The Project Gutenberg eBook of Gycia, by Lewis Morris

Gycia.

Oh, my love,

Forgive me if I have seemed, but for a moment,

To fail in duty. I am all, all thine;

I have nought but thee to live for. Childish hands

And baby voices lisping for their mother

Are not for me, nor thee; but, all in all,

We joy together, we sorrow together, and last

Shall die, when the hour comes, as something tells me,

Both in the selfsame hour.

Asan.

Nay, wife, we are young;

Our time is not yet come. Let us speak now

Of what I know thou holdest near thy heart.

I do remember that it was thy wish

To celebrate thy father's name and fame

By some high festal. If thy purpose hold

For such observance, the sad day which took him

Returns a short time hence; I will employ

Whatever wealth is mine to do him honour,

And thee, my Gycia. Honouring the sire,

I honour too the child.

Gycia.

My love, I thank thee

For this spontaneous kindness, and I love thee;

I am all thine own again. Come, let us go;

Nor spare the wealth wherewith his bounty blest us

To do fit honour to the illustrious dead.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—The same.

Meg. Well, my lords, two years have passed since we left our Bosphorus, and I see no sign of our returning there. If it were not for that delightful Lady Melissa, whose humble slave I am always (Courtiers laugh), I would give all I am worth to turn my back upon this scurvy city and its republican crew. But my Lord Asander is so devoted to his fair lady—and, indeed, I can hardly wonder at it—that there seems no hope of our seeing the old shores again. I thought he would have been off long ago.

2nd Court. Well, there is no great merit in being faithful to a rich and beautiful woman. I think I could be as steady as a rock under the like conditions.

3rd Court. Well, mind ye, it is not every man who could treat the very marked overtures of the fair Lady Irene as he did. And he had not seen his wife then, either. No; the man is a curious mixture, somewhat cold, and altogether constant, and that is not a bad combination to keep a man straight with the sex. Poor soul! do you remember how she pursued him at Bosphorus, and how she fainted away at the wedding? They say she is coming back speedily, in her right mind. She has been away ever since, no one knows where. That solemn brother of hers conveyed her away privily.

2nd Court. So say we all. But mark you, if the Lady Irene comes back, there will be mischief before long. What news from Bosphorus, my Lord Megacles?

1st Court. Nay, is he? Then there may be a new King and a new Queen, and we shall leave this dog-hole and live at home like gentlemen once more.

Meg. I have not told him aught, having, indeed, nothing certain to tell; but he soon will, if it be true. But here his Highness comes.

Asan. Well, my good Megacles, and you, my lords. There will be ample work for you all ere long. The Lady Gycia is projecting a great festival in memory of her father, and all that the wealth of Cherson can do to honour him will be done. There will be solemn processions, a banquet, and a people's holiday. Dost thou not spy some good ceremonial work there, my good Megacles? Why, thou wilt be as happy as if thou wert at Byzantium itself, marshalling the processions, arranging the banquet, ushering in the guests in due precedence, the shipowner before the merchant, the merchant before the retailer. Why, what couldst thou want more, old Trusty?

Meg. Ah, my Lord Prince, your Highness is young. When you are as old as I am, you will not scoff at Ceremony. This is the pleasantest day that I have spent since your Highness's wedding-day. I thank you greatly, and will do my best, your Highness.

Mess. My Lord Asander, a messenger from Bosphorus has just landed, bringing this letter for your Highness.

Asan. Let me see it. (Reads) "Lysimachus to Asander sends greeting. Thy father is failing fast, and is always asking for his son. Thou art free, and must come to him before he dies. I have much to say to thee, having heard long since of a festival in memory of Lamachus to be held shortly. I will be with thee before then. Be ready to carry out the plan which I have formed for thy good, and will reveal to thee. Remember."

My father ailing?

