Chapter 1

(Enter DAVUS, with a bag of money in his hand.)

DAVUS: Geta, my very good friend and fellow-townsman, came to me yesterday. There had been for some time a trifling balance of money of his in my hands upon a small account; he asked me to make it up. I have done so, and am carrying it to him. But I hear that his master’s son has taken a wife; this, I suppose, is scraped together as a present for her. How unfair a custom!—that those who have the least should always be giving something to the more wealthy! That which the poor wretch has with difficulty spared, ounce by ounce, out of his allowance, defrauding himself of every indulgence, the whole of it will she carry of, without thinking with how much labor it has been acquired. And then besides, Geta will be struck for another present when his mistress is brought to bed; and then again for another present, when the child’s birthday comes; when they initiate him, too: all this the mother will carry off;

the child will only be the pretext for the present. But don’t I see Geta there?

(Enter GETA, from the house of DEMIPHO.)

GETA: (at the door, to those within.) If any red-haired man should inquire for me—

DAVUS: (stepping forward.) Here he is, say no more.

GETA: (starting.) Oh! Why I was trying to come and meet you, Davus.

DAVUS: (giving the money to GETA.) Here, take it; it’s all ready counted out; the number just amounts to the sum I owed you.

GETA: I am obliged to you; and I return you thanks for not having forgotten me.

DAVUS: Especially as people’s ways are nowadays; things are come to such a pass, if a person repays you any thing, you must be greatly obliged to him. But why are you out of spirits?

GETA: What, I? You little know what terror and peril I am in.

DAVUS: What’s the matter?

GETA.: You shall know, if you can only keep it secret.

DAVUS: Out upon you, simpleton;

the man, whose trustworthiness you have experienced as to money, are you afraid to intrust with words? In what way have I any interest in deceiving you?

GETA: Well then, listen.

DAVUS: I give you my best attention.

GETA: Davus, do you know Chremes, the elder brother of our old gentleman?

DAVUS: Why should I not?

GETA: Well, and his son Phaedria?

DAVUS: As well as your own self.

GETA: It so happened to both the old gentlemen, just at the same period, that the one had to take a journey to Lemnos, and our old man to Cilicia, to see an old acquaintance; he tempted over the old man by letters, promising him all but mountains of gold.

DAVUS: To one who had so much property, that he had more than he could use?

GETA: Do have done;

that is his way.

DAVUS: Oh, as for that, I really ought to have been a man of fortune.

GETA: When departing hence, both the old gentlemen left ne as a sort of tutor to their sons.

DAVUS: Ah, Geta, you undertook a hard task there.

GETA: I came to experience it, I know that. I’m quite sure that I was forsaken by my good Genius, who must have been angry with me.

I began to oppose them at first; but what need of talking? As long as I was trusty to the old men, I was paid for it in my shoulder-blades.

This, then, occurred to my mind: why, this is folly to kick against the spur. I began to do every thing for them that they wished to be humored in.

DAVUS: You knew how to make your market.

GETA: Our young fellow did no mischief whatever at first; that Phaedria at once picked up a certain damsel, a Music-girl, and fell in love with her to distraction. She belonged to a most abominable Procurer; and their fathers had taken good care that they should have nothing to give him.

There remained nothing for him then but to feed his eyes, to follow her about, to escort her to the school, and to escort her back again. We, having nothing to do, lent our aid to Phaedria. Near the school at which she was taught, right opposite the place, there was a certain barber’s shop: here we were generally in the habit of waiting for her, until she was coming home again. In the mean time, while one day we were sitting there, there came in a young man in tears; we were surprised at this. We inquired what was the matter? Never, said he, has poverty appeared to me a burden so grievous and so insupportable as just now.

I have just seen a certain poor young woman in this neighborhood lamenting her dead mother. She was laid out before her, and not a single friend, acquaintance, or relation was there with her, except one poor old woman, to assist her in the funeral: I pitied her.

The girl herself was of surpassing beauty. What need of a long story? She moved us all. At once Antipho exclaims, Would you like us to go and visit her? The other said, I think we ought—let us go—show us the way, please. We went, and arrived there; we saw her; the girl was beautiful, and that you might say so the more, there was no heightening to her beauty; her hair disheveled, her feet bare, herself neglected, and in tears; her dress: mean, so’that, had there not been an excess of beauty in her very charms, these circumstances must have extinguished those charms. The one who had lately fallen in love with the Music-girl said: She is well enough; but our youth—

DAVUS: I know it already—fell in love with her.

GETA: Can you imagine to what an extent? Observe the consequence. The day after, he goes straight to the old woman; entreats her to let him have her: she, on the other hand, refuses him, and says that he is not acting properly; that, she is a citizen of Athens, virtuous, and born of honest parents: that if he wishes to make her his wife, he is at liberty to do so according to law; but if otherwise, she gives him a refusal. Our youth was at a loss what to. do. He was both eager to marry her, and he dreaded his absent father.

