost thou forget, my lord, how of old time,

In the brave days of good Sauromatus,

These venomous townsmen, shamelessly allied

With the barbarian hosts, brought us to ruin;

Or, with the failing force of Cæsar leagued,

By subtle devilish enginery of war,

Robbed Bosphorus of its own, when, but for them,

Byzantium were our prey, and all its might,

And we Rome's masters? Nay; I swear to thee,

I would rather see the Prince dead at my feet,

I would rather see our loved State sunk and lost,

Than know my boy, the sole heir of my crown,

The sole hope of my people, taken and noosed

By this proud upstart girl. Speak not of it;

Ruin were better far.

Lys.

My liege, I bear

No greater favour to these insolent townsmen

Than thou thyself. I, who have fought with them

From my first youth—who saw my father slain,

Not in fair fight, pierced through by honest steel,

But unawares, struck by some villanous engine,

Which, armed with inextinguishable fire,

Flew hissing from the walls and slew at once

Coward and brave alike; I, whose young brother,

The stripling who to me was as a son,

Taken in some sally, languished till he died,

Chained in their dungeons' depths;—must I not hate them

With hate as deep as hell? And yet I know

There is no other way than that Asander

Should wed this woman. This alone can staunch

The bleeding wounds of the State.

King.

Lysimachus,

I am old; my will is weak, my body bent,

Not more than is my mind; I cannot reason.

But hark! I hear the ring of coursers' feet

Bespeak Asander coming. What an air

Of youth and morning breathes round him, and brings

A light of hope again!

Enter Asander from the chase.

Asan. My dearest sire and King, art thou thus grave

Of choice, or does our good Lysimachus,

Bringing unwonted loads of carking care,

O'ercloud thy brow? I prithee, father, fret not;

There is no cloud of care I yet have known—

And I am now a man, and have my cares—

Which the fresh breath of morn, the hungry chase,

The echoing horn, the jocund choir of tongues,

Or joy of some bold enterprise of war,

When the swift squadrons smite the echoing plains,

Scattering the stubborn spearmen, may not break,

As does the sun the mists. Nay, look not grave;

My youth is strong enough for any burden

Fortune can set on me.

King.

Couldst thou, Asander,

Consent to serve the State, if it should bid thee

Wed without love?

Asan.

What, father, is that all?

I do not know this tertian fever, love,

Of which too oft my comrades groan and sigh,

This green-sick blight, which turns a lusty soldier

To a hysterical girl. Wed without love?

One day I needs must wed, though love I shall not.

And if it were indeed to serve the State,

Nay, if 'twould smooth one wrinkle from thy brow,

Why, it might be to-morrow. Tell me, father,

Who is this paragon that thou designest

Shall call me husband? Some barbarian damsel

Reared on mare's milk, and nurtured in a tent

In Scythia? Well, 'twere better than to mate

With some great lady from the Imperial Court,

Part tigress and all wanton. I care not;

Or if the scheme miscarry, I care not.

Tell me, good father.

King.

Wouldst thou wed, Asander,

If 'twere to save the State, a Greek from Cherson?

Asan. From Cherson? Nay, my liege; that were too much.

A girl from out that cockatrice's den—

Take such a one to wife? I would liefer take

A viper to my breast! Nay, nay, you jest,

My father, for you hate this low-born crew,

Grown gross by huckstering ways and sordid craft—

Ay, more than I.

King.

It is no jest, my son.

Our good Lysimachus will tell thee all

Our need and whence it comes.

Lys.

My gracious Prince,

Thus stands the case, no otherwise. Our foes

Press closer year by year, our widespread plains

Are ravaged, and our bare, unpeopled fields

Breed scantier levies; while the treasury

Stands empty, and we have not means to buy

The force that might resist them. Nought but ruin,

Speedy, inevitable, can await

Our failing Bosphorus' unaided strength,

Unless some potent rich ally should join

Our weakness to her might. None other is there

To which to look but Cherson; and I know,

From trusty friends among them, that even now,

Perchance this very day, an embassy

Comes to us with design that we should sink

Our old traditional hate in the new bonds

Which Hymen binds together. For the girl

Gycia, the daughter of old Lamachus,

Their foremost man, there comes but one report—

That she is fair as good.

Asan.

My lord, I pray you,

Waste not good breath. If I must sell myself,

It matters not if she be fair or foul,

Angel or doubly damned; hating the race,

Men, maidens, young and old, I would blight my life

To save my country.

King.

Thanks, my dearest son.

There spake a patriot indeed.

Servant.

My liege,

An embassy from Cherson for the King.

Enter Ambassador, with retinue.

Ambas. Sirs, I bring you a message from Lamachus, the Archon of Cherson.

Lys. Sirs, forsooth! Know ye not the dignity of princes, or does your republican rudeness bar you from all courtesy? I do not count myself equal to the King, nor, therefore, should you.

