Mercator, or The Merchant (817-829_sp14)

I’ faith, the women do live upon hard terms, and, wretched creatures, on much more unjust ones than the men. For if a husband has been keeping a mistress without the knowledge of his wife,

if the wife comes to know it, the husband gets off with impunity; if, unknown to the husband, the wife goes from the house out of doors, a pretext arises for the husband, the marriage is dissolved[*]. I wish the law was the same for the husband as for the wife; for the wife that is a good one, is content with one husband;

why, any the less, should the husband be content with one wife? By my troth, I’d give cause, if men were punished in the same way (if any one should be keeping a mistress unknown to his wife), as those women are repudiated who are guilty of a slip, that there should be more divorced men than there are women now.

I’m quite tired with hunting the whole city through; I find nothing whatever about this woman. But my mother has returned from the country; for I see Syra standing before the house. Syra!

Who is it that’s calling me?

’Tis I, your master and foster-child.

Save you, my foster-child.

Has my mother returned from the country then? Answer me.

Aye, for her own especial sake and that of the family.

What is it that’s the matter?

That very pretty father of yours has brought a mistress into the house.

How say you?

Your mother, on arriving from the country, found her at home.

By my troth, I didn’t think my father was a person for those practices. Is the woman now even still in-doors?

Even still.

Do you follow me.

How now[*]? Do I see Peristrata here, the wife of Demipho? She quickens her pace; she glances about with her eyes; she turns herself round; she inclines her neck on one side. I’ll observe from here what matter she’s about; it’s something of importance, whatever scent she’s upon.

The Goddess Astarte[*] is the might of mortals and of the Gods, their life, their health; she, the same, who is likewise their death, destruction, downfall, the seas, the earth, the heaven, and the stars. Whatever Temples of Jove we inhabit, they are guided by her nod; her do they obey; to her do they pay regard; what displeases her, the other Deities do quickly put aside. Whatever pleases her, that, all things, which live and have sense, do pursue. Some she tortures, destroys; others, with her own milk does she nourish and raise aloft; but those whom she tortures, they live and enjoy their senses; those whom she hastens to rear and raise aloft, these last indeed do perish forthwith, and to their sorrow use their senses. Then, well-wishers, they lie prostrate, objects of dislike they bite the ground, grovel upon their faces, roar out, and make a riot; and when they think they live, then in especial do they rush on to ruin, then, then do they show eagerness in the pursuit of the object beloved; young men stumble, aged men likewise are led away. They love themselves; the object which they love, they wish to be loved and known. But if at that age they begin to fall in love, much more grievous is their madness. But if they do not love, then they hate, they are morose, too, and wayward; tattlers, haters, ill-disposed, passionate, envious for themselves and theirs. What they have formerly been shamelessly guilty of themselves, if it is done in a more quiet way, fathers do not tolerate as they ought to do; but they proclaim it, and indecently cry it out aloud.

So far as I understand, Demipho is treating this lady badly too.

This is the truth. My son is in love and is dying; when his father came to know of it, he was enraged beyond bounds. What insanity is this? This same husband of mine at one time packed my son off to Rhodes to traffic; now, according to the news Acanthio brings, he’ll be betaking himself into banishment. O unjust father! O unfortunate son! whither will you betake yourself? Where will you leave your mother? Shall I pass my life bereft? Shall I lose my son? I will not endure it. Has his father sold her? Wherever she shall be found, the mother will redeem her. Do you tell me, Lycissa, do they suppose that she was brought into this neighbourhood?

To that, I fancy; to the house of a certain old gentleman, a friend.

Here, there is no one that I know of besides Lysimachus.

They are mentioning Lysimachus. It’s a wonder if the old fellows, who are neighbours, haven’t been going halves in the same nest.

I’ll go look for Dorippa, his wife.

Why go look for her? Don’t you see her?

Indeed, I do see her. Let’s listen; she’s muttering something in a passion, I know not what, to herself.

Syra hasn’t come back, whom, poor wretch, it’s now a long time since I sent to fetch my father; in her very slowness, she has either hardened into a stone, or she has stopped from swelling with the sting of a serpent.

I’m undone; here’s my mistress, she’s looking after me.

I cannot remain at home; my eyes cannot abide that pretty young harlot; I would have shut her out of doors, but my son Eutychus prevented me. Still, I shan’t altogether believe the news he brings.

Do you hear, mistress?