And asks for me, and I his only son

Chained here inactive, while the old man pines

In that great solitude which hems a thro

With none but hirelings round him. Dearest father,

I fear that sometimes in the happy years

Which have come since, my wandering regards,

Fixed on one overmastering thought, have failed

To keep their wonted duty. If indeed

This thing has been, I joy the time has come

When I may show my love. But I forget!

The fetters honour binds are adamant;

I am free no more. Nay, nay, there is no bond

Can bind a son who hears his father's voice

Call from a bed of pain. I must go and will,

Though all the world cry shame on my dishonour;

And with me I will take my love, my bride,

To glad the old man's eyes. My mind is fixed;

I cannot stay, I cannot rest, away

From Bosphorus. (Summons Messenger) Go, call the Lady Gycia.

(Resumes) Ay, and my oath, I had forgotten it.

I cannot bear to think what pitiless plot

Lysimachus has woven for the feast.

What it may be I know not, but I fear

Some dark and dreadful deed. 'Twere well enough

For one who never knew the friendly grasp

Of hands that once were foemen's. But for me,

Who have lived among them, come and gone with them,

Trodden with them the daily paths of life,

Mixed in their pleasures, shared their hopes and fears

For two long happy years, to turn and doom

Their city to ruin, and their wives and children

To the insolence of rapine? Nay, I dare not.

I will sail at once, and get me gone for ever.

I will not tell my love that I am bound

By her father's jealous fancies to return

To Bosphorus no more. To break my oath!

That were to break it only in the word,

But keep it in the spirit. Surely Heaven

For such an innocent perjury keeps no pains.

But here she comes.

Gycia.

Didst send for me, my lord?

Asan. Gycia, the King is ill, and asks for me;

He is alone and weak.

Gycia.

Then, fly to him

At once, and I will follow thee. But stay!

Is he in danger?

Asan.

Nay, not presently;

Only the increasing weight of years o'ersets

His feeble sum of force.

Gycia.

Keeps he his bed?

Asan. Not yet as I have known.

Gycia.

Well then, dear heart,

We yet may be in time if we should tarry

To celebrate the honours we have vowed

To my dead father. This day sennight brings

The day which saw him die.

Asan.

Nay, nay, my sweet;

'Twere best we went at once.

Gycia.

My lord, I honour

The love thou bearest him, but go I cannot,

Until the feast is done. 'Twould cast discredit

On every daughter's love for her dead sire,

If I should leave this solemn festival

With all to do, and let the envious crowd

Carp at the scant penurious courtesy

Of hireling honours by an absent daughter

To her illustrious dead.

Asan. (earnestly). My love, 'twere best

We both were far away.

Gycia.

My lord is pleased

To speak in riddles, but till reason speaks

'Twere waste of time to listen.

Asan.

Nay, my wife,

Such words become thee not, but to obey

Is the best grace of woman. Were I able,

I would tell thee all, I fear, for thee and me,

But cannot.

Gycia.

Then, love, thou canst go alone,

And I must follow thee. The Archon Zetho

Comes presently, to order what remains

To make the solemn festival do honour

To the blest memory of Lamachus.

Doubtless, he will devise some fitting pretext

To excuse thy absence.

Asan.

Nay, thou must not ask him;

Breathe not a word, I pray.

Gycia.

My good Asander,

What is it moves thee thus? See, here he comes.

Gycia. Good morrow, my Lord Zetho! We were late,

Debating of the coming festival,

And how my lord the Prince, having ill news

From Bosphorus, where the King his sire lies sick,

Can bear no part in it.

Zetho.

I grieve indeed

To hear this news, and trust that Heaven may send

Swift comfort to his son, whom we all love.

Asan. I thank thee, Archon, for thy courtesy;

And may thy wish come true.

Gycia. And meantime, since my husband's heart is sore

For his sire's lonelihood, our purpose is

That he should sail to-morrow and go hence

To Bosphorus, where I, the festival

Being done, will join him later, and devote

A daughter's loving care and tender hand

To smooth the old man's sick-bed.