King. Nay, good Lysimachus, let him proceed.

Ambas. If I am blunt of speech, I beg your forgiveness. I bring to you a letter from the citizen Lamachus, which I shall read, if it be your pleasure.

King. Read on.

Ambas. "To the King of Bosphorus, Lamachus sends greeting. We are both old. Let us forget the former enmities of our States, and make an alliance which shall protect us against the storm of barbarian invasion which Cæsar is too weak to ward off. Thou hast a son, and I a daughter. Thy son is, from all report, a brave youth and worthy. My daughter is the paragon of her sex. I have wealth and possessions and respect as great as if I were a sceptred King. The youth and the maid are of fitting age. Let us join their hands together, and with them those of our States, and grow strong enough to defy the barbarians, and Rome also."

Asan. My liege, I am willing for this marriage. Let it be.

King. My son, we have not yet heard all. Read on, sir.

Ambas. "There is one condition which not my will, but the jealousy of our people enforces, viz. that the Prince Asander, if he weds my daughter, shall thenceforth forswear his country, nor seek to return to it on pain of death. I pray thee, pardon the rudeness of my countrymen; but they are Greeks, and judge their freedom more than their lives."

Asan. Insolent hounds!

This is too much. I will have none of them.

Take back that message.

King.

Thou art right, my son.

I could not bear to lose thee, not to win

A thousand Chersons. Let us fight alone,

And see what fortune sends us.

Lys.

Good my liege,

Be not too hasty. (To Ambassador) Sir, the King has heard

The message which you bring, and presently

Will send a fitting answer.

[Exit Ambassador.

Nay, my liege,

I beg your patience. That these fellows make

Their friendship difficult is true; but think

How great the value of it, and remember

How easy 'tis to promise and break faith

With insolent dogs like these. This Lamachus

Is older than your grace, and feebler far.

He will not live for ever, and, he gone,

Will not the Prince Asander be as great,

The husband of his daughter and his heir,

As he is now, and sway the power of Cherson

For our own ends, and cast to all the winds

This foul enforcèd compact, and o'erturn

This commonwealth of curs? I will stake my life

That three years shall not pass ere he is King

Of Cherson in possession, and at once

Of Bosphorus next heir.

"The tongue hath sworn, the mind remains unsworn,"

So says their poet.

Asan.

I'll have none of it.

I am not all Greek, but part Cimmerian,

And scorn to break my word.

Let us face ruin, father, not deceit.

King. My noble son, I love thee.

Lys.

Good my liege,

And thou, my Lord Asander, ponder it.

Consider our poor country's gaping wounds,

And what a remedy lies to our hands.

I will die willingly if I devise not

A scheme to bend these upstarts to your will.

[Exeunt omnes.

[Scene II.]—Outside the palace.

Megacles and Courtiers.

Meg. Well, my lords, and so it is all settled. We must all be on board in half an hour. His Altitude the Prince sails at once for Cherson, and with a view to his immediate marriage. Was ever such a rash step heard of? Not twenty-four hours to get ready the marriage equipment of a Prince of Bosphorus. Well, well, I dare say they would be glad enough to take him with no rag to his back. I dare say these rascally republicans would know no better if he were to be married in his everyday suit.

1st Court. I' faith, I should never have dreamt it. Asander, who is the boldest huntsman and the bravest soldier, and the best of good fellows, to go and tie himself to the apron-strings of a Greek girl, a tradesman's daughter from Cherson, of all places on earth! Pah! it makes me sick!

2nd Court. But I hear she is beautiful as Artemis, and——Well, we are all young or have been, and beauty is a strong loadstone to such metal as the Prince's.

3rd Court. Nay, he has never set eyes on her; and, for that matter, the Lady Irene was handsome enough in all conscience, and a jovial young gentlewoman to boot. Ye gods! do you mind how she sighed for him and pursued him? It was a sight to please the goddess Aphrodite herself. But then, our good Asander, who had only to lift up his little finger, was so cold and positively forbidding, that I once came upon the poor lady crying her eyes out in a passion of mortified feeling.

1st Court. Ay, she was from this outlandish Cherson, was not she? Aphrodite was a Greek woman also, remember.

2nd Court. So she was. I had quite forgotten where the lady came from. Well, if she is there now, and cannot get her Prince, and would like a gay, tolerably well-favoured young fellow for a lover, I suppose she need go no further than the present company.

Meg. My lords, I pray you leave these frivolities, and let us come to serious matters. Think, I beg you, in what a painful position I am placed. I am to go, without proper notice, as Master of the Ceremonies of the Court of Bosphorus, to conduct an important Court-ceremonial with a pack of scurvy knaves, who, I will be bound, hardly know the difference between an Illustrious and a Respectable, or a Respectable and an Honourable. I must do my best to arrange all decently and in order, and as near as may be to the Imperial model, and all these matters I have to devise on shipboard, tossed about on that villanous Euxine, with a smell of pitch everywhere, and sea-sickness in my stomach. And when I get to Cherson, if ever I do get there alive, I have not the faintest idea whom I am to consult with—whether there is a Count of the Palace or anybody, in fact. I dare say there is nobody; I am sure there is nobody. A marriage of the heir apparent is a very serious affair, let me tell you. What a comfort it is that I have got the last edition of that precious work of the divine Theodosius on Dignities! If it were not for that, I should go mad.

