Chapter 1

(Enter PHILUMENA and PAMPHILA.

PHILUMENA: Sister, I think that Penelope was wretched from her very soul, who was so long deprived of her husband; for from our own fortunes, whose husbands are absent from us, we judge of her feelings;

for whose affairs, still, in their absence, both night and day, sister, as is becoming, we are ever anxious.

PAMPHILA: ’Tis right that we should do our duty; and we do not that any further than affection bids us.

PHILUMENA: But, sister, step this way a moment; I want to speak about the affairs of my husband.

PAMPHILA: Ain’t they prospering, pray?

PHILUMENA: I hope and wish so, indeed. But, sister, at this am I vexed, that your and my father, one who is esteemed as especially honorable among all his fellow-citizens, should be now acting the part of a dishonorable man;

who is undeservedly doing so great an injustice to our absent husbands, and is wishing to separate us from them. These things, sister, render me tired of existence; these things are a care and a vexation to me. (She sheds tears.)

PAMPHILA: Weep not, sister, nor do that to your feelings which your father is threatening to do.’Tis to be hoped that he will act more righteously. I know him well; he says these things in jest; and he would not earn for himself the mountains of the Persians, which are said to be of gold, to do that of which you are in dread. Still, if he does do it, it befits you by no means to be angry; nor will it happen without some reason.

For this is the third year since our husbands have been away from home.

PHILUMENA: ’Tis as you say; while, in the meantime, they may be living, and may be well, they do not make us acquainted where they are, what they are doing, whether they are doing well, neither do they return.

PAMPHILA: And do you, sister, regret this, that they do not observe their duty, whereas you do yours?

PHILUMENA: Troth, I do.

PAMPHILA: Hold your peace, if you please; take care, please, that I hear not that same thing from you in future.

PHILUMENA: And why, pray?

PAMPHILA: Because, i’ faith, in my opinion,’tis proper for all prudent people to observe and to do their duty. For that reason, sister, although you are the older, I advise you to remember your duty; and if they are unjust and act otherwise to us than is right, then, i’ faith, in exactly the same degree, that there may be no further mischief, it befits us studiously to remember our duty by all means in our power.

PHILUMENA: ’Tis good; I’m silenced.

PAMPHILA: But do take care and remember it.

PHILUMENA: I do not wish, sister, to be thought to be unmindful of my husband; nor has he thrown away the distinction that he conferred upon me.

For, by my troth, his kindness is pleasing and delightful to me; and, really, this choice of mine is not now irksome to me, nor is there any reason why I should wish to abandon this match. But, in fine,’tis placed in our father’s power; that must be done by us which our relatives enjoin.

PAMPHILA: I know it, and in thinking of it I am overwhelmed with grief; for already has he almost disclosed his sentiments.

PHILUMENA: Let us consider, then, what is necessary for us to do.

(Enter ANTIPHO from his house, speaking at the door to his SERVANTS.)

ANTIPHO: The man in condition of a servant who always waits to be told his duty, and doesn’t remember to do it of his own accord, that servant, I say, is not of a deserving character.

You remember well on each returning Calends to ask for your allotment of provisions; why, then, do you less remember to do what is necessary to do about the house? Now, therefore, if, when I return, the furniture shall not be set for me, each piece in its proper place, I’ll be putting you in mind with a bull’s hide remembrancer. Not human beings seem to be living with me, but pigs.

Take care, if you please, that my house is clean, when I return home. I shall soon be back home; I’m going to her house, to see my eldest daughter. If any one should enquire for me, call me thence, some of you; or—I shall be here soon myself.

PHILUMENA: (aside.) What are we to do, sister, if our father shall resolve against us?

PAMPHILA: It befits us to submit to what he does whose power is the stronger.

By entreating, not by opposing, I think we must use our endeavours. If with mildness we ask for favour, I trust to obtain it of him. Oppose him we cannot, without disgrace and extreme criminality; I will neither do that myself, nor will I give you the advice to do it, but rather that we should entreat him. I know our family; he will yield to entreaty.

ANTIPHO: (speaking to himself.) In the first place, in what manner I should make a beginning with them, about that I am in doubt; whether I should accost them in language couched in ambiguous terms, after this fashion, as though I had never pretended anything at all against them, or whether as though I had heard that they were deserving of some censure against them; whether I should rather try them gently or with threats. I know that there will be opposition; I know my daughters right well.

