Scene 2
The Sea-shore.
[Enter IONE.]
ION. O wind, and do you wander all the night,
Moving the broad, black clouds, heavy and high,
And lifting, there and yonder, with a kiss,
The wet plumes of the sea? O sweet west wind,
Stay here and tell me secrets for a while!
Whence do you come and whither are you bound?
What music are you singing to yourself,
Sometimes with muffled syllables that fall,
And break their meaning on the hearts they touch?
Is this the wind that turned against her mouth
Forsaken Ariadne's wrathful sighs?
I see her leaning on her clenched right hand,
As she awakes and knows the flying sail,
And thinks that even to her has man been false,
Hatred and scorn — no sorrow, love, nor dread —
Starting in tears from both her angry orbs.
— My foot is wet! The tide is thronging up
With jocund whispers, and the press of waves
Scatters in pearly laughter on the sand.
Surely the moon is arming for the night:
O, now, I see her silver harness gleam
Behind the dusky curtains of her tent!
While the wind, swelling, sounds a trumpet-note,
She showers her bounteous shadow on the sea,
A largesse to the waves that toss their caps:
And now she leaps into the lists of heaven.
— What creature in her shadow floats this way?
It is a boat, and one sits at the helm! [Hides behind a rock.]
The sail is silken, and the hull, pearl-clad;
It leaps from wave to wave: the sweet, salt spray,
Like odoured tresses loosened in the dance,
Streams from the prow. This is some god: he lands —
If he be man, the men that I have known
Are of a lower order. How the moon
Shines on him! And his eyes drink in her light.
He cannot know our world. Now on the sea,
Now on the shore, he flings his looks about;
And yet again, the moon. What if he be
Endymion! O, would I were the moon!
What! Has he seen me?
[SARMION enters and leads her from her hiding-place.]
Are you man or god? [He makes a sign.]
Can you not speak? Poor mariner, he's dumb!
What shall I do with him? Be not afraid;
No one shall harm you, for my father owns
The land here and the shore. I left our house
Without his knowledge and against his will
That I might see the sea alone at night:
I never felt such ecstasy before:
I will frequent the strand, and with the moon
Keep company. You love the moon, I think?
GLA. [Off-stage.] Ione, Ione!
ION. My father's voice!
[Enter GLAUCUS.]
GLA. Well, why don't you introduce me?
ION. Are you angry?
GLA. O no! I have run a mile through thorns and bents and sand, but I am not angry. I may be hot and out of breath, and my head may steam like a punch-bowl, but I am not angry. I fell ten or twelve times and harrowed the soil with my countenance, but I am not angry. My daughter, sir — this is my daughter, the sauciest madcap in Naxos — runs out of the house when she should be asleep, to meet you in this unwholesome moonlight, and she asks me if I am angry! Why, sir, a man who could be angry in these circumstances would be a man of an infinitesimal mind. My body may be one bruise; my heart may be broken into cat's meat; but I am not angry: do not think it.
[IONE and GLAUCUS talk apart.]
ION. This is a god.
GLA. A what?
ION. One of the minor gods.
GLA. I wouldn't have thought it. What's his name?
ION. I do not know. He slid down a moonbeam in that boat you see, and sailed ashore five minutes ago. He has not spoken yet, nor will he speak. I think he has done something for which Jove is punishing him with dumbness.
GLA. Poor fellow! I'd sooner be blind.
ION. I believe you, father. I think you should ask him to the house.
GLA. Do you? Are they not rather ticklish customers, these gods?
ION. No; they are charming company.
GLA. Oh! — But this is an anonymous god. People would laugh at us, and call him an impostor.
ION. We can give him a name. Endymion will do.
GLA. What god is he?
ION. God of the moon.
GLA. Endymion, god of the moon. Well, I'll invite him.— Good sir — I mean, good... Ione, how shall I address him?
ION. Address him by his name.
GLA. Endymion, will your godship be pleased so far to favour my humble abode as to take up your quarters there for the night? [SARMION passes his hand through IONE's hair. GLAUCUS, aside:] Thus do the gods turn the insolence of men into courtesy. He seems smitten with Ione. Suppose, now, my daughter were to marry a god: she would become a goddess; and I, the father of a goddess and the father-in-law of a god, would, perforce, be made a god also — a minor god. I would have been contented to be a baronet; in my dreams I have sometimes beheld myself a lord; but to be a god! — Ha! You are getting on together. I wonder, now, Endymion, for what you were made dumb. Do you know the dumby alphabet? No? Well; you can write it down when we go home. Ione, I want to speak to you.
