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

About This Book

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