If they should prefer to remain here rather than to marry afresh, why, let them do so. What need is there for me, the term of my life run out, to be waging war with my children, when I think that they don’t at all deserve that I should do so? By no means; I’ll have no disturbances. But I think that this is the best thing to be done by me; I’ll do thus; I’ll pretend as though they had themselves been guilty of some fault;

I’ll terribly terrify their minds this day by some ambiguous expressions; ana then, after that, as I shall feel disposed, I’ll disclose myself. I know that many words will be spoken; I’ll go in. (Goes to the door of PHILUMENA’S house.) But the door’s open.

PHILUMENA: Why, surely the sound of my father’s voice reached my ears.

PAMPHILA: I’ troth,’tis he; let’s hasten to meet him with a kiss. (They both run to kiss him.)

PHILUMENA: My father, my respects.

ANTIPHO: And to you the same. Away this instant, and be off from me, (Removes her.)

PHILUMENA: One kiss.

ANTIPHO: I’ve had enough of your kissing.

PHILUMENA: Prithee, father, why so?

ANTIPHO: Because, as it is, the seasoning of your affection has reached my soul.

PAMPHILA: Sit down here, father. (Points to a chair.)

ANTIPHO: I’ll not sit there; do you sit down; I’ll sit on the bench. (Sits on a bench.)

PAMPHILA: Wait till I fetch a cushion.

ANTIPHO: You take kind care of me; I’m nicely seated now as I am.

PAMPHILA: Do let me, father. (Goes into the house.)

ANTIPHO: What need is there?

PAMPHILA: There is need. (Coming out, and bringing a cushion.)

ANTIPHO: I’ll submit to you. (Arranging the cushion.) Yes, this does very well.

PAMPHILA: Why, daughters can never take too much care of their parent. Whom is it proper that we should esteem more dear than yourself? And then, in the next place, father, our husbands, for whom you have chosen that we should be the mothers of families.

ANTIPHO: You do as it is proper for good wives to do, in esteeming your husbands, though absent, just as though they were present.

PAMPHILA: ’Tis propriety, father, for us to highly honor those who have chosen us as companions for themselves.

ANTIPHO: Is there any other person here to listen with his ears to our conversation?

PHILUMENA: There’s no one except us and yourself.

ANTIPHO: I wish your attention to be given; for, unacquainted with female matters and ways,

I come now as a pupil to you, my instructresses; in order that each of you may tell me what endowments matrons ought to have, who are the best esteemed.

PAMPHILA: What’s the reason that you come hither to enquire about the ways of females?

ANTIPHO: Troth, I’m looking for a wife, as your mother’s dead and gone.

PAMPHILA: You’ll easily find, father, one both worse and of worse morals than she was; one better you’ll neither find nor does the sun behold.

ANTIPHO: But I’m making the enquiry of you, and of this sister of yours.

PAMPHILA: I’ faith, father, I know how they should be, if they are to be such as I think right.

ANTIPHO: I wish, then, to know what you do think right.

PAMPHILA: That when they walk through the city, they should shut the mouths of all, so that none can speak ill of them with good reason.

ANTIPHO: (to PHILUMENA.) And now speak you in your turn.

PHILUMENA: What do you wish that I should speak to you about, father?

ANTIPHO: How is the woman most easily distinguished, who is of a good disposition?

PHILUMENA: When she, who has the power of doing ill, refrains from doing so.

ANTIPHO: Not bad that. (To PAMPHILA.) Come, say you, which choice is the preferable, to marry a maiden or a widow?

PAMPHILA: So far as my skill extends, of many evils, that which is the least evil, the same is the least an evil.

He that can avoid the women, let him avoid them, so that each day he takes care, the day before, not to do that which, the day after, he may regret.

ANTIPHO: What sort of woman, pray, seems to you by far the wisest?

PHILUMENA: She who, when affairs are prosperous, shall still be able to know herself, and who with equanimity can endure it to be worse with her than it has been.

ANTIPHO: By my troth, in merry mood have I been trying the bent of your dispositions. But’tis this for which I am come to you, and for which I wished to meet you both. My friends are advising me to the effect that I should remove you hence to my own house.

PAMPHILA: But still, we, whose interests are concerned, are advising you quite otherwise.

For either, father, we ought not formerly to have been bestowed in marriage, unless our husbands pleased you, or, it is not right for us now to be taken away when they are absent.

