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
[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
[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
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
Myrto
Circe
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
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
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.
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.”
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!”
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.
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
