Читать книгу Gycia - Lewis Morris - Страница 8

Enter Lysimachus.

Lys. What ails the King, that thus his brow is bent

By such a load of care?

King.

Lysimachus,

The load of empire lies a weary weight,

On age-worn brains; tho' skies and seas may smile,

And steadfast favouring Fortune sit serene,

Guiding the helm of State, but well thou knowest—

None better in my realm—through what wild waves,

Quicksands, and rock-fanged straits, our Bosphorus,

Laden with all our love, reels madly on

To shipwreck and to ruin. From the North,

Storm-cloud on storm-cloud issuing vollies forth

Fresh thunderbolts of war. The Emperor

Dallies within his closed seraglios,

Letting his eunuchs waste the might of Rome,

While the fierce Scythian, in a surge of blood,

Bursts on our bare-swept plains. Upon the South,

Our rival Cherson, with a jealous eye,

Waits on our adverse chances, taking joy

Of her republican guile in every check

And buffet envious Fortune deals our State,

Which doth obey a King. Of all our foes

I hate and dread these chiefly, for I fear

Lest, when my crown falls from my palsied brow,

My son Asander's youth may prove too weak

To curb these crafty burghers. Speak, I pray thee,

Most trusty servant. Can thy loyal brain

Devise some scheme whereby our dear-loved realm

May break the mesh of Fate?

Lys.

Indeed, my liege,

Too well I know our need, and long have tossed

Through sleepless nights, if haply I might find

Some remedy, but that which I have found

Shows worse than the disease.

King.

Nay, speak; what is it?

I know how wise thy thought.

Lys.

My liege, it chances

The Archon Lamachus is old and spent.

He has an only child, a daughter, Gycia,

The treasure of his age, who now blooms forth

In early maidenhood. The girl is fair

As is a morn in springtide; and her father

A king in all but name, such reverence

His citizens accord him. Were it not well

The Prince Asander should contract himself

In marriage to this girl, and take the strength

Of Cherson for her dowry, and the power

Of their strong fleets and practised arms to thrust

The invading savage backward?

King.

Nay, my lord;

No more of this, I pray. There is no tribe

Of all the blighting locust swarms of war,

Which sweep our wasted fields, I would not rather

Take to my heart and cherish than these vipers.

Dost thou forget, my lord, how of old time,

In the brave days of good Sauromatus,

These venomous townsmen, shamelessly allied

With the barbarian hosts, brought us to ruin;

Or, with the failing force of Cæsar leagued,

By subtle devilish enginery of war,

Robbed Bosphorus of its own, when, but for them,

Byzantium were our prey, and all its might,

And we Rome's masters? Nay; I swear to thee,

I would rather see the Prince dead at my feet,

I would rather see our loved State sunk and lost,

Than know my boy, the sole heir of my crown,

The sole hope of my people, taken and noosed

By this proud upstart girl. Speak not of it;

Ruin were better far.

Lys.

My liege, I bear

No greater favour to these insolent townsmen

Than thou thyself. I, who have fought with them

From my first youth—who saw my father slain,

Not in fair fight, pierced through by honest steel,

But unawares, struck by some villanous engine,

Which, armed with inextinguishable fire,

Flew hissing from the walls and slew at once

Coward and brave alike; I, whose young brother,

The stripling who to me was as a son,

Taken in some sally, languished till he died,

Chained in their dungeons' depths;—must I not hate them

With hate as deep as hell? And yet I know

There is no other way than that Asander

Should wed this woman. This alone can staunch

The bleeding wounds of the State.

King.

Lysimachus,

I am old; my will is weak, my body bent,

Not more than is my mind; I cannot reason.

But hark! I hear the ring of coursers' feet

Bespeak Asander coming. What an air

Of youth and morning breathes round him, and brings

A light of hope again!

Enter Asander from the chase.

Asan. My dearest sire and King, art thou thus grave

Of choice, or does our good Lysimachus,

Bringing unwonted loads of carking care,

O'ercloud thy brow? I prithee, father, fret not;

There is no cloud of care I yet have known—

And I am now a man, and have my cares—

Which the fresh breath of morn, the hungry chase,

The echoing horn, the jocund choir of tongues,

Or joy of some bold enterprise of war,

When the swift squadrons smite the echoing plains,

Scattering the stubborn spearmen, may not break,

As does the sun the mists. Nay, look not grave;

My youth is strong enough for any burden

Fortune can set on me.

King.

Couldst thou, Asander,

Consent to serve the State, if it should bid thee

Wed without love?

Asan.

What, father, is that all?

I do not know this tertian fever, love,

Of which too oft my comrades groan and sigh,

This green-sick blight, which turns a lusty soldier

To a hysterical girl. Wed without love?

One day I needs must wed, though love I shall not.