1st Court. My good Megacles, I warn you the Prince cares as little for etiquette as he does for love-making.

Meg. Very likely, and that makes my position so difficult. Just reflect for a moment. When we go ashore at Cherson, I suppose we shall be received by the authorities?

2nd Court. Surely, good Megacles.

Meg. Then, how many steps should Prince Asander take to meet his father-in-law Lamachus—eh? And how many steps should Lamachus take? You never gave the matter a thought? Of course not. And these are questions to be settled on the spot, and scores like them.

3rd Court. I dare say it won't matter at all, or very little.

Meg. Matter very little, indeed! very little, forsooth! Why, in the name of all the saints, do not alliances fall through for less? Are not bloody wars fought for less? Do I not remember the sad plight of the Grand Chamberlain, when the Illustrious Leo, the Pro-Consul of Macedonia, had a meeting at Court with the Respectable the Vice-Prefect of Pannonia? Now, the Pro-Consul should have taken four steps forward, as being the most noble, the Vice-Prefect five. But, the Vice-Prefect being a tall man, and the Pro-Consul a short one, the Grand Chamberlain did not sufficiently measure their distances; and so when they had taken but four steps each, there were the two Dignitaries bolt upright, face to face, glaring at each other, and no room to take the fraction of a foot pace more.

1st Court. Faith, a very laughable situation, good Megacles. Was it hard to settle?

Meg. I should think it was hard to settle. No one could interfere; the Book of Ceremonies was sent for, and was silent. There was nothing for it but that the Emperor, after half an hour, broke up the Court in confusion, and those two remained where they were till it was quite dark, and then they got away, no one knows how. But what came of it? For fifteen years there was war and bloodshed between the provinces, and but for the invasion of the Goths, there would be to this day. Matter little, indeed! Why, you foolish youngster, ceremony is everything in life. To understand Precedence aright is to know the secrets of nature. The order of Precedence is the order of Creation. It is, in fact, a very cosmogony. Oh, a noble science! a noble science!

1st Court. Right, good Megacles, to magnify your office. Bravery is nothing; goodness is nothing; beauty is a foolish dream. Give us Ceremony, Ceremony, more Ceremony; it is the salt of life.

Meg. A very intelligent youth. But here comes the King.

Enter the King, Asander, and Lysimachus.

Asan. My liege, I do your will,

Though with a heavy heart. Farewell, my father.

If I must bid farewell to this dear City,

Which nourished me from childhood, 'tis to save it,

Not otherwise, and thou my sire and King.

From thee I do not part, and oftentimes,

If the saints will, I yet shall welcome thee,

When all our foes are routed and our troubles

Fled like some passing storm-cloud, to my hearth,

And set thy heir upon thy knees, a Prince

Of Bosphorus and Cherson.

King.

Good, my son.

I pray God keep you, for I dimly fear,

So dark a presage doth obscure my mind,

That we shall meet no more.

Lys.

My honoured liege,

These are the figments of a mind which grief

Hath part disordered. Thou shalt see thy son,

Trust me for it; I swear it. One thing more

Remains. I know what 'tis to be a youth

As yet untouched by love; I know what charm

Lies in the magic of a woman's eyes

For a young virgin heart. I pray you, sir,

Swear to me by the saints, that, come what may,

For no allurement which thy new life brings thee,

The love of wife or child, wilt thou forget

Our Bosphorus, but still wilt hold her weal

Above all other objects of thy love

In good or adverse fortune.

Asan.

Nay, my lord,

There is no need for oaths; yet will I swear it,

Here on this soldier's cross.

[Makes a cross with the hilt of his sword.

Farewell, my father,

I mar my manhood, staying.

King.

Farewell, son.

Let my old eyes fix on thee till thou goest

Beneath the farthest verge. Good Megacles,

And you brave gentlemen, be faithful all

To me and to your Prince.

Lys.

My Lord Asander,

Remember!

END OF ACT I.

[ ACT II.]

[Scene I.]—Lamachus' palace, Cherson.

Gycia and Irene.

Gycia.

Sweetest Irene,

What joy it is to see thee once again

After so long an absence! We had grown

Together on one stalk so long, since first

Our girlish lives began to burst to flower,

That it was hard to part us. But methinks

That something of the rose from off thy cheek

Has faded, and its rounded outline fair

Seems grown a little thinner.

Ire.

Gycia,

The flower, once severed from the stalk, no more

Grows as before.