Zetho.

Nay, my daughter,

I grieve this cannot be. The Prince Asander,

Coming to Cherson only two years gone,

Did pledge his solemn word to thy dead father

That never would he seek, come foul or fair,

To turn from Cherson homewards, and I marvel

That never, in the years that since have passed

Amid the close-knit bonds of wedded lives,

He has revealed this secret. We who rule

Our Cherson know through what blind shoals of fortune

Our ship of state drives onward. And I dare not,

Holding the rule which was thy father's once,

Release him from the solemn pledge which keeps

Our several States bound fast in amity,

But each from the other separate, and each

Free from the perils tangled intercourse

Might breed for both. Indeed, it cannot be;

I grieve that so it is.

Gycia.

My Lord Asander,

Are these things so indeed?

Asan.

They are, my wife.

A rash and heedless promise binds me fast,

Which, in all frankness, I had never dreamt

Could thus demand fulfilment. Who is there

More loyal to the State than I? Who is there

Bound by such precious chains of love and faith

As is thy husband? If I said no word

Of this before, it was that I would fain

Forget this hateful compact. Sir, I beg you

Let me go hence, and when the old man's sickness

Is done, as Heaven will have it, take my word

That I will be a citizen of Cherson

Again, whate'er may come.

Zetho.

If the King dies,

Then art thou straightway King of Bosphorus,

Knowing the strength and weakness of our State,

And having bound to thee by closest friendship

Our chiefest citizens. Nay, nay, I dare not

Relieve thee from the pledge.

Asan.

Thou hoary trickster,

Speakest thou thus to me?

Gycia (interposing). Great heavens! Asander,

Knowest thou what thou dost? (To Zetho) Pardon him, sir.

He is not himself, I think, but half distraught,

To bear himself thus madly.

Zetho.

Daughter, the State

Knows to protect itself from insolence

And arrogant pride like this, and it is certain

'Twas a wise caution led thy honoured father

To stipulate that such ungoverned passion

Should be cut off from those conspiring forces

From which combined came danger.

Asan.

Gycia,

Hearest thou this schemer? Dost thou know indeed

That I am prisoned here, while my loved father

Lies on the bed of death? Dost thou distrust me,

That thou dost speak no word?

Gycia.

My lord, I cannot.

The measure which my father's wisdom planned

For the safety of the State, I, a weak woman,

Am too infirm to judge. Thou didst not tell me,

Asking that I should fly with thee, the bonds

By which thy feet were fettered. Had I known

I never had consented. Had I gone,

Breaking the solemn ordinance of State,

I should have left with thee my former love,

And sailed back broken-hearted. That thou grievest

There is none knows as I, but oh, my love!

Though it be hard to bear, yet is grief lighter

Than broken vows, and blighted honour, and laws

Made to sustain the State, yet overset

By one man's will. Dearest, we cannot go—

Nor thou; the State forbids it. I will pray

Thy father may grow strong again, and sit

Here at our hearth a guest; but this is certain—

To Bosphorus we go not. And I pray you

Make to my lord, who fills my father's place,

What reparation thy ungoverned rage

And hasty tongue demand.

Asan.

Thou cold Greek woman!

Of this, then, 'twas they warned me—a smooth tongue

And a cold heart; a brain by logic ruled,

And not at all by love. Thou hast no pity,

For pity shapes not into syllogisms;

Nor can affection ape philosophy,

Nor natural love put on the formal robe

Of cold too-balanced State-craft. Hear me, old man,

And thou too, wife. 'Twere better, ay, far better,

That I should get me gone, and my wife with me,

Than be pent here unwilling; but were it better

Or were it worse, be sure I will not stay

When duty calls me hence. Wife, wilt thou come?

Gycia. My lord, I cannot.

Asan.

Then, I go alone.

Zetho. Nay, thou shalt not. Ho there! arrest the Prince.

Asan. Unhand me. At your peril.