And if it were indeed to serve the State,

Nay, if 'twould smooth one wrinkle from thy brow,

Why, it might be to-morrow. Tell me, father,

Who is this paragon that thou designest

Shall call me husband? Some barbarian damsel

Reared on mare's milk, and nurtured in a tent

In Scythia? Well, 'twere better than to mate

With some great lady from the Imperial Court,

Part tigress and all wanton. I care not;

Or if the scheme miscarry, I care not.

Tell me, good father.

King.

Wouldst thou wed, Asander,

If 'twere to save the State, a Greek from Cherson?

Asan. From Cherson? Nay, my liege; that were too much.

A girl from out that cockatrice's den—

Take such a one to wife? I would liefer take

A viper to my breast! Nay, nay, you jest,

My father, for you hate this low-born crew,

Grown gross by huckstering ways and sordid craft—

Ay, more than I.

King.

It is no jest, my son.

Our good Lysimachus will tell thee all

Our need and whence it comes.

Lys.

My gracious Prince,

Thus stands the case, no otherwise. Our foes

Press closer year by year, our widespread plains

Are ravaged, and our bare, unpeopled fields

Breed scantier levies; while the treasury

Stands empty, and we have not means to buy

The force that might resist them. Nought but ruin,

Speedy, inevitable, can await

Our failing Bosphorus' unaided strength,

Unless some potent rich ally should join

Our weakness to her might. None other is there

To which to look but Cherson; and I know,

From trusty friends among them, that even now,

Perchance this very day, an embassy

Comes to us with design that we should sink

Our old traditional hate in the new bonds

Which Hymen binds together. For the girl

Gycia, the daughter of old Lamachus,

Their foremost man, there comes but one report—

That she is fair as good.

Asan.

My lord, I pray you,

Waste not good breath. If I must sell myself,

It matters not if she be fair or foul,

Angel or doubly damned; hating the race,

Men, maidens, young and old, I would blight my life

To save my country.

King.

Thanks, my dearest son.

There spake a patriot indeed.

Servant.

My liege,

An embassy from Cherson for the King.

Enter Ambassador, with retinue.

Ambas. Sirs, I bring you a message from Lamachus, the Archon of Cherson.

Lys. Sirs, forsooth! Know ye not the dignity of princes, or does your republican rudeness bar you from all courtesy? I do not count myself equal to the King, nor, therefore, should you.

King. Nay, good Lysimachus, let him proceed.

Ambas. If I am blunt of speech, I beg your forgiveness. I bring to you a letter from the citizen Lamachus, which I shall read, if it be your pleasure.

King. Read on.

Ambas. "To the King of Bosphorus, Lamachus sends greeting. We are both old. Let us forget the former enmities of our States, and make an alliance which shall protect us against the storm of barbarian invasion which Cæsar is too weak to ward off. Thou hast a son, and I a daughter. Thy son is, from all report, a brave youth and worthy. My daughter is the paragon of her sex. I have wealth and possessions and respect as great as if I were a sceptred King. The youth and the maid are of fitting age. Let us join their hands together, and with them those of our States, and grow strong enough to defy the barbarians, and Rome also."

Asan. My liege, I am willing for this marriage. Let it be.

King. My son, we have not yet heard all. Read on, sir.

Ambas. "There is one condition which not my will, but the jealousy of our people enforces, viz. that the Prince Asander, if he weds my daughter, shall thenceforth forswear his country, nor seek to return to it on pain of death. I pray thee, pardon the rudeness of my countrymen; but they are Greeks, and judge their freedom more than their lives."

Asan. Insolent hounds!

This is too much. I will have none of them.

Take back that message.

King.

Thou art right, my son.

I could not bear to lose thee, not to win

A thousand Chersons. Let us fight alone,

And see what fortune sends us.

Lys.

Good my liege,

Be not too hasty. (To Ambassador) Sir, the King has heard

The message which you bring, and presently

Will send a fitting answer.

[Exit Ambassador.

Nay, my liege,

I beg your patience. That these fellows make

Their friendship difficult is true; but think

How great the value of it, and remember

How easy 'tis to promise and break faith

With insolent dogs like these. This Lamachus

Is older than your grace, and feebler far.

He will not live for ever, and, he gone,

Will not the Prince Asander be as great,

The husband of his daughter and his heir,

As he is now, and sway the power of Cherson

For our own ends, and cast to all the winds

This foul enforcèd compact, and o'erturn

This commonwealth of curs? I will stake my life

That three years shall not pass ere he is King

Of Cherson in possession, and at once

Of Bosphorus next heir.

"The tongue hath sworn, the mind remains unsworn,"

So says their poet.

Asan.

I'll have none of it.

I am not all Greek, but part Cimmerian,

And scorn to break my word.

Let us face ruin, father, not deceit.

King. My noble son, I love thee.

Lys.

Good my liege,

And thou, my Lord Asander, ponder it.

Consider our poor country's gaping wounds,

And what a remedy lies to our hands.

I will die willingly if I devise not

A scheme to bend these upstarts to your will.

[Exeunt omnes.