Ion (Talfourd)/Act III

Scene I
''A Terrace of the Temple. Clemanthe, Ion.''

CLEMANTHE.

Nay, I must chide this sorrow from thy brow, Or 'twill rebuke my happiness;—I know Too well the miseries that hem us round; And yet the inward sunshine of my soul, Unclouded by their melancholy shadows, Bathes in its deep tranquillity one image— One only image, which no outward storm Can ever ruffle. Let me wean thee, then, From this vain pondering o'er the general woe, Which makes my joy look ugly.

ION.

No, my fair one, The gloom that wrongs thy love is unredeem'd By generous sense of others' woe: too sure It rises from dark presages within, And will not from me.

CLEMANTHE.

Then it is most groundless! Hast thou not won the blessings of the perishing By constancy, the fame of which shall live While a heart beats in Argos?—hast thou not Upon one agitated bosom pour'd The sweetest peace? and can thy generous nature, While it thus sheds felicity around it, Remain itself unbless'd?

ION.

I strove awhile To think the assured possession of thy love With too divine a burthen weigh'd my heart And press'd my spirits down;—but 'tis not so; Nor will I with false tenderness beguile thee, By feigning that my sadness has a cause So exquisite. Clemanthe! thou wilt find me A sad companion;—I who knew not life, Save as the sportive breath of happiness, Now feel my minutes teeming, as they rise, With grave experiences; I dream no more Of azure realms where restless beauty sports In myriad shapes fantastic; dismal vaults In black succession open till the gloom Afar is broken by a streak of fire That shapes my name—the fearful wind that moans Before the storm articulates its sound; And as I pass'd but now the solemn range Of Argive monarchs, that in sculptured mockery Of present empire sit, their eyes of stone Bent on me instinct with a frightful life That drew me into fellowship with them, As conscious marble; while their ponderous lips— Fit organs of eternity—unclosed, And, as I live to tell thee, murmur'd "Hail! Hail! "

CLEMANTHE.

These are fancies, Which thy soul, late expanded with great purpose, Shapes, as it quivers to its natural circle In which its joys should lurk, as in the bud The cells of fragrance cluster. Bid them from thee, And strive to be thyself.

ION.

I will do so! I'll gaze upon thy loveliness, and drink Its quiet in;—how beautiful thou art!— My pulse throbs now as it was wont;—a being, Which owns so fair a glass to mirror it, Cannot show darkly.

CLEMANTHE.

We shall soon be happy; My father will rejoice to bless our love, And Argos waken;—for her tyrant's course Must have a speedy end.

ION.

It must! It must!

CLEMANTHE.

Yes; for no empty talk of public wrongs Assails him now; keen hatred and revenge Are roused to crush him.

ION.

Not by such base agents May the august lustration be achieved: He who shall cleanse his country from the guilt For which Heaven smites her, should be pure of soul, Guileless as infancy, and undisturb'd By personal anger as thy father is, When, with unswerving hand and piteous eye, He stops the brief life of the innocent kid Bound with white fillets to the altar;—so Enwreathed by fate the royal victim heaves, And soon his breast shall shrink beneath the knife Of the selected slayer!

CLEMANTHE.

'Tis thyself Whom thy strange language pictures—Ion! thou—

ION.

She has said it! Her pure lips have spoken out What all things intimate;—didst thou not mark Me for the office of avenger—me?

CLEMANTHE.

No;—save from the wild picture that thy fancy— Thy o'erwrought fancy drew; I thought it look'd Too like thee, and I shudder'd.

ION.

So do I! And yet I almost wish I shudder'd more, For the dire thought has grown familiar with me— Could I escape it!

CLEMANTHE.

'Twill away in sleep.

ION.

No, no! I dare not sleep—for well I know That then the knife will gleam, the blood will gush, The form will stiffen!—I will walk awhile In the sweet evening light, and try to chase These fearful images away.

CLEMANTHE.

Let me Go with thee. O, how often hand in hand In such a lovely light have we roam'd westward Aimless and blessed, when we were no more Than playmates:—surely we are not grown stranger Since yesterday!

ION.

