Andria; or, The Fair Andrian (220-282)

and they are now contriving among themselves a certain scheme, that she is a citizen of Attica. There was formerly a certain old man of this place, a merchant; he was shipwrecked off the Isle of Andros; he died. They say that there, the father of Chrysis, on that occasion, sheltered this girl, thrown on shore, an orphan, a little child. What nonsense!

To myself at least it isn’t very probable; the fiction pleases them, however. But Mysis is coming out of the house. Now I’ll betake myself hence to the Forum,[*] that I may meet with Pamphilus, lest his father should take him by surprise about this matter.

I’ve heard you already, Archylis; you request Lesbia to be fetched. Really, upon my faith, she is a wine-bibbing[*] and a rash woman,

and not sufficiently trustworthy for you to commit to her care a female at her first delivery; is she still to be brought? (She receives an answer from within, and comes forward.) Do look at the inconsiderateness of the old woman; because she is her pot-companion. Ye Gods, I do entreat you, give her ease in her delivery, and to that woman an opportunity of making her mistakes elsewhere in preference. But why do I see Pamphilus so out of spirits? I fear what it may be.

I’ll wait, that I may know whether this sorrow portends any disaster.

Is it humane to do or to devise this? Is this the duty of a father?

What does this mean?

O, by our faith in the Gods! what is, if this is not, an indignity? He had resolved that he himself would give me a wife to-day; ought I not to have known this beforehand? Ought it not to have been mentioned previously?

Wretched me! What language do I hear?

What does Chremes do? He who had declared that he would not intrust his daughter to me as a wife; because he himself sees me unchanged he has changed. Thus perversely does he lend his aid, that he may withdraw wretched me from Glycerium. If this is effected, I am utterly undone.

That any man should be so unhappy in love, or so unfortunate as I am! Oh, faith of Gods and men! shall I by no device be able to escape this alliance with Chremes? In how many ways am I contemned, and held in scorn? Every thing done, and concluded! Alas! once rejected I am sought again; for what reason? Unless perhaps it is this, which I suspect it is:

they are rearing some monster,[*] and as she can not be pushed off upon any one else, they have recourse to me.

This language has terrified wretched me with apprehension.

But what am I to say about my father? Alas! that he should so thoughtlessly conclude an affair of such importance! Passing me in the Forum just now, he said, Pamphilus, you must be married to-day:

get ready; be off home. He seemed to me to say this: Be off this instant, and go hang yourself. I was amazed; think you that I was able to utter a single word, or any excuse, even a frivolous, false, or lame one? I was speechless. But if any one were to ask me now what I would have done, if I had known this sooner, why, I would have done any thing rather than do this. But now, what course shall I first adopt?

So many cares beset me, which rend my mind to pieces; love, sympathy for her, the worry of this marriage; then, respect for my father, who has ever, until now, with such an indulgent disposition, allowed me to do whatever was agreeable to my feelings. Ought I to oppose him? Ah me! I am in uncertainty what to do.

I’m wretchedly afraid how this uncertainty is to terminate.

But now there’s an absolute necessity, either for him to speak to her, or for me to speak to him about her. While the mind is in suspense, it is swayed by a slight impulse one way or the other.

Who is it speaking here? (Seeing her.) Mysis? Good-morrow to you.

Oh! Good-morrow to you, Pamphilus.

How is she?

Do you ask? She is oppressed with grief,[*] and on this account the poor thing is anxious, because some time ago the marriage was arranged for this day. Then, too, she fears this,

that you may forsake her.

Ha! could I attempt that? Could I suffer her, poor thing, to be deceived on my account? She, who has confided to me her affection, and her entire existence? She, whom I have held especially dear to my feelings as my wife? Shall I suffer her mind, well and chastely trained and tutored,

to be overcome by poverty and corrupted? I will not do it.

I should have no fear if it rested with yourself alone; but whether you may be able to withstand compulsion—

Do you deem me so cowardly, so utterly ungrateful, inhuman, and so brutish, that neither intimacy, nor affection, nor shame,

can move or admonish me to keep faith?

This one thing I know, that she is deserving that you should not forget her.

Forget her? Oh Mysis, Mysis, at this moment are those words of Chrysis concerning Glycerium written on my mind. Now at the point of death, she called me;