Gycia.

Thou strange girl, to put on

Such grave airs! Ah! I fear at Bosphorus

Some gay knight has bewitched thee; thou hast fallen

In love, as girls say—though what it may be

To fall in love, I know not, thank the gods,

Having much else to think of.

Ire.

Prithee, dear,

Speak not of this.

Gycia.

Ah! then I know 'tis true.

Confess what manner of thing love is.

Ire. Nay, nay, I cannot tell thee (weeping), Gycia;

Thou knowest not what thou askest. What is love?

Seek not to know it. 'Tis to be no more

Thy own, but all another's; 'tis to dwell

By day and night on one fixed madding thought,

Till the form wastes, and with the form the heart

Is warped from right to wrong, and can forget

All that it loved before, faith, duty, country,

Friendship, affection—everything but love.

Seek not to know it, dear; or, knowing it,

Be happier than I.

Gycia.

My poor Irene!

Then, 'tis indeed a misery to love.

I do repent that I have tortured thee

By such unthinking jests. Forgive me, dear,

I will speak no more of it; with me thy secret

Is safe as with a sister. Shouldst thou wish

To unburden to me thy unhappy heart,

If haply I might bring thy love to thee.

Thou shalt his name divulge and quality,

And I will do my best.

Ire.

Never, dear Gycia.

Forget my weakness; 'twas a passing folly,

I love a man who loves me not again,

And that is very hell. I would die sooner

Than breathe his name to thee. Farewell, dear lady!

Thou canst not aid me.

[Exit Irene.

Gycia.

Hapless girl! Praise Heaven

That I am fancy-free!

Enter Lamachus.

Lama. My dearest daughter, why this solemn aspect?

I have glad news for thee. Thou knowest of old

The weary jealousies, the bloody feuds,

Which 'twixt our Cherson and her neighbour City

Have raged ere I was born—nay, ere my grandsire

First saw the light of heaven. Both our States

Are crippled by this brainless enmity.

And now the Empire, now the Scythian, threatens

Destruction to our Cities, whom, united,

We might defy with scorn. Seeing this weakness,

Thy father, wishful, ere his race be run,

To save our much-loved Cherson, sent of late

Politic envoys to our former foe,

And now—i' faith, I am not so old, 'twould seem

That I have lost my state-craft—comes a message.

The Prince Asander, heir of Bosphorus,

Touches our shores to-day, and presently

Will be with us.

Gycia.

Oh, father, is it wise?

Do fire and water mingle? Does the hawk

Mate with the dove; the tiger with the lamb;

The tyrant with the peaceful commonwealth;

Fair commerce with the unfruitful works of war?

What union can there be 'twixt our fair city

And this half-barbarous race? 'Twere against nature

To bid these opposite elements combine—

The Greek with the Cimmerian. Father, pray you,

Send them away, with honour if you please,

And soothing words and gifts—only, I pray you,

Send them away, this Prince who doth despise us,

And his false retinue of slaves.

Lama.

My daughter,

Thy words are wanting in thy wonted love

And dutiful observance. 'Twere an insult

Unwashed by streams of bloodshed, should our City

Scorn thus the guests it summoned. Come they must,

And with all hospitable care and honour,

Else were thy sire dishonoured. Thou wilt give them

A fitting welcome.

Gycia.

Pardon me, my father,

That I spoke rashly. I obey thy will.

[Going.

Lama. Stay, Gycia. Dost thou know what 'tis to love?

Gycia. Ay, thee, dear father.

Lama.

Nay, I know it well.

But has no noble youth e'er touched thy heart?

Gycia. None, father, Heaven be praised! The young Irene

Was with me when thou cam'st, and all her life

Seems blighted by this curse of love—for one

Whose name she hides, with whom in Bosphorus

She met, when there she sojourned. Her young brother,

The noble Theodorus, whom thou knowest,

Lets all the world go by him and grows pale

For love, and pines, and wherefore?—For thy daughter,

Who knows not what love means, and cannot brook

Such brain-sick folly. Nay, be sure, good father,

I love not thus, and shall not.

Lama.

Well, well, girl,

Thou wilt know it yet. I fetter not thy choice,

But if thou couldst by loving bind together

Not two hearts only, but opposing peoples;

Supplant by halcyon days long years of strife,

And link them in unbroken harmony;—

Were this no glory for a woman, this

No worthy price of her heart?

Gycia.

Tell me, I pray,

What mean you by this riddle?

Lama.

Prince Asander

Comes here to ask your hand, and with it take

A gracious dower of peace and amity.

He does not ask thee to forsake thy home,

But leaves for thee his own. All tongues together

Are full of praise of him: virgin in love,

A brave youth in the field, as we have proved

In many a mortal fight; a face and form

Like a young god's. I would, my love, thy heart

Might turn to him, and find thy happiness

In that which makes me happy. I am old

And failing, and I fain would see thee blest

Before I die, and at thy knees an heir

To all my riches, and the State of Cherson

From anxious cares delivered, and through thee.