DAVUS: Would not his father, if he had returned, have given him leave?

GETA: He let him marry a girl with no fortune, and of obscure birth! He would never do so.

DAVUS: What came of it at last?

GETA: What came of it? There is one Phormio here, a Parasite, a fellow of great assurance; may all the Gods confound him!

DAVUS: What has he done?

GETA: He has given this piece of advice, which I will tell you of.

There is a law, that orphan girls are to marry those who are their next-of-kin; and the same law commands such persons to marry them. I’ll say you are the next-of-kin, and take out a summons against you; I’ll pretend that I am a friend of the girl’s father; we will come before the judges: who her father was, who her mother, how she is related to you—all this I’ll trump up, just as will be advantageous and suited to my purpose; on your disproving none of these things, I shall prevail, of course. Your father will return; a quarrel will be the consequence; what care I? She will still be ours.

DAVUS: An amusing piece of assurance!

GETA: He was, persuaded to this. It was carried out; they came into court: we were beaten. He has married her.

DAVUS: What is it you tell me?

GETA: Just what you have heard.

DAVUS: O Geta, what will become of you?

GETA: Upon my faith, I don’t know; this one thing I do know, whatever fortune may bring, I’ll bear it with firmness.

DAVUS: You please me; well, that is the duty of a man.

GETA: All my hope is in myself.

DAVUS: I commend you.

GETA: Suppose I have recourse to some one to intercede for me, who will plead for me in these terms: Pray, do forgive him this time; but if after this he does any thing, I make no entreaty: if only he doesn’t add, When I’ve gone, e’en kill him for my part.

DAVUS: What of the one who was usher to the Music-girl?

GETA: (shrugging his shoulders.) So so, but poorly.

DAVUS: Perhaps he hasn’t much to give.

GETA: Why, really, nothing at all, except mere hopes.

DAVUS: Is his father come back or not?

GETA: Not yet.

DAVUS: Well, when do you expect your old man?

GETA: I don’t know for certain; but I just now heard that a letter has been brought from him, and has been left with the officers of the customs: I’m going to fetch it.

DAVUS: Is there any thing else that you want with me, Geta?

GETA: Nothing, but that I wish you well. (Exit DAVUS.) Hark you, boy (calling at the door). Is nobody coming out here? (A LAD comes out.) Take this, and give it to Dorcium. (He gives the purse to the LAD, who carries it into DEMIPHO’S house and exit GETA.)

(Enter ANTIPHO and PHAEDRIA.)

ANTIPHO: That things should have come to such a pass, Phaedria, that I should be in utter dread,of my father, who wishes me so well, whenever his return comes into my thoughts!

Had I not been inconsiderate, I might have waited for him, as I ought to have done.

PHAEDRIA: What’s the matter?

ANTIPHO: Do you ask the question? You, who have been my confederate in so bold an adventure? How I do wish it had never entered the mind of Phormio to persuade me to this, or to urge me in the heat of my passion to this step, which is the source of my misfortunes. Then I should not have obtained her; in that case I might have been uneasy for some few days;

but still, this perpetual anxiety would not have been tormenting my mind (touching PHAEDRIA).

PHAEDRIA: I hear you.

ANTIPHO: While I am every moment expecting his return, who is to sever from me this connection.

PHAEDRIA: Other men feel uneasiness because they can not gain what they love; you complain because you have too much. You are surfeited with love, Antipho. Why, really, upon my faith, this situation of yours is surely one to be coveted and desired.

So may the Gods kindly bless me, could I be at liberty to be so long in possession of the object of my love, I could contentedly die. Do you, then, form a judgment as to the rest, what I am now suffering from this privation, and what pleasure you enjoy from the possession of your desires; not to mention how, without any expense, you have obtained a well-born and genteel woman, and have got a wife of unblemished reputation:

happy you, were not this one thing wanting, a mind capable of bearing all this with moderation. If you had to deal with that Procurer with whom I have to deal, then you would soon be sensible of it. We are mostly all of us inclined by nature to be dissatisfied with our lot.

ANTIPHO: Still, on the other hand, Phaedria, you now seem to me the fortunate man, who still have the liberty, without restraint, of resolving on what pleases you best:

whether to keep, to love on, or to give her up. I, unfortunately, have got my-self into that position, that I have neither right to give her up, nor liberty to retain her. But how’s this? Is it our Geta I see running this way?’Tis he himself. Alas! I’m dreadfully afraid what news it is he’s now bringing me.

(Enter GETA, running, at the other side of the stage.)

GETA: (to himself.) Geta, you are undone, unless you instantly find out some expedient;

so suddenly do such mighty evils now threaten me thus unprepared, which I neither know how to shun, nor how to extricate myself therefrom; for this daring step of:ours can not now any longer be kept a secret. If such a result is not adroitly guarded against, these matters will cause the ruin of myself, or of my master.