No, dearest, not to-night: The plague yet rages fiercely in the vale, And I am placed in grave commission here To watch the gates;—indeed thou must not pass; I will be merrier when we meet again,— Trust me, my love, I will; farewell!

[Exit Ion.]

CLEMANTHE.

Farewell then! How fearful disproportion shows in one Whose life hath been all harmony! He bends Towards that thick covert where in blessed hour My father found him, which has ever been His chosen place of musing. Shall I follow? Am I already grown a selfish mistress, To watch his solitude with jealous eye, And claim him all? That let me never be— Yet danger from within besets him now, Known to me only—I will follow him!

[Exit.]

Scene II
An opening in a deep wood—in front an old grey altar.

Enter Ion.

ION.

O winding pathways, o'er whose scanty blades Of unaspiring grass mine eyes have bent So often when by musing fancy sway'd, That craved alliance with no wider scene Than your fair thickets border'd, but was pleased To deem the toilsome years of manhood flown, And, on the pictured mellowness of age Idly reflective, image my return From careful wanderings, to find ye gleam With unchanged aspect on a heart unchanged, And melt the busy past to a sweet dream As then the future was;—why should ye now Echo my steps with melancholy sound As ye were conscious of a guilty presence? The lovely light of eye, that, as it waned, Touch'd ye with softer, homelier look, now fades In dismal blackness; and yon twisted roots Of ancient trees, with whose fantastic forms My thoughts grew humorous, look terrible, As if about to start to serpent life, And hiss around me;—whither shall I turn?— Where fly?—I see the myrtle-cradled spot Where human love instructed by divine Found and embraced me first; I'll cast me down Upon that earth as on a mother's breast, In hope to feel myself again a child.

[Ion goes into the wood.]

[Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and other Argive youths.]

CTESIPHON.

Sure this must be the place that Phocion spoke of;— The twilight deepens, yet he does not come. O, if instead of idle dreams of freedom, He knew the sharpness of a grief like mine, He would not linger thus!

CASSANDER.

The sun's broad disk Of misty red, a few brief minutes since, Sank 'neath the leaden wave; but night steals on With rapid pace to veil us, and thy thoughts Are eager as the favouring darkness.

[Enter Phocion.] CTESIPHON.

Welcome! Thou know'st all here.

PHOCION.

Yes; I rejoice, Cassander, To find thee my companion in a deed Worthy of all the dreamings of old days, When we, two rebel youths, grew safely brave In visionary perils. We'll not shame Our young imaginations. Ctesiphon, We look to thee for guidance in our aim.

CTESIPHON.

I bring you glorious news. There is a soldier, Who, in his reckless boyhood, was my comrade, And though by taste of luxury subdued Even to brook the tyrant's service, burns With generous anger to avenge that grief I bear above all others. He has made The retribution sure. From him I learnt That when Adrastus reach'd his palace court, He paused, to struggle with some mighty throe Of passion; then call'd eagerly for wine, And bade his soldiers share his choicest stores, And snatch, like him, a day from Fortune. Soon, As one worn out by watching and excess, He stagger'd to his couch, where now he lies Oppress'd with heavy sleep, while his loose soldiers, Made by the fierce carousal vainly mad Or grossly dull, are scatter'd through the courts Unarm'd and cautionless. The eastern portal Is at this moment open; by that gate We all may enter unperceived, and line The passages which gird the royal chamber, While one blest hand within completes the doom Which Heaven pronounces. Nothing now remains, But that as all would share this action's glory, We join in one great vow, and choose one arm Our common minister. Oh, if these sorrows Confer on me the office to return Upon the tyrant's shivering heart the blow Which crush'd my father's spirit, I will leave To him who cares for toys the patriot's laurel And the applause of ages!

PHOCION.

Let the gods By the old course of lot reveal the name Of the predestined champion. For myself, Here do I solemnly devote all powers Of soul and body to that glorious purpose We live but to fulfil.

CTESIPHON.

And I!

CASSANDER.

And I!

ION. [Who has advanced from the wood, rushes to the altar, and exclaims]

And I!

PHOCION.