Gycia. Father, we are of the Athenian race,

Which was the flower of Hellas. Ours the fame

Of Poets, Statesmen, Orators, whose works

And thoughts upon the forehead of mankind

Shine like a precious jewel; ours the glory

Of those great Soldiers who by sea and land

Scattered the foemen to the winds of heaven,

First in the files of time. And though our mother,

Our Athens, sank, crushed by the might of Rome,

What is Rome now?—An Empire rent in twain;

An Empire sinking 'neath the unwieldy weight

Of its own power; an Empire where the Senate

Ranks lower than the Circus, and a wanton

Degrades the Imperial throne. But though to its fall

The monster totters, this our Cherson keeps

The bravery of old, and still maintains

The old Hellenic spirit and some likeness

Of the fair Commonwealth which ruled the world.

Surely, my father, 'tis a glorious spring

Drawn from the heaven-kissed summits whence we come;

And shall we, then, defile our noble blood

By mixture with this upstart tyranny

Which fouls the Hellenic pureness of its source

In countless bastard channels? If our State

Ask of its children sacrifice, 'tis well.

It shall be given; only I prithee, father,

Seek not that I should with barbaric blood

Taint the pure stream, which flows from Pericles.

Let me abide unwedded, if I may,

A Greek girl as before.

Lama.

Daughter, thy choice

Is free as air to accept or to reject

This suitor; only, in the name of Cherson,

Do nothing rashly, and meanwhile take care

That nought that fits a Grecian State be wanting

To do him honour.

Gycia.

Sir, it shall be done.

[Scene II.]—Outside the palace of Lamachus.

Megacles and Courtiers.

Meg. Well, my lords, and so this is the palace. A grand palace, forsooth, and a fine reception to match! Why, these people are worse than barbarians. They are worse than the sea, and that was inhospitable enough. The saints be praised that that is over, at any rate. Oh, the intolerable scent of pitch, and the tossing and the heaving! Heaven spare me such an ordeal again! I thought I should have died of the smells. And here, can it be? Is it possible that there is a distinct odour of—pah! what? Oils, as I am a Christian, and close to the very palace of the Archon! What a detestable people! Some civet, good friends, some civet!

1st Court. Here it is, good Megacles. You did not hope, surely, to find republicans as sweet as those who live cleanly under a King? But here are some of their precious citizens at last.

Enter Citizens hurriedly.

1st Citizen. I pray you, forgive us, gentlemen. We thought the Prince would take the land at the other quay, and had prepared our welcome accordingly.

Meg. Who are these men?

1st Court. They are honourable citizens of Cherson.

Meg. Citizens! They will not do for me. The Count of the Palace should be here with the Grand Chamberlain to meet my Master.

1st Cit. Your Master? Oh! then you are a serving man, as it would seem. Well, my good man, when comes your Master?

Meg. Oh, the impertinent scoundrel! Do you know, sir, who I am?

1st Cit. Probably the Prince's attendant, his lackey, or possibly his steward. I neither know nor care.

Meg. Oh, you barbarian! Where is the Count of the Palace, I say?

1st Cit. Now, citizen, cease this nonsense. We have not, thank Heaven, any such foolish effeminate functionary.

Meg. No Count of the Palace? Heavens! what a crew! Well, if there is none, where are your leading nobles? where the Respectable and Illustrious? You are certainly not Illustrious nor Respectable; you probably are not even Honourable, or if you are you don't look it.

1st Cit. What, you wretched popinjay of a serving man! You dare address a Greek citizen in that way? Take that, and that!

[Beats him.

1st Court. Draw, gentlemen! These are ruffians!

[They fight.

Enter Asander.

Asan. Put up your swords, gentlemen. Why, fellows, what is this? Is this your hospitality to your guests?

1st Cit. Nay, sir; but this servant of yours has been most insolent, and has abused and insulted our State and its manners. He told us that we were not men of honour; and some of us, sir, are young, and have hot blood, and, as Greek citizens of Cherson, will not bear insults.

Asan. Insolent upstarts, you are not worthy of our swords! Come, my Lord Megacles, heed them not. Here is their master.

Enter Lamachus and Senators.

Lama. We bid you heartfelt welcome, Prince, to Cherson.

That we have seemed to fail to do you honour

Comes of the spite of fortune. For your highness,

Taking the land at the entrance of the port,

Missed what of scanty pomp our homely manners

Would fain have offered; but we pray you think

'Twas an untoward accident, no more.

Welcome to Cherson, Prince!

Asan.

Methinks, my lord,

Scarce in the meanest State is it the custom

To ask the presence of a noble guest

With much insistance, and when he accepts

The summons, and has come, to set on him

With insolent dogs like these.

Lama.

Nay, Prince, I pray you,

What is it that has been?