[GLAUCUS and IONE talk apart.]
GLA. Would you like your father to be a god — a minor god?
ION. No.
GLA. But I would develop godlike qualities, of which the chief is tolerance. I begin to feel more dignified and wiser already. Then, as these qualities, by friction with other gods, and a rational indulgence in ambrosia and nectar, become brighter and solider, my minority may end, and they may give me a seat at Jove's table on Olympus, Ione, think; a little intrigue has brought about a greater matter than a divorce: Juno must be old! Her successor — you do not listen: give your eyes to him and your ears to me.
ION. I will. You were saying that you would like to be a god.
GLA. After all, I am a well-made man; and Endymion looks no more.
ION. But he is disguised.
GLA. It may be that I am disguised too.
ION. I doubt it: no god could be disguised so completely as not to know his own identity.
GLA. Still, here is a god punished with dumbness : Jupiter may have punished me with oblivion of a brilliant past.
ION. What god could you possibly be?
GLA. Probably just a god. Doubtless there are gods of nothing in particular, merely decorative.
ION. Doubtless.
GLA. Well, I would rather be that than no god at all.
ION. I fear it.
GLA. Endymion, you must tell me in writing when we go home, if one of the chief minor gods was punished some fifty years ago by the loss of all knowledge of his own identity.
ION. Father, he does not know a word you say: He understands no language I can speak — [Aside.] Except that of my eyes. If I can read
The fire of his they tell me priceless tales.
[Enter SILENUS, SATYRS, and BACCHANTES.]
SIL. Ha! Ariadne! — Theseus, not yet fled? Or who are you? But you are Ariadne. [He is about to take her hand when SARMION interferes.] Bacchantes, bind him!
[After a short struggle SARMION is bound by the BACCHANTES.]
GLA. I declare! Take care what you are about, my good women; and you, old man, conduct yourself more respectfully in the presence of immortals. This is Endymion, and I am a nameless god.
SIL. Nameless and noteless, you! Endymion, this?
Never! I saw Endymion long ago
Before the stars were tarnished: with his crook
Sloped in his hand he wandered down a hill;
The night shone round him: this youth is not he.
Men are not made so now, though this is one
Who may remind me of the elder time.
But you, most lovely lady, seem to me
The very image of the golden age.
GLA. My daughter!
SIL. She is Ariadne now,
For I am Bacchus. Fill my cup again;
If I cease drinking I grow melancholy.
[A BACCHANTE fills his cup and he drinks.]
GLA. Pardon, most potent god!
[Enter SCARAMOUCH, HARLEQUIN, and COLUMBINE.]
SIL. Ha! Harlequin!
SCA. Is that Bacchus?
HAR. Yes.
SCA. Capital! — How d'ye do? How d'ye do?
SIL. What irrepressible person is this?
HAR. Scaramouch.
SIL. I do not know the name.
SCA. Lamps and limpets, no! It is not in Lemprière, but it is a good name.
SIL. It is well you think so. What are you?
SCA. I am the gentleman Harlequin told you of — he who has the honour to be your majesty's most obedient servant and impresario.
SIL. The showman! Well, I suppose there must be showmen.
SCA. Shawms and psalteries, I should think so! I can demonstrate to you that there is nothing pays but showmanship.
GLA. [Aside.] This is a wise fellow.
SIL. You shall demonstrate nothing to me; but get us all on board your vessel as soon as possible.
SCA. As practical as a man! I thought all you gods were a kind of moon-struck, plaster-of-Paris, posturing, and, to say the truth, frequently indecent parcel of patriarchs. It shall appear in your advertisement, sir, 'As practical as a man.' May I be dipped in wax if it don't. The terms, sir: do you accept the offer Harlequin made?
SIL. You must be the son of a puppet.
SCA. Puppies and patchwork, why?
SIL. From your habit of unexpected, disjointed, and inept gesticulation, which has its exact counterpart in your pattering speeches and preposterous preludes.
SCA. What am I to do? The world is old; it has been satiated with originality, and in its dotage cries bitterly for entertainment. A public man must therefore be extravagant in order to distinguish himself. My felicitous alliteration and prompt non-blasphemous oaths constitute my note, which is the literary term for trade-mark — a species of catch-word, in fact. Sweetness and light! Do you understand me?
SIL. Showman and sharper, you speak shrewdly, and I accept your terms. Come, where are your boats?
