Diminutive dramas

Scene.—A room in the house of Cinyras, at Athens.

[Reclining on couches round the tables are Socrates, Alcander (a man about Athens,) Demetrius (a critic,) Xenocles (a playwright,) Antagoras (an important official,) Naucydes (a soldier,) Heliodore (wife of Cinyras), and her friends, Lycoris, Timareta, Nicylla, and Hegeso.

Heliodore. Euripides has promised to come; but we won’t wait for him. I don’t know what you feel, but I’m very hungry.

Naucydes. So am I. Makes one hungry, don’t you know—that kind of thing. Splendid show.

Lycoris. What I say is, it’s too long. It lasted nearly all day. If he had made it about half as long, it would be just as beautiful, and much more enjoyable for us. Of course, I don’t pretend to be a judge, but I do say it’s too long.

Cinyras. Much the best thing is to do as I do and not go to the play at all.

Lycoris. No, I like a good play. But I don’t care for Diophantus’ acting. It’s just the same with Tityus. What I say is, Diophantus is always Diophantus and Tityus is always Tityus.

Demetrius. But surely the business of the actor is never to let his personality change?

Nicylla. What did you think of the play, Demetrius?

Demetrius. I am afraid I must not tell you that until my opinions are published. It wouldn’t be fair on the author.

Nicylla. And what did you think, Socrates?

Socrates. I admired it immensely.

Hegeso. I thought it wonderful. I loved the story. I loved Clytæmnestra’s clothes, that wonderful, dirty, wine-stained dress, and Electra’s pale, shivering, stone-cold mask; and Orestes was such a darling. So mad, and distraught, and rebellious.

Heliodore. I thought it was marvellous.

Nicylla. I think it’s so much better than Sophocles’ Electra.

Alcander. It’s very clever, of course; brilliantly clever; but it’s not a play. It’s really only a discussion.

Hegeso. But I was thrilled by the story and so frightened.

Timareta. You know, it’s not the story. It’s the acting. Apollodorus told me it’s the acting. It’s wonderful. It’s felt. I felt it.

Lycoris. I must say, I don’t like that sort of play. I think it leaves a nasty taste in one’s mouth and one doesn’t quite know why. I know it’s very clever.

Nicylla. Oh, Lycoris, how old-fashioned of you! Now don’t you think Electra was right, Socrates, to kill her mother?

Socrates. We’ll ask Euripides that when he comes. My business is to ask questions——

Naucydes (aside to Heliodore). And a great nuisance he is, too, with his questions.

Socrates. And not to answer them.

Naucydes (aside to Heliodore). I don’t believe he knows what the answers are.

Nicylla. But don’t you think, Demetrius, that a girl is justified in taking the law into her hands in such very exceptional circumstances; or do you think a girl’s first duty is to her mother?

Antagoras. I think she deserved a good whipping, if you ask me. However, it’s not the story I object to. I mean, we all know the story, and we’re quite ready to see a new play on the subject, as long as it’s treated reverently and decently; but one never knows with Euripides when he’s serious, or whether he’s laughing in his sleeve the whole time or not. Now I like Æschylus.

Xenocles. Poor Euripides! He’s shot his bolt.

Nicylla. Do you think he’s played out?

Lycoris. What I say is this, that Clytæmnestra thoroughly deserved to die, but Electra wasn’t the person to kill her, and that as she did kill her mother she ought to have been punished.

Timareta. It was Fate, that’s what it was. Apollodorus told me it was all Fate.

Hegeso. Yes, and she was so sad, so miserable; she couldn’t bear doing it. She loved her mother, although her mother had been so unkind, and turned her out of that beautiful house into a cold cruel hut, and only a herdsman to talk to. Don’t you agree, Naucydes, with me, that Electra was cruelly treated? She couldn’t help it, could she?

Naucydes. Rather an awkward case, don’t you know. Sort of fix when everything you do’s wrong. (He laughs loudly.)

Hegeso. And wasn’t the music too heavenly?

Alcander. It’s like the play—clever; but it isn’t music, any more than the play’s a play.

Antagoras. I couldn’t make head or tail of it—but then I’m not musical.

Hegeso. Didn’t you love those divine little screams, like a saw cutting ice, and the noise the cymbals made, like slippery sandals rushing down a marble mountain?

Nicylla. What did you think of the music, Demetrius?

Demetrius. There are no ideas in it, and it’s very thin; there’s no colour in it either, but a certain amount of clever arabesque work.

Nicylla. Don’t you think music acts on one’s sub-conscious superself without one’s noticing it? When I hear certain kinds of music I go quite mad, and sometimes when I hear music I feel as if I could understand everything. I am sure you agree with me, Socrates. And now, do tell me: Does music have an Apolline or a Dionysic effect on you? Sometimes it has a Dionysic effect on me and sometimes an Apolline.

Socrates. What is music, Nicylla? If you can answer me that, I will tell you the nature of its effect on me.

Nicylla. Music is the language of the soul. It is to man what the perfume is to the flower.

Antagoras. Music’s a nuisance.

Demetrius. Not necessarily; but it is often an interruption.

Alcander. And sometimes an accompaniment.

Lycoris. Yes, as in the play to-day. What I say is, all this new music isn’t music, but noise.

Antagoras. I agree with you; it oughtn’t to be allowed.

Demetrius. But isn’t all music noise?

Hegeso. Yes: delicious, heavenly noises, all caught like tame mice and put in chains and made to be obedient.