Gycia.

Oh, my husband!

[Weeps.

Scene III.—A room in the palace.

Ire. What! am I mad, or does some devilish power

Possess me heart and soul? I once loved Gycia;

I love Asander with o'ermastering love,

And yet these frequent rumours of dissensions

Marring the smooth course of their wedded life

Bring me a swift, fierce joy. If aught befell

To separate those lovers, then might Fate

And Chance open for me the golden doors

That lead to Love's own shrine; and yet I know not

If any power might melt to mutual love

That too-cold heart. But still, no other chance

Is left but this alone: if I should force

Those loving souls apart, then 'twere my turn.

Am I a monster, then, to will this wrong?

Nay, but a lovesick woman only, willing

To dare all for her passion. Though I loathe

Those crooked ways, yet love, despite myself,

Drives me relentless onward.

Enter Gycia.

Dearest lady,

Why art thou thus cast down? Some lovers' quarrel,

To be interred with kisses?

Gycia.

Nay, Irene,

This is no lovers' quarrel.

Ire.

Tell me, Gycia,

What was the cause?

Gycia.

The King of Bosphorus

Is ailing, and desires to see his son,

Who fain would go to him.

Ire.

And thou refusedst

To let thy lover go?

Gycia.

Nay, 'twas not so;

But politic reasons of the State forbad

The Prince's absence.

Ire.

Well, whate'er the cause,

The old man fain would see his son, and thou

Deniedst.

Gycia.

I denied him what the State

Denied him, and no more.

Ire.

The State denied him!

What does it profit thee to be the daughter

Of Lamachus, if thou art fettered thus

In each wish of thy heart? If it were I,

And he my love, I would break all bonds that came

Between me and my love's desire.

Gycia.

Irene,

Thou know'st not what thou say'st.

Ire.

It may be so;

I do not love by halves.

Gycia.

I do not need

That thou shouldst tutor me, who am so blest

In love's requital. I have nought to learn

From thee, who bearest unrequited love

For one thou wilt not name.

Ire.

Wouldst thou that I

Should name him? Nay, it were best not, believe me,

For me and thee.

Gycia.

Why, what were it to me,

Thou luckless woman?

Ire.

What were it to thee?

More than thou knowest, much.

Gycia.

And therefore 'tis

That thou dost dare to tutor me to deal

With the man I love, my husband.

Ire.

Gycia,

Love is a tyrannous power, and brooks no rival

Beside his throne. Dost thou, then, love indeed,

Who art so filled with duty?

Gycia.

Do I love?

Ay, from the depths of my enamoured heart!

I am all his own to make or break at will.

Only my duty to the State my mother

And the thrice-blessèd memory of my sire

Forbids that I should sink my soul in his,

Or, loving, grow unworthy. But, indeed,

Thou pleadest his cause as if thyself did love him.

Ire. As if I loved!—as if!

Gycia.

Indeed, 'tis well

Thou didst not, were he free, for he, it seems,

Has known of thee, and speaks not kindly words.

I know not wherefore.

Ire.

Did he speak of me?

Gycia. Ay, that he did.

Ire.

And what said he?

Gycia.

I think

'Twere best thou didst not know.

Ire.

Tell me, I prithee;

I can bear to hear.

Gycia.

'Twas but a hasty word,

And best forgotten.

Ire.

But I prithee tell me,

What said he?

Gycia.

That 'twere best I were alone

Than commercing with thee, since thou wert not

My fit companion.

Ire.

Said he that, the coward?

Gycia. I am his wife, Irene.

Ire.

What care I?

I have loved this man too well, before he saw thee.

There, thou hast now my secret. I have loved him,

And he loved me, and left me, and betrayed me.

Was it for him to brand me with this stain?

Unfit for thy companion! If I be,

Whose fault is that but his, who found me pure

And left me what I am?

Gycia.

What! dost thou dare

Malign my husband thus? I have known his life

From his own lips, and heard no word of thee.