Most welcome! The serenest powers of justice, In prompting thy unspotted soul to join Our bloody councils, sanctify and bless them!

ION.

The gods have prompted me; for they have given One dreadful voice to all things which should be Else dumb or musical; and I rejoice To step from the grim round of waking dreams Into this fellowship which makes all clear. Wilt trust me, Ctesiphon?

CTESIPHON.

Yes; but we waste The precious minutes in vain talk: if lots Must guide us, have ye scrolls?

PHOCION.

Cassander has them: The flickering light of yonder glade will sarve him To inscribe them with our names. Be quick, Cassander!

CTESIPHON.

I wear a casque, beneath whose iron circlet My father's dark hairs whiten'd; let it hold The names of his avengers!

[Ctesiphon takes off his helmet and gives it to Cassander, who retires with it.]

PHOCION. [to Ctesiphon.]

He whose name Thou shalt draw first shall fill the post of glory. Were it not also well, the second name Should designate another charged to take The same great office, if the first should leave His work imperfect?

CTESIPHON.

There can scarce be need; Yet as thou wilt. May the first chance be mine; I will leave little for a second arm!

[Cassander returns with the helmet.]

CTESIPHON.

Now, gods, decide!

[Ctesiphon draws a lot from the helmet.]

PHOCION.

The name? Why dost thou pause?

CTESIPHON.

'Tis Ion!

ION.

Well I knew it would be mine!

[Ctesiphon draws another lot.]

CTESIPHON.

Phocion! it will be thine to strike him dead If he should prove faint-hearted.

PHOCION.

With my life I'll answer for his constancy.

CTESIPHON. [to Ion.]

Thy hand! 'Tis cold as death.

ION.

Yes; but it is as firm. What ceremony next?

[Ctesiphon leads Ion to the altar, and gives him a knife.]

CTESIPHON.

Receive this steel, For ages dedicate in my sad home To sacrificial uses; grasp it nobly, And consecrate it to untrembling service Against the king of Argos and his race.

ION.

His race! Is he not left alone on earth? He hath no brother, and no child.

CTESIPHON.

Such words The god hath used who never speaks in vain.

PHOCION.

There were old rumours of an infant born And strangely vanishing;—a tale of guilt Half-hush'd, perchance distorted in the hushing, And by the wise scarce heeded, for they deem'd it One of a thousand guilty histories, Which, if the walls of palaces could speak, Would show that, nursed by prideful luxury, To pamper which the virtuous peasant toils, Crimes grow unpunish'd which the pirates' nest, Or want's foul hovel, or the cell which justice Keeps for unlicensed guilt, would startle at! We must root out the stock, that no stray scion Renew the tree, whose branches, stifling virtue, Shed poison-dews on joy.

[Ion approaches the altar, and, lifting up the knife, speaks.]

ION.

Ye eldest gods, Who in no statues of exactest form Are palpable; who shun the azure heights Of beautiful Olympus, and the sound Of ever-young Apollo's minstrelsy; Yet, mindful of the empire which ye held Over dim Chaos, keep revengeful wrath On falling nations, and on kingly lines About to sink for ever; ye, who shed Into the passions of earth's giant brood And their fierce usages the sense of justice; Who clothe the fated battlements of tyranny With blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe Through the proud halls of time-embolden'd guilt Portents of ruin, hear me!—In your presence, For now I feel ye nigh, I dedicate This arm to the destruction of the king And of his race! O keep me pitiless; Expel all human weakness from my frame, That this keen weapon shake not when his heart Should feel its point; and if he has a child Whose blood is needful to the sacrifice My country asks, harden my soul to shed it!— Was not that thunder?

CTESIPHON.

No; I heard no sound. Now mark me, Ion!—thou shalt straight be led To the king's chamber; we shall be at hand; Nothing can give thee pause. Hold! one should watch The city's eastern portal, lest the troops, Returning from the work of plunder home, Surround us unprepared. [To Phocion.] Be that thy duty.

PHOCION.

I am to second Ion if he fail.

CTESIPHON.

He cannot fail;—I shall be nigh. What, Ion!

ION.

Who spake to me