Heliodore. Don’t let’s discuss the music till we’ve finished talking about the play. Now, Xenocles thinks that Euripides is played out.

Xenocles. Euripides has talent, but he is essentially mediocre; his verses are vulgar and facile. However, I’ve no doubt the sausage-sellers enjoy his plays. It is the kind of thing which would appeal to them. And they say the Barbarians find them extraordinarily profound.

Nicylla. Now, that’s one of your paradoxes, Xenocles. How brilliant he is, isn’t he?

Timareta. Apollodorus says his characters are too natural. They are just what one sees every day.

Antagoras. Good gracious, I hope not.

Nicylla. Now, Socrates, I know you admire Euripides, and I always have admired him. I always said from the first that he was far the greatest playwright we’d ever had. I want to know what Xenocles admires.

Xenocles. Well, there’s Agathon, but no one else.

Nicylla. And I’m sure you don’t admire Sophocles?

Xenocles. The gods forbid.

Demetrius. His work is quite dead. I believe his plays are still admired in Thrace.

Naucydes. I saw one the other day, and I’m afraid I liked it.

Nicylla. Oh, Naucydes, how can you say such a thing? They’re so empty. There’s no soul in them. No world-sympathy. No atmospheric intuition. Nothing cosmic. And then they say his verses are all wrong. Aren’t they, Xenocles?

Xenocles. Sophocles undoubtedly wrote some good lines, but his philosophy is childish. It is essentially Mid-Athenian.

Hegeso. Oh, I adore Mid-Athenian things. I’ve had a room furnished in the Mid-Athenian style with archaic busts; you can’t think how quaint and charming it looks.

Heliodore. Won’t you have a little more partridge, Hegeso?

Hegeso. No, thank you, dear. I never touch food at this time in the evening. I can only eat a little parsley and mint in the morning.

Heliodore. I’m sure you must be hungry after all we’ve gone through. I confess I cried like a child.

Timareta. That’s what it is—Euripides is so pathetic. He’s not great and he’s not mystic, but he’s pathetic. He touches one just here. (She points to her throat.) Apollodorus told me he’s pathetic. He’s got bathos.

Hegeso. I felt so sorry for Clytæmnestra. I was miserable when she screamed. I jumped up in my seat and cried: “I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it; they’re killing Clytæmnestra.” And Callias, who was sitting next to me, was so cross. (She helps herself to a quail.) It has been a wonderful day.

Heliodore. Wonderful! I’ve never been through anything like it before.

Nicylla. I felt as if my soul had escaped and was just floating in mid-ether between one world and another; between the two gates, don’t you know.

Timareta. I was moved, that’s what it was—moved. I felt like—as if I were at a funeral—a State funeral, with music and torches.

Alcander. Yes, it was certainly a fine performance.

Naucydes. By Zeus, yes!

Demetrius. I don’t mind saying that I was interested.

Hegeso. I shall never get over it, never. I feel as if it had all happened to me. (She helps herself to another quail.)

Enter a Slave

The Slave. Euripides has sent to say he is very sorry he can’t come to supper. He is too tired.

Socrates. I am afraid I must leave you. I have some pupils waiting for me at home.

Heliodore. Oh, don’t go, Socrates. I haven’t spoken to you at all, and I have got so many things to say to you.

Socrates. I’m afraid I must go. Farewell, and a thousand thanks for your kind hospitality.

Demetrius. And I’m afraid I must go. I’ve got to write about the play.

[Exeunt Socrates and Demetrius.

Heliodore. I must say I do think it’s rather thoughtless of Euripides to throw me over at the last minute. I do think he might have let me know. You see, Socrates only came because of Euripides. And you see what happens the moment he hears he’s not coming—he goes.

Xenocles. He always does that. He’s spoilt. I told you he was overrated.

Heliodore. I don’t mind personally a bit. I don’t happen to care for him; but I have asked thirty people to come in afterwards to meet him, and I do think it’s selfish.

Lycoris. I could tell from his play he was selfish.

Timareta. He’s no heart, that’s what it is. He’s heartless. Just like Electra—heartless.

Heliodore. But I do think Socrates might have stayed.

Xenocles. Don’t you understand why he’s gone? He didn’t want to tell Euripides how bad he thought the play was!

Nicylla. Do you mean he really thinks it bad?

Xenocles. I’m convinced of it.

Antagoras. It’s much worse than bad; it’s undermining.

Demetrius. I don’t mind telling you now what I think—it’s a poor affair.

Alcander. Yes, I’m afraid it’s a failure.

Hegeso. Oh no, don’t say that, because I did so love it.

Heliodore. I never liked Euripides.

Nicylla. I told you he was finished. I’m never wrong. I knew it was all a mistake.

Xenocles. He means well.

Antagoras. No, he doesn’t; that’s just it.

Lycoris. What I say is, that those kinds of plays do harm.

Antagoras. The man’s an atheist.

Lycoris. He’s a scoffer.

Antagoras. But Socrates is far worse than he is.

Nicylla. Oh, he’s such a bore.

Hegeso. I love his little snub nose.

Heliodore. I shall never ask them again.

Alcander. Tiresome people.

Lycoris. What I say is, people like Socrates and Euripides ought to be put in prison.

Nicylla. Especially Socrates.

Antagoras. So he will be, or else my name’s not Antagoras. He only deserves one thing, and that’s capital punishment.

Hegeso. Poor little Socrates! But I hope you’ll let Euripides off.

Antagoras. He doesn’t count; he’s only a playwright.

Curtain.