Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. All other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Poetical Works
of
ROBERT BRIDGES

Volume VI

London
Smith, Elder & Co.
15 Waterloo Place
1905

OXFORD: HORACE HART
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY

POETICAL WORKS OF
ROBERT BRIDGES

VOLUME THE SIXTH
CONTAINING

LIST OF PREVIOUS EDITIONS

FEAST OF BACCHUS.

1. THE FEAST OF BACCHUS. By Robert Bridges. Privately printed by H. Daniel: Oxford, 1889. Small 4to

2. THE F.O.B. A Comedy in the Latin manner and partly translated from Terence. By Robert Bridges. Published by Geo. Bell & Sons, Covent Garden, and J. & E. Bumpus, Lim., Holborn Bars. 4to. [1894.]

NERO.

1. NERO. Part 2. From the death of Burrus to the death of Seneca, comprising the conspiracy of Piso. Published by Geo. Bell & Sons, and F. & E. Bumpus. [1894.]

THE FEAST OF
BACCHUS

A COMEDY
IN THE LATIN MANNER

&

PARTLY TRANSLATED FROM
TERENCE

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

The scene is in a suburb of Athens, opposite the house of Chremes (L): on the other side is Menedemus’ garden (R): this occupies most of the back of the stage: a gate from the garden gives on the stage: between the garden and Chremes’ house a road runs down to the city.

Duration of time—a few hours of one day. There is no pause in the action, and the whole may be played continuously with a formal break at the end of each act.

THE FEAST OF
BACCHUS

ACT · I

MENEDEMUS seen at work in his garden.

CHREMES calling to him over the hedge.

CHREMES.

GOOD morning, sir! good morning!

(Aside.) He does not hear me.—Sir!

Good morning!

(Aside.) No: he goes on digging away for his life—

Ho! Menedemus! Ho!

MENEDEMUS.

Who is it calls?

Chr.’Tis I.

Men. Chremes! why, what’s the matter?

Chr.I only said good morning.

I wish you the compliments of the day. ’Tis the feast of Bacchus.

Men. I thank you. The same to you.

Chr.I had something to say besides,

If you are at leisure.

Men.Now?

Chr.Yes, now.

Men.You see I am busy:

But if ’tis a matter of any importance—

Chr.Indeed it is.

Men. Pray step to the gate: I’ll open it for you.

Chr.You are very good.

(Aside.) How fagged he looks!

Men.Come in. You will not think me rude,

If I ask you to tell your errand while I dig.

11

Chr.Excuse me,

My good friend; and your spade, pray you, awhile put down.

You must stop working.

Men.No: I cannot rest a minute.

(Taking the spade.)

Chr. I can’t allow it indeed.

Men.Now, sir, you wrong me.

Chr.Hey!

My word! what a weight it is!

Men.It’s not too heavy for me.

Chr. Come! what’s all this? well take it again, but don’t refuse me

A moment’s attention.

Men.Well!

Chr.’Tis a matter concerns you nearly:

So leave your work, and come outside, and sit on the bench,

Where we may talk.

Men.Whatever you have to say, Chremes,

May be said here.

20

Chr.No doubt; but better as I propose:

I will not detain you long.

Men.What is it?

Chr.Sit you down.

Men. You have something to say.

Chr.Not while you stand.

Men. (sitting). Well, as you will.

And now in as few words as may be . . . I am at your service.—

Explain.

Chr. Menedemus, although our acquaintance has been but short,

And only dates from the day you bought this piece of land.

And came to live close by me: for little or nought but that

Occasioned it, as you know: yet my respect for you,

Or else your being a neighbour, for that itself, I take it,

Counts in some sort as friendship, makes me bold and free

To give you a piece of advice: the fact is, you seem to me

To be working here in a manner, which both to your time of life

And station, is most unsuitable. What, in Heaven’s name,

Can be your object? what do you drive at? To guess your age

You are sixty years at least. There’s no one hereabouts

Can shew a better farm, nor more servants upon it:

And yet you do the work yourself, as tho’ you had none.