ANTIPHO: And shall I suffer you while I am alive to remain married to men who are beggars?

PAMPHILA: This beggar of mine is agreable to me; her own king is agreable to the queen. In poverty have I the same feelings that once I had in riches.

ANTIPHO: And do you set such high value on thieves and beggars?

PHILUMENA: You did not, as I think, give me in marriage to the money, but to the man.

ANTIPHO: Why are you still in expectation of those who have been absent for now three years? Why don’t you accept an eligible match in place of a very bad one?

PAMPHILA: ’Tis folly, father, to lead unwilling dogs to hunt.

That wife is an enemy, who is given to a man in marriage against her will.

ANTIPHO: Are you then determined that neither of you will obey the command of your father?

PHILUMENA: We do obey; for where you gave us in marriage, thence are we unwilling to depart.

ANTIPHO: Kindly good b’ye; I’ll go and tell my friends your resolutions.

PAMPHILA: They will, I doubt not, think us the more honorable, if you tell them to honorable men.

ANTIPHO: Take you care, then, of their domestic concerns, the best way that you can. (Exit.)

PHILUMENA: Now you gratify us, when you direct us aright: now we will hearken to you. Now, sister, let’s go indoors.

PAMPHILA: Well, first I’ll take a look at home. If, perchance, any news should come to you from your husband, take you care that I know it.

PHILUMENA: Neither will I conceal it from you, nor do you conceal from me what you may know.

(Calls at the door of her house.) Ho there, Crocotium, go, fetch hither Gelasimus, the Parasite; bring him here with you. For, i’ faith, I wish to send him to the harbour, to see if, perchance, any ship from Asia has arrived there yesterday or to-day. But, one servant has been sitting at the harbour whole days in waiting; still, however, I wish it to be visited every now and then. Make haste, and return immediately. (Each goes into her own house.)

(Enter GELASIMUS.)

GELASIMUS: I do suspect that Famine was my mother; for since I was born I have never been filled with victuals. And no man could better return the favour to his mother, than do I right unwillingly return it to my mother, Famine. For in her womb, for ten months she bore me, whereas I have been carrying her for more than ten years in my stomach. She, too, carried me but a little child, wherefore I judge that she endured the less labour; in my stomach no little Famine do I bear, but of full growth, i’ faith, and extremely heavy.

The labour-pains arise with me each day, but I’m unable to bring forth my mother, nor know I what to do. I’ve often heard it so said that the elephant is wont to be pregnant ten whole years; for sure this hunger of mine is of its breed.

For now for many a year has it been clinging to, my inside. Now, if any person wants a droll fellow, I am on sale, with all my equipage: of a filling-up for these chasms am I in search. When little, my father gave me the name of Gelasimus, because, even from a tiny child, I was a droll chap. By reason of poverty, in fact, did I acquire this name, because, it was poverty that made me to be a droll; for whenever she reaches a person, she instructs him thoroughly in every art. My father used to say that I was born when provisions were dear;

for that reason, I do believe, I am now the more sharply set. But on our family such complacence has been bestowed—I am in the habit of refusing no person, if any one asks me out to eat. One form of expression has most unfortunately died away with people, and one, i’ faith, most beseeming and most elegant to my thinking, which formerly they employed: Come here to dinner—do so—really, do promise—don’t make any difficulties—is it convenient?—I wish it to be so, I say; I’ll not part with you unless you come. But now, in the present day, they have found a substitute for these expressions—a saying, by my faith, truly right worthless and most vile:

I’d invite you to dinner, were I not dining; out myself. I’ faith, I wish the very loins of that phrase broken, that it mayn’t repeat its perjury if he does dine at his own house. These phrases reduce me to learn foreign habits, and to spare the necessity for an auctioneer, and so proclaim the auction, and put myself up for sale. (Enter CROCOTIUM from the house of PHILUMENA, unseen by GELASIMUS.)

CROCOTIUM: (aside.) This is the Parasite, whom I’ve been sent to fetch. I’ll listen to what he’s saying, before I accost him.

GELASIMUS: Now there are a good many curious mischief-makers here, who, with extreme zeal, busy themselves with the affairs of other people, and who have themselves no affairs of their own to busy themselves with. They, when they know that any one is about to have an auction, go forthwith and sift out what’s the reason; whether a debt compels it, or whether he has purchased a farm; or whether, on a divorce, her marriage-portion is to be repaid to his wife.