ANTIPHO: (to PHAEDRIA.) Why, I wonder, is he coming in such fright?:

GETA: (to himself.) Besides, I’ve but a moment left for this matter—my master’s close at hand.

ANTIPHO: (to PHAEDRIA.) What mischief is this?

GETA: (to himself.) When he comes to hear of it, what remedy shall I discover for his anger Am I to speak? I shall irritate him: be silent? I shall provoke him: excuse myself? I should be washing a brickbat. Alas! unfortunate me! While I am trembling for myself, this Antipho distracts my mind. I am concerned for him; I’m in dread for him:’tis he that now keeps me here; for had it not been for him, I should have made due provision for my safety, and have taken vengeance on the old man for his crabbedness;

I should have scraped up something, and straightway taken to my heels away from here.

ANTIPHO: (to PHAEDRIA.) I wonder What running away or theft it is that he’s planning.

GETA: (to himself.) But where shall I find Antipho, or which way go look for him?

PHAEDRIA: (to ANTIPHO.) He’s mentioning your name.

ANTIPHO: (to PHADRIA.) I know not what great misfortune I expect to hear from this messenger.

PHAEDRIA: (to ANTIPHO.) Why, are you in your senses?

GETA: (to himself.) I’ll make my way homeward; he’s generally there.

PHAEDRIA: (to ANTIPHO.) Let’s call the fellow back.

ANTIPHO: (calling out.) Stop, this instant.

GETA: (turning round.) Heyday—with authority enough, whoever you are.

ANTIPHO: Geta!

GETA: The very person I wanted to find.

ANTIPHO: Pray, tell me what news you bring, and dispatch it in one word, if you can.

GETA: I’ll do so.

ANTIPHO: Out with it.

GETA: Just now, at the harbor—

ANTIPHO: What, my father?—

GETA: You’ve hit it.

ANTIPHO: Ruined outright!

PHAEDRIA: Pshaw!

ANTIPHO: What am I to do?

PHAEDRIA: (to GETA.) What is it you say?

GETA: That I have seen his father, your uncle.

ANTIPHO: How am I, wretch that I am, now to find a remedy for this sudden misfortune? But if it should be my fortune, Phanium, to be torn away from you, life would cease to be desirable.

GETA: Therefore, Antipho, since matters are thus, the more need have you to be on your guard; fortune helps the brave.

ANTIPHO: I am not myself.

GETA: But just now it is especially necessary you should be so, Antipho;

for if your father perceives that you are alarmed, he will think that you have been guilty of some fault.

PHAEDRIA: That’s true.

ANTIPHO: I can not change.

GETA: What would you do, if now something else still more difficult had to be done by you?

ANTIPHO: As I am not equal to this, I should be still less so to the other.

GETA: This is doing nothing at all, Phaedria, let’s be gone; why do we waste our time here to no purpose. I shall be off.

PHAEDRIA: And I too. (They move as if going.)

ANTIPHO: Pray, now, if I assume an air, will that do? (He endeavors to assume another air.)

GETA: You are trifling.

ANTIPHO: Look at my countenance—there’s for you. (Assuming a different air.) Will that do?

GETA: No.

ANTIPHO: Well, will this? (Assuming another air.)

GETA: Pretty well.

ANTIPHO: Well then, this? (Assuming a still bolder air.)

GETA: That’s just the thing. There now, keep to that, and answer him word for word, like for like; don’t let him, in his anger, disconcert you with his blustering words.

ANTIPHO: I understand.

GETA: Say that you were forced against your will by law, by sentence of the court; do you take me?

(Looking earnestly in one direction.) But who is the old man that I see at the end of the street?

ANTIPHO: ’Tis he himself. I can not stand it. (Going.)

GETA: Oh! What are you about? Whither are you going, Antipho? Stop, I tell you.

ANTIPHO: I know my own self and my offense; to your management I trust Phanium and my own existence. (Exit hastily.)

PHAEDRIA: Geta, what’s to be done now?

GETA: You will just hear some harsh language:

I shall be trussed up and trounced, if I am not somewhat mistaken. But what we were just now advising Antipho to do, the same we must do ourselves, Phaedria.

PHAEDRIA: Away with your musts; rather do you command me what I am to do.

GETA: Do you remember what were your words formerly on our entering upon this project, with the view of protecting yourselves from ill consequences—that their cause was just, clear, unanswerable, and most righteous?

PHAEDRIA: I remember it.

GETA: Well then, now there’s need of that plea, or of one still better and more plausible, if such there can be.

PHAEDRIA: I’ll use my best endeavors.

GETA: Do you then accost him first; I’ll be here in re-serve, by way of reinforcement, if you give ground at all.

PHAEDRIA: Very well. (They retire to a distance.)