Ire. He did confess he knew me.

Gycia.

Ay, indeed,

Not that he did thee wrong.

Ire.

My Lady Gycia,

Did ever man confess he wronged a woman?

If thou believe not me, who am indeed

Disgraced, and by his fault, thou once didst love

My brother Theodorus—send for him.

He is without, and waits me. Ask of him,

Who has long known my secret.

Gycia.

I will ask him.

Thou wretched woman, since thou art polluted,

Whate'er my love may be, go from my sight,

And send thy brother. Then betake thyself

To a close prison in the haunted Tower,

Till I shall free thee. Out of my sight, I say,

Thou wanton!

[Exit Irene.

What have I done, how have I sinned, that Heaven

Tortures me thus? How can I doubt this creature

Speaks something of the truth? Did he not say

At first he never knew that wanton's name?

Did he not afterwards betray such knowledge

Of her and of her life as showed the lie

His former words concealed? And yet how doubt

My dear, who by two years of wedded love

Has knit my soul to his? I know how lightly

The world holds manly virtue, but I hold

The laws of honour are not made to bind

Half of the race alone, leaving men licensed

To break them when they will; but dread decrees

Binding on all our kind. But oh, my love,

I will not doubt thee, till conviction bring

Proofs that I dare not doubt!

Theo.

My Lady Gycia,

I come at thy command.

Gycia.

Good Theodorus,

Thou lovedst me once, I think?

Theo.

I loved thee once!

Oh, heaven!

Gycia.

I am in great perplexity

And sorrow, and I call upon thy friendship

To succour me, by frank and free confession

Of all thou knowest.

Theo.

I can refuse thee nothing,

Only I beg that thou wilt ask me nought

That answered may give pain.

Gycia.

Nay, it is best

That I know all. I could not bear to live

In ignorance, and yet I fear to grieve thee

By what I ask. Thy sister late has left me——

Theo. Ask not of her, I pray; I cannot answer.

Gycia. Nay, by thy love I ask it. Answer me.

Theo. Have me excused, I pray.

That answered may give pain.

Gycia.

Then, I am answered.

My husband, she affirms, betrayed her honour

In Bosphorus, and now denies the crime.

Thou knowest it true.

Theo.

Alas! I cannot doubt it.

I have known all for years.

Gycia.

Ye saints of heaven!

Is there no shame or purity in men,

Nor room for trust in them? I am a wife

Who thought she did possess her husband wholly,

Virgin with virgin. I have thought I knew

His inmost heart, and found it innocent;

And yet while thus I held him, while I lay

Upon his bosom, all these happy hours

The venom of a shameful secret lurked

Within his breast. Oh, monster of deceit,

Thou never lovedst as I! That I should give

The untouched treasure of my virgin heart

For some foul embers of a burnt-out love,

And lavish on the waste a wanton left

My heart, my soul, my life! Oh, it is cruel!

I will never see him more, nor hear his voice,

But die unloved and friendless.

[Weeps.

Theo. (kneeling at her feet). Dearest Gycia,

Thou canst not want a brother, friend, and lover

While I am living. Oh, my love, my dear,

Whom I have loved from childhood, put away

This hateful marriage, free thee from the bonds

Of this polluted wedlock, and make happy

One who will love thee always!

Gycia.

Rise, Theodorus.

I have no love to give. I am a wife.

Such words dishonour me.

Theo.

Forgive me, Gycia.

I know how pure thy soul, and would not have thee

Aught other than thou art.

Gycia.

I do forgive thee.

'Twas love confused thy reason; but be brave.

Set a guard on thy acts, thy words, thy thoughts.

'Tis an unhappy world!

Lys.

Most noble lady,

Forgive me if at an unfitting time,

Amid the soft devoirs of gallantry,

I thus intrude unwilling; but I seek

The Prince Asander.

Gycia.

I have nought to hide

My husband might not know.

Lys.

