Mercator, or The Merchant (325-379)

This person’s deranged through love. (To DEMIPHO.) Do you desire aught with me?

Farewell!

I’m making haste to the harbour; for I’ve got business there.

Good luck go with you.

Heartily fare you well.

Kindly fare you well.

(DEMIPHO continues, to himself.) And what’s more, I too as well have got some business at the harbour; now, therefore, I shall be off thither. But, look! most opportunely I see my son. I’ll wait for the fellow; it’s necessary for me now to see him,

to persuade him, as far as I possibly can, to sell her to me, and not make a present of her to his mother; for I’ve heard that he has brought her as a present for her. But I have need of precaution, that he mayn’t any way imagine that I have set my fancy upon her.

Never, I do think, was any person more wretched than myself, nor one who had more everlasting crosses. Isn’t it the fact, that whatever thing there is that I have commenced to attempt, it cannot fall out to my wish according as I desire? To such an extent is some evil fortune always befalling me,

which overwhelms my fair intentions. To my misfortune, I procured me a mistress to please my inclination; I acquired her for a sum of money, fancying that I could keep her unknown to my father. He has found her out, and has seen her, and has undone me. Nor have I yet determined what to say when he asks me,

so much do uncertain thoughts, aye, tenfold, struggle within my breast; nor know I now in my mind what resolution I can possibly take; so much uncertainty, mingled with anxiety, is there in my feelings, at one moment the advice of my servant pleases me, then again it doesn’t please me, and it doesn’t seem possible for my father

to be induced to think that she was bought as a maid-servant for my mother. Now, if I say, as is the fact, and declare that I purchased her for myself, what will he think of me? He may take her away, too, and carry her hence beyond sea, to be sold!

Well taught at home, I know how severe he is. Is this, then, being in love? I’d rather be at the plough-tail[*] than love in this fashion. Before to-day, long ago, he drove me away against my inclination from his house, my home, and bade me go and traffic. There did I meet with this misfortune. When its misery can surpass its pleasure, what is there delightful in it?

In vain I’ve hidden her, concealed her, kept her in secret; my father’s a very fly[*]; nothing can be kept away from him; nothing so sacred or so profane is there, but that he’s there at once; neither have I any assured hope in my mind through which to feel confidence in my fortunes.

What’s the reason of this, that my son is talking to himself alone? He seems to me anxious about some matter, I know not what.

Heyday, now! Why, surely it’s my father here that I see. I’ll go and accost him. (Accosting him.) How goes it, father?

Whence do you come? Why are you in a hurry, my son?

It’s all right, father.

So I trust; but what’s the reason that your colour’s so changed? Do you feel ill at all?

I know not what it is affects my spirits, father;

this last night I didn’t rest quite as well as I wished.

As you’ve been travelling by sea, your eyes, I suppose, are at present rather unaccustomed to the shore.

No doubt it is that; but it will be going off presently.

Troth, it’s for that reason you are pale; if you were prudent, you’d go home and lie down.

I haven’t the leisure; I wish to attend to business on commission.

Attend to it to-morrow; the day after, attend to it.

I’ve often heard from you, father, it behoves all wise men, the first thing, to give their earliest attention to business upon commission.

Do so, then; I have no wish to be striving against your opinion.

I’m all right, if, indeed, his adherence to that sentiment is immoveable and lasting.

Why is it that he calls himself aside into counsel with himself?