SCA. Oakum and orchids, there is only one!
SIL. One! You need a fleet.
SCA. Break me and splice me, if I understand!
SIL. How else will you ship the company before morning?
SCA. Company! — Harlequin, explain.
HAR. It is true I only bargained for Bacchus, but he seems to think I meant the whole crowd.
SIL. All, or none.
SCA. Never! There was a bargain. Business! — O sacred word! Now you attack me on my weak point, which is also my strong one. [Blows a whistle. Enter two SAILORS.] With reverential firmness remove our Bacchanalian friend. [SILENUS mesmerises the SAILORS as they advance.] Mesmers and mystogogues! None of that! Secure the god; although he nod he cannot shake the spheres.
SLRS. Ay, ay, sir.
SLR1. Our timbers are rooted.
SLR2. Our flippers are frozen to our sides.
SCA. Good, my men. I shall find you an engagement as supers when we go home; but this is not the stage.
SLRS. Ay, ay, sir.
SLR1. I'm in as good form as calfs-foot jelly, and as frisky as a pyramid.
SLR2. And I'm as strong as water, and stiffer a deal than grog.
SCA. Ha! Ha! Very fine indeed. Now, truss him up and away. Do you hear? Stop that acting.
SLRS. Ay, ay, sir.
SLR1. Acting? I call it doing nothing.
SLR2. I can't even scratch my head.
SCA. [Draws his sword.] Death, distinctly, if you do not leap your own height when I count three. One, two — [SILENUS makes passes and they leap. SCARAMOUCH sheathes his sword.] Back to thy bed, bright babe of Birmingham! Arrest the god. [The SAILORS advance, but are again mesmerised by SILENUS.] Sea lubbers, dare you rouse me further?
SLRS. Ay, ay, sir.
SCA. [Draws his sword.] Homer and homicide, then die!
[SILENUS mesmerises SCARAMOUCH just as his sword pricks FIRST SAILOR.]
SLR1. Do not prolong my agony: run me through at once: the point pricks me, sir: in or out, one or other.
SCA. Magic and mastodons, I can do neither! Great Bacchus, is this a trick or no?
SIL. That depends on you, good Scarabee. If you consent to ship all my friends, it is a trick; but if you do not, you will find it a serious matter to stand there till you rot.
SCA. Every mother's son and daughter of them — the whole island, anything you like. This power of yours is worth a kingdom.
[SILENUS releases them.]
SIL. Embark Ariadne in the boat you have, and send back others for the rest. Tow this egg-shell shallop with you: it is precious: its workmanship is divine.
SCA. Ariadne!
SIL. Yes; that is she.
SCA. Shiver my timbers! This will be the greatest combination on record.
SIL. Columbine, attend your mistress.
COL. Mistress Ariadne, I am to be your waiting-maid.
ION. I am not Ariadne.
GLA. [Aside to Ione.] You are! You must be! Don't you see this is Bacchus, and the dumb fellow an impostor? Bacchus says he's not Endymion.
ION. [Aside to Glaucus.] It was I called him Endymion. He's no impostor.
GLA. [Aside to Ione.] Don't argue. — Great Bacchus, Ariadne is a little bashful as becomes a maiden honoured with the attention of your godship.
SIL. What are you?
GLA. Her father — at least I have been so for eighteen years. I begin to doubt whether she be my child or no, since your godship perceives that she is Ariadne — a fact which I recognised the moment you mentioned it; and since certain quakings have overcome my being, revealing to me that this lodgment of clay is, as it were, a long-slumbering volcano, about to waken into full and luminous godhood.
SIL. Know then, that she is not your child; she is a king's daughter.
GLA. Princess Ariadne, I beseech you humbly to pardon any trouble I may have given you as a father. I here formally renounce, what was never mine, all control over your royal highness. And now, Bacchus, let us sift to the bottom this mythological mystery. First of all, what god am I? Of course I know I am only a minor one in the meantime, so do not scruple to tell me, however insignificant my rank may be.
SIL. We will discuss it, friend, over a bottle. — Harlequin, remove Ariadne and this youth. Good people, accompany them with singing to the shore.
ION. Adventures throng upon me.
Song.
The boat is chafing at our long delay,
And we must leave too soon
The spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray,
The tawny sands, the moon.
Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight!
Watch from thy pearly throne
Our vessel, plunging deeper into night
To reach a land unknown.
[HARLEQUIN, COLUMBINE, IONE and SARMION go out.]