Never do I go out, however early in the morning,

Never come home again, however late at night,

But here I see you digging, hoeing, or at all events

Toiling at something or other. You are never a moment idle,

Nor shew regard for yourself. Now all this can’t be done

For pleasure, that I am sure of, and as for any profit,

Why, if you only applied half the energy

To stirring up your servants, both you and your farm

Would do much better.

Men. Have you so much spare time then, Chremes,

Left from your own affairs to meddle with other people’s?

The which moreover do not concern you.

Chr.I am a man.

Nought which concerns mankind concerns not me, I think.

Ere I advise, I’d first enquire what ’tis you do;

If well, to learn by example; if ill, then to dissuade.

Men. My duty is this: do you as best may suit yourself.

Chr. What man can say ’tis right for him to torment himself?

Men. I can.

Chr.If it is any sorrow or trouble that has driven you to this,

I am very sorry. But . . . what is it? Tell me, I pray.

Whatever can you have done, that calls for such a penance?

Men. Ay me!

Chr. Come! don’t give way: confide to me this affair.

Trust me: keep nothing back, I entreat you: have no fear.

Surely I may either help, or advise, or at least console you.

Men. You really wish to know?

Chr.Yes, for the reason I gave.

Men. I’ll tell you.

Chr.What is it?

Men.I have an only son, Chremes—

Alas what say I? have? had I should rather say;

For whether now I have or not, I cannot tell.

Chr. How so?

Men.You shall hear: attend. There came to live in the city

A poor old widow woman from Corinth. She had a daughter,

With whom my son, who is just of age, fell madly in love,

Was even at the point to marry: and all without my knowledge.

However it came to my ears; and then I began to treat him

Unkindly, and not in the way to deal with a love-sick lad;

But after the usual dictatorial manner of fathers.

I never left him in peace. Don’t think, my fine fellow,

I’d say, that you’ll be allowed to continue behaving thus,

While I am alive to prevent it; running after a girl

And talking of marrying too: you are very much mistaken,

Clinia, if you think that. You don’t know me. I am glad

To have you called my son, while you respect your honour;

But if you once forget it, I shall find a means,

And one you will not like, of asserting my own. All this

I see very plainly, I said, has come from idle habits.

You have not enough to do. When I was your age

I did not fritter away my time in making love;

But finding my pockets empty, set out for Asia,

And won myself distinction and fortune in foreign service.

At last, Chremes, it came to this: the poor young fellow,

Continually hearing the same thing put so strongly to him,

Gave in: he thought my age and due regard for his welfare

Were likely to shew him a wiser and more prudent course

Than his own feelings;—he left the country, and went to fight

Under the king of Persia.

Chr.Indeed?

Men.He started off

One day without a word. He has now been gone six months.

90

Chr. Both were to blame; however I think the step that he took

Was the act of a modest and not unmanly disposition.

Men. I enquired of some of his friends, and when I learnt the truth,

I returned home to my house miserable, my mind

Unhinged—distracted with grief. I sat me down; my servants

Came running to know my pleasure; some drew off my shoes,

Others were hastening to and fro to prepare my dinner,

Each anxious by doing his best to lessen the pain

Of my great misfortune: in vain: the sight of them made me think,

‘What! is it then for me alone that all these persons

So busily are engaged? all for my comfort?

For me is it that so many women are spinning; for me

This great household expense & luxury are maintained?

And my only son, who in all should equally share with me—

Nay, should have the larger share, since at his age he is able

Better to use such things & enjoy them—him, poor boy,

I have driven out of the house by my unkindness. No,

I had rather die than do it. While he leads a life

Of poverty & of hardship, exiled from home & country

By my severe treatment, so long will I visit

His punishment on myself, labouring, fasting, saving,

Serving and slaving for him.’ I began there and then;

I stripped the house for a sale, left nothing in it, not a dish

To eat off, not a coat to put on. I collected everything:

And as for the men and maids, excepting such as were able

To work the cost of their living out on my fields, I sent them

To market and sold them, I put up a notice, THIS HOUSE TO LET;

And setting the price of all, some fifty talents, together,

I bought this farm, and am well convinced at heart, Chremes,

That in making myself miserable I act more justly

Towards him, my absent son; and that ’twere crime to indulge

In any comfort, till he return home safe again

To share it with me.