Asan.

Our chamberlain

Was lately, in your absence, which your highness

So glibly doth excuse, set on and beaten

By these dogs here.

Lama.

Nay, sir, they are not dogs,

But citizens of honour; yet indeed

Wanting, I fear, in that deep courtesy

Which from a stranger and a guest refuses

To take provoked offence. My lord, indeed

I am ashamed that citizens of Cherson

Should act so mean a part. Come, Prince, I pray you

Forget this matter, and be sure your coming

Fills me with joy. Go, tell the Lady Gycia

The Prince is safe in Cherson.

Meg. My Lord Asander, remember what is due to yourself and Bosphorus. Remember, when this merchant's daughter comes, you must not treat her as an equal. Courtesy to a woman is all very well, but rank has greater claims still, especially when you have to deal with such people as these. Now, remember, you must make no obeisance at all; and if you advance to meet her more—(Enter Gycia, Irene, Melissa, and Ladies. Irene, seeing Asander, faints, and is withdrawn, Gycia supporting her. Confusion.)—than one step, you are lost for ever. These are the truly important things.

Asan.

Good Megacles,

Forewarned I am forearmed.

(Aside) Thou fluent trickster!

Fit head of such a State! I would to Heaven

I had never come!

Re-enter Gycia.

Nay, nay, I thank the saints

That I have come. Who is this peerless creature?

Is this the old man's daughter?

Lama.

Prince Asander,

This is my daughter, Gycia. Of the prince

Thou hast heard many a time, my daughter.

Gycia (confused).

Ay!—

Indeed I——

Lama.

Come, my girl, thou art not used

To fail of words.

Asan. Nay, sir, I pray you press her not to speak.

And yet I fain would hear her. Artemis

Showed not so fair, nor with a softer charm

Came Hebe's voice.

Gycia.

Nay, sir, I did not know

A soldier could thus use a courtier's tongue.

Asan. If being bred in courts would give me power

To put my thought in words, then would I fain

Be courtier for thy sake.

Gycia.

Ah, sir, you jest.

The ways of courts we know not, but I bid thee

Good welcome to our city, and I prithee

Command whatever service our poor Cherson

Can give whilst thou art here. (To Megacles) Pray you, my lord,

Accompany his Highness and our household

To the apartments which our serving men

Have now prepared. They are but poor, I know,

For one who lives the stately life of kings;

But such as our poor means can reach they are.

Meg. My lady, I have lived long time in courts,

But never, in the palaces of Rome,

Have I seen beauty such as yours, or grace

More worthy of a crown. (To Melissa) To you, my lady,

I bow with most respectful homage. Surely

The goddess Heré has not left the earth

While you are here, I humbly take my leave

For the present of your Highness with a thousand

Obeisances, and to your gracious father

Humbly I bend the knee. My Lord Asander,

I do attend your Highness.

Mel.

What a man!

What noble manners! What a polished air!

How poor to such a courtier our rude Court

And humble manners show!

Asan.

Good Megacles,

Get me to my chamber—quick, ere I o'erpass

All reasonable limits. I am sped;

I am myself no more.

Lama.

Farewell awhile.

We will welcome you at supper.

[Exeunt all but Lamachus and Gycia.

Lama.

Well, my daughter,

What think you of this hot-brained youth? I' faith,

I like his soldier's bluntness, and he seemed

To be a little startled, as I thought,

By something which he saw when thou didst come.

Perchance it was the charm of one who came

Among thy ladies took him.

Gycia.

Nay, my father,

I think not so indeed.

Lama.

Ah! well, I am old,

And age forgets. But this I tell thee, daughter:

If in my youth I had seen a young man's gaze

Grow troubled, and he should start, and his cheek pale,

A young girl drawing near, I had almost thought

Him suddenly in love.

Gycia.

Oh, nay indeed!

Who should be favoured thus? There is no woman

In our poor Cherson worthy that his gaze

Might rest on her a moment.

Lama.

Ah, my girl,

Is it thus with thee? They say that love is blind,

And thou art blind, therefore it may be, Gycia,

That thou too art in love. Tell me how it is.

Couldst thou love this man, if he loved thee?

Gycia (throwing herself on her father's neck). Father!

Lama. Say no more, girl. I am not so old as yet

That I have quite forgotten my own youth,

When I was young and loved; and if I err not,

I read love's fluttering signals on thy cheek,

And in his tell-tale eyes. But listen! Music!

We must prepare for supper with our guests.

[Scene III.]—A street in Cherson.

Megacles; afterwards Melissa.