All these, although, i’ faith, I don’t judge them undeserving, in their most wretched state, to go toiling on, I don’t care about. I’ll proclaim the reason of my auction, that they may rejoice in my mishaps, for there’s no person a busybody but what he’s ill-natured too. Very great mishaps, alas! have befallen wretched me.

So dreadfully afflicted has my property rendered me: my many drinking-bouts are dead and gone; how many dinners, too, that I’ve bewailed, are dead! how many a draught of honeyed wine; how many breakfasts, too, that I have lost within these last three years!

In my wretchedness, for very grief and vexation have I quite grown old. I’m almost dead with hunger.

CROCOTIUM: (aside.) There’s no one such a droll, as he is when he is hungry.

GELASIMUS: Now am I resolved that I’ll make a sale: out of doors am I obliged to sell whatever I possess.

Attend, if you please; the bargains will be for those who are present. I’ve funny bon mots to sell. Come, bid your price. Who bids a dinner? Does any one bid a breakfast? They’ll cost vou an Herculean breakfast or dinner. Ho, there! (to one of the SPECTATORS) did you nod to me? No one will offer you better—

I won’t allow that any Parasite has better quibbles, cajoleries, and parasitical white lies.

I’m selling a rusty flesh-scraper, too; a rusty-coloured brown bottle for the Greek unguents at the sweating-baths; delicate after-dinner powders;

an empty Parasite as well (pointing to himself), in whom to lay by your scraps.’Tis needful that these should be sold at once for as much as they can; that, if I offer the tenth part. to Hercules, on that account it may be greater

CROCOTIUM: (aside.) An auction of no great value, by my troth. Hunger has taken hold of the very deepest recess of the fellow’s stomach. I’ll accost the man. (Moves towards him.)

GELASIMUS: Who’s this that’s coming towards me? Why, surely this is Crocotium, the maid-servant of Epignomus.

CROCOTIUM: My respects, Gelasimus.

GELASIMUS: That’s not my name.

CROCOTIUM: I’ faith, for sure that used to be your name.

GELASIMUS: Distinctly it was so, but I’ve lost it by use. Now I’m called Miccotrogus from what is fact.

CROCOTIUM: O dear! I’ve laughed a good deal at you to-day.

GELASIMUS: When? or in what place?

CROCOTIUM: Here, when you were carrying on a most worthless auction.

GELASIMUS: How now; did you really hear it?

CROCOTIUM: Aye, and one really right worthy of yourself.

GELASIMUS: Where are you bound for now?

CROCOTIUM: For yourself.

GELASIMUS: Why have you come?

CROCOTIUM: Philumena bade me ask you by all means to come to visit her at her house this instant, together with me.

GELASIMUS: I’ faith, but I’ll surely come there as fast as I can. Are the entrails cooked by this? With how many lambs has she been sacrificing?

CROCOTIUM: Indeed, she hasn’t been sacrificing at all.

GELASIMUS: How? What does she want with me, then?

CROCOTIUM: I think that she’s going to ask you for ten measures of wheat.

GELASIMUS: Or me rather ask it of her?

CROCOTIUM: No; that you yourself should lend them to us.

GELASIMUS: Tell her that I’ve nothing to give myself, or that she could wish to borrow, nor anything whatever, except this cloak that I have on. Even my very tongue that so freely used to offer itself I’ve sold as well.

CROCOTIUM: How? Have you got no tongue?

GELASIMUS: Why, the former one, that used to say here, take me, I’ve lost: see, here’s one now that says give me. (Puts out his tongue.)

CROCOTIUM: A curse may the Gods give you

GELASIMUS: Aye, if a curse you want, this same tongue will give you that.

CROCOTIUM: Well now, are you coming or not?

GELASIMUS: Well, be off home;

tell her I’ll be there this moment; make haste and be off. (CROCOTIUM goes into the house.)

I wonder why she has requested me to be fetched to her, who has never, before this day, requested that I should be fetched to her, ever since her husband left. I wonder what it can be; except it is for some experiment to be made upon me; I’ll go see what she wants.

But see, here’s her boy, Pinacium. Look at that now; how very facetiously and just like a picture does he stand? Full many a time, for sure, in good troth, has he poured out for me the wine, almost unmixed, right cleverly into a very tiny cup indeed. (Stands aside.)