Chr.I see that you are a kind father;

And he, I think, had been a dutiful son, if treated

With moderation and judgment: but look, you did not know

Each other well enough: a common fault to observe

In family life, and one destructive of happiness.

You never let him perceive how dear he was to you,

So he dared not confide in you, when it was his duty:

To have done the one or other had spared you this misfortune.

130

Men. ’Tis as you say, I admit; but I was the more to blame.

Chr. True. And to lose a child is deplorable. I had myself

The same misfortune without my fault. A daughter it was,

Stolen from me I know not how: my second child, a babe.

That’s fifteen years ago. I was living at Ephesus,

Where such events are regarded as commonish accidents.

I know not where she was taken, have never heard of her since;

And tho’ I have not forgot it, my own experience is,

One does entirely get over the sort of thing—I assure you.

Men. ’Tis kind of you thus to recall your sorrow to comfort mine.

My condolence can make a distinction: the child you lost

Was a daughter, a babe, you say. Clinia was my only son,

Grown up. Besides you admit you were not at all to blame:

I brought this on myself. See, friend, the difference!

Chr. However I see no reason yet to despair, Menedemus.

You will have him safe at home again, and soon, I am sure.

Men. The gods grant it.

Chr.They will. And now, ’tis the feast of Bacchus;

We keep a birthday too. I hope, if it is agreeable,

That you will come and dine at my house.

Men.I can’t.

Chr.Why not?

Do pray now, after all you have done, allow yourself

This little relaxation. Think your absent son

Is asking you through me.

Men.It is not right that I,

Who have driven him into hardships, should spend my time in pleasures.

Chr. You will not change your mind?

Men.No.

Chr.Then I’ll say good-bye.

[Exit.

Men. Good-bye.

Chr.A tear, I do believe; I am sorry for him.

’Tis lamentable to see goodness punished thus

For lack of a little wisdom. Folly brings remorse,

And again remorse folly: they tread the circle; and he

Would mend one fault by another, and on himself revenge

The wrong he has done his son. And that wrong too was not

A real unkindness: no: mere want of common sense;

It’s what I am always saying,—that is evil. To quote

From the very profoundest of authors, my favourite Sophocles,

Wisdom is far away the chiefest of happiness.

Of course a man may be happy, although he has lost his son,

If it cannot be charged to his fault. In spite of the best intentions

Menedemus is much to blame. Poor fellow, but I may assist him.

And if I can, I will. I love to help a neighbour;

’Tis pleasure as well as duty: because it is a pleasure

To be wiser than others, and even a friend’s predicament

Increases the satisfaction I feel, when I think how well

My own household is managed. But stay, ’tis time I went

To see that all’s in order for the feast we hold to-night.

There are one or two old friends, who’d take it much amiss

Did I not ask them. Now at once I’ll go and find them.

Enter Pamphilus and Clinia.

PAMPHILUS.

That queer old boy’s my father: didn’t you know him?

CLINIA.

No.

How should I? but his name I know—Chremes.

Pam.You have it.

Take care he hear not your name.

Clin.Why so, Pamphilus?

What can he know of me? and if he knew . . .

Pam.See, Clinia,

That is our house, & here the hedge & paling bounds

Your father’s.

Clin.Here?

Pam.You see what a stroke of luck it was

To meet me when you did. You must have betrayed yourself

By making enquiries, but I at the merest hint have led you

Straight to the place: besides, if you wish to be near your father

Without his knowing that you are returned, my governor

Can put you up.

Clin.Is it here?

Pam.Yes, there.

Clin.For heaven’s sake

Be careful; may he not see me?

Pam.If he looked over the myrtles

No doubt he might.

Clin.Hush! hush! He’ll hear you.

Pam.All serene.

He’s not this side: stand there: I’ll go & spy around.

Keep out of sight.