Then, thou art, doubtless,

His wife, the Lady Gycia. Good my lady,

With such a presence to become a crown,

We would you were at Bosphorus.

Gycia.

'Tis clear

Thou art a stranger here, or thou wouldst know

That never would I leave my native city

To win the crown of Rome.

Lys.

Madam, 'tis pity.

Gycia. Sir, this is courtly talk. You came to see

My husband; I will order that they send him

At once to you.

Lys. That was indeed good fortune brought me hither

When her lover knelt to her. I do not wonder

That kneel he should, for she is beautiful

As Helen's self. There comes some difference

Between her and Asander, and 'twere strange

If I might not so work on't as to widen

The breach good fortune sends me, and to bind,

Through that which I have seen, the boy her husband

To execute my will.

Asan.

Lysimachus,

I am rejoiced to see thee.

Lys.

Good my lord,

How goes the world with thee? Thou art in mien

Graver than thou wast once.

Asan.

I am ill at ease!

I am ill at ease! How does the King my father?

Lys. Alas! sir, he is ailing, and I fear

Will never mend.

Asan.

Is he in present danger?

Lys. Ay, that he is. A month or less from this

May see the end.

Asan.

Keeps he his bed as yet?

Lys. Nay, not yet, when I left him; but his mind

Turns always to his absent son with longing,

And sometimes, as it were 'twixt sleep and waking

I hear him say, "Asander, oh, my son!

Shall I not see thee more?"

Asan.

Oh, my dear father!

And dost thou love me thus, who have forgot thee

These two long years? Belovèd, lonely life!

Belovèd failing eyes! Lysimachus,

I must go hence, and yet my honour binds me.

O God, which shall I choose? They do forbid me—

The ruler of this place and that good woman

Who is my wife, but holds their cursèd State

More than my love—to go.

Lys.

My prince, I come

To find a way by which thou mayst go free

From that which binds thee fast. This festival

To the dead Lamachus will give the occasion

To set thee free. If thou dost doubt to break

Thy word, yet doth a stronger, straiter chain

Bind thee—thy oath. Thou hast not forgot thy oath

To Bosphorus?

Asan.

Nay, I forget it not.

But what is it thou wouldst of me?

Lys.

Asander,

The night which ends the festival shall see us

Masters of Cherson.

Asan.

Nay, but 'twere dishonour

To set upon a friendly State from ambush—

'Twere murder, and not battle.

Lys.

Art thou false

To thy own land and to thy dying father?

Asan. That I am not; but never could I bear

To play the midnight thief, and massacre

Without announcement of legitimate war

Whom daily I have known. My wife I love

With all the love of my soul. If she seem cold

When any word is spoken which may touch

The safety of the State, think you she would love

The husband who destroyed it? All my heart

Is in her keeping.

Lys.

It is well indeed

To have such faith. Doubtless the Lady Gycia

Returns this pure affection.

Asan.

I would doubt

The saints in heaven sooner than her truth,

Which if I doubted, then the skies might fall,

The bounds of right and wrong might be removed,

The perjurer show truthful, and the wanton

Chaste as the virgin, and the cold, pure saint

More foolish than the prodigal who eats

The husks of sense—it were all one to me;

I could not trust in virtue.

Lys.

Thou art changed

Since when thy ship set sail from Bosphorus;

Thou didst not always think with such fond thought

As now thou dost. Say, didst thou find thy bride

Heart-whole as thou didst wish? Had she no lover

Ere yet thou camest?

Asan.

Nay, nay; I found my wife

Virgin in heart and soul.

Lys.

My Lord Asander,

Art thou too credulous here? What if I saw her

On that same spot, not half an hour ago,

In tears, and kneeling at her feet a gallant

Noble and comely as a morn in June,

Who bade her break, with passionate words of love,

Her hateful marriage vows, and make him blest

Who must for ever love?

Scene II.—The same.

Scene III.—A room in the palace.