Megacles. Well, it is time for the banquet. Somehow, this place improves on acquaintance, after all. Poor, of course, and rude to a degree. But truly the Lady Gycia is fair—as fair, indeed, as if she was the Emperor's daughter. She is a beautiful creature, truly. But give me that delightful lady-in-waiting of hers, the Lady Melissa. What grace! what rounded proportions! I like mature beauty. She is as like the late divine Empress as two peas, and I thought—I dare say I was wrong, but I really thought—I made an impression. Poor things! poor things! They can't help themselves. We courtiers really ought to be very careful not to abuse our power. It is positive cruelty. The contest is too unequal. It makes one inclined sometimes to put on the manners of a clown, so as to give them a chance. Nay, nay, you might as well ask the Ethiopian to change his skin as a courtier his fine manners. By all the saints! here she comes in propriâ personâ.

Enter the Lady Melissa.

Mel. Heavens! it is the strange nobleman. I am sure I am all of a flutter.

Meg. (advancing with formal bows). My lady, I am enchanted (bows again; then takes several steps to the right, then to the left, and bows). What a wonderful good fortune! Ever since I had the honour to see you just now, I have only lived in the hope of seeing you again.

Mel. (curtsying). Oh, my lord, you great courtiers can find little to interest you in our poor little Court and its humble surroundings.

Meg. Madam, I beg! not a word! I was just thinking that you exactly resembled the late divine Empress.

Mel. Oh, my lord, forbear! The Empress! and I have never been out of Cherson! You flatter me, you flatter me, indeed. That is the way with all you courtiers from Constantinople. Now, if you had said that my Lady Gycia was beautiful——

Meg. My dear lady, I do not admire her in the least. She has no manners, really—nothing, at any rate, to attract a man of the great world; a mere undeveloped girl, with all the passion to come. No, no, my good lady, give me a woman who has lived. We courtiers know manners and breeding when we see them, and yours are simply perfect, not to say Imperial.

Mel. What a magnificent nature! Well, to say the truth, the Lady Gycia is not at all to my taste. It is a cold, insipid style of beauty, at the best; and she is as self-willed and as straitlaced as a lady abbess. I suppose she is well matched with the Prince Asander?

Meg. Well, he is a handsome lad enough, and virtuous, but weak, as youth always is, and pliable. Now, for myself, I am happy to say I am steadfast and firm as a rock.

Mel. Ah, my lord, if all women saw with my eyes, there would not be such a run after youth. Give me a mature man, who has seen the world and knows something of life and manners.

Meg. What an intelligent creature! Madam, your sentiments do you credit. I beg leave to lay at your feet the assurance of my entire devotion.

Mel. Oh, my lord, you are too good! Why, what a dear, condescending creature!—the manners of a Grand Chamberlain and the features of an Apollo!

Meg. Permit me to enrol myself among the ranks of your humble slaves and admirers (kneels and kisses her hand). But hark! the music, and I must marshal the guests to the banquet. Permit me to marshal you.

[Exeunt with measured steps.

[Scene IV.]—The garden without the banqueting-room. Moonlight. The sea in the distance, with the harbour.

Asander and Gycia descend the steps of the palace slowly together. Music heard from within the hall.

Asan. Come, Gycia, let us take the soft sweet air

Beneath the star of love. The festive lights

Still burn within the hall, where late we twain

Troth-plighted sate, and I from out thine eyes

Drank long, deep draughts of love stronger than wine.

And still the minstrels sound their dulcet strains,

Which then I heard not, since my ears were filled

With the sweet music of thy voice. My sweet,

How blest it is, left thus alone with love,

To hear the love-lorn nightingales complain

Beneath the star-gemmed heavens, and drink cool airs

Fresh from the summer sea! There sleeps the main

Which once I crossed unwilling. Was it years since,

In some old vanished life, or yesterday?

When saw I last my father and the shores

Of Bosphorus? Was it days since, or years,

Tell me, thou fair enchantress, who hast wove

So strong a spell around me?

Gycia.

Nay, my lord;

Tell thou me first what magic 'tis hath turned

A woman who had scoffed so long at love

Until to-day—to-day, whose blessed night

Is hung so thick with stars—to feel as I,

That I have found the twin life which the gods

Retained when mine was fashioned, and must turn

To what so late was strange, as the flower turns

To the sun; ay, though he withers her, or clouds

Come 'twixt her and her light, turns still to him.

And only gazing lives.

Asan.

Thou perfect woman!

And art thou, then, all mine? What have I done,

What have I been, that thus the favouring gods

And the consentient strength of hostile States

Conspire to make me happy? Ah! I fear,

Lest too great happiness be but a snare

Set for our feet by Fate, to take us fast

And then despoil our lives.

Gycia.

My love, fear not.

We have found each other, and no power has strength

To put our lives asunder.

Asan.

Thus I seal

Our contract with a kiss.

[Kisses her.

Gycia.

Oh, happiness!

To love and to be loved! And yet methinks

Love is not always thus. To some he brings

Deep disappointment only, and the pain

Of melancholy years. I have a lady

Who loves, but is unloved. Poor soul! she lives

A weary life. Some youth of Bosphorus

Stole her poor heart.

Asan.

Of Bosphorus saidst thou?

And her name is?

Gycia.

Irene. Didst thou know her?

Asan. Nay, love, or if I did I have forgot her.

Gycia. Poor soul! to-day when first we met, she saw

Her lover 'midst thy train and swooned away.

Asan. Poor heart! This shall be seen to. Tell me, Gycia,

Didst love me at first sight?

Gycia.

Unreasonable,

To bid me tell what well thou knowest already.

Thou know'st I did. And when did love take thee?

Asan. I was wrapt up in spleen and haughty pride,

When, looking up, a great contentment took me,

Shed from thy gracious eyes. Nought else I saw,

Than thy dear self.

Gycia. And hadst thou ever loved?

Asan.

Never, dear Gycia.

I have been so rapt in warlike enterprises

Or in the nimble chase, all my youth long,

That never had I looked upon a woman

With thought of love before, though it may be

That some had thought of me, being a Prince

And heir of Bosphorus.

Gycia.

Not for thyself;

That could not be. Deceiver!

Asan.

Nay, indeed!

Gycia. Oh, thou dear youth!

Asan.

I weary for the day

When we our mutual love shall crown with marriage.

Gycia. Not yet, my love, we are so happy now.

Asan. But happier then, dear Gycia.

Gycia.

Nay, I know not

If I could bear it and live. But hark, my love!

The music ceases, and the sated guests

Will soon be sped. Thou must resume thy place

Of honour for a little. I must go,

If my reluctant feet will bear me hence,

To dream of thee the livelong night. Farewell,

Farewell till morning. All the saints of heaven

Have thee in keeping!

Asan.

Go not yet, my sweet;

And yet I bid thee go. Upon thy lips

I set love's seal, thus, thus.

[Kisses her. They embrace.

Good night!

Gycia.

Good night!

[Exit Gycia.

Enter Irene unperceived.

Asan. Ah, sweetest, best of women! paragon

Of all thy sex, since first thy ancestress

Helen, the curse of cities and of men,

Marshalled the hosts of Greece! But she brought discord;

Thou, by thy all-compelling sweetness, peace

And harmony for strife. What have I done,

I a rough soldier, like a thousand others

Upon our widespread plains, to have won this flower

Of womanhood—this jewel for the front

Of knightly pride to wear, and, wearing it,

Let all things else go by? To think that I,

Fool that I was, only a few hours since,

Bemoaned the lot which brought me here and bade me

Leave my own land, which now sinks fathoms deep

Beyond my memory's depths, and scarce would deign

To obey thee, best of fathers, when thy wisdom

Designed to make me blest! Was ever woman

So gracious and so comely? And I scorned her

For her Greek blood and love of liberty!

Fool! purblind fool! there is no other like her;

I glory being her slave.

Irene. I pray you, pardon me, my Lord Asander.

I seek the Lady Gycia; is she here?

Asan. No, madam; she has gone, and with her taken

The glory of the night. But thou dost love her—

Is it not so, fair lady?

Ire.

Ay, my lord,

For we have lived together all our lives;

I could not choose but love.

Asan.

Well said indeed.

Tell me, and have I seen thy face before?

A something in it haunts me.

Ire.

Ay, my lord.

Am I forgot so soon?

Asan.

Indeed! Thy name?

Where have I seen thee?

Ire.

Where? Dost thou, then, ask?

Asan. Ay; in good truth, my treacherous memory

Betrays me here.

Ire.

Thou mayest well forget

My name, if thou hast quite forgot its owner.

[Weeps.

I am called Irene.

Asan.

Strange! the very name

My lady did relate to me as hers

Who bears a hopeless love. Weep not, good lady;

Take comfort. Heaven is kind.

Ire.

Nay, my good lord,

What comfort? He I love loves not again,

Or not me, but another.

Asan.

Ah, poor lady!

I pity you indeed, now I have known

True recompense of love.

Ire.

Dost thou say pity?

And pity as they tell's akin to love.

What comfort is for me, my Lord Asander,

Who love one so exalted in estate

That all return of honourable love

Were hopeless, as if I should dare to raise

My eyes to Cæsar's self? What comfort have I,

If lately I have heard this man I love

Communing with his soul, when none seemed near,

Betray a heart flung prostrate at the feet

Of another, not myself; and well I know

Not Lethe's waters can wash out remembrance

Of that o'ermastering passion—naught but death

Or hopeless depths of crime?

Asan.

Lady, I pity

Thy case, and pray thy love may meet return.

Ire. Then wilt thou be the suppliant to thyself,

And willing love's requital, Oh, requite it!

Thou art my love, Asander—thou, none other,

There is naught I would not face, if I might win thee.

That I a woman should lay bare my soul;

Disclose the virgin secrets of my heart

To one who loves me not, and doth despise

The service I would tender!

Asan.

Cease, I pray you;

These are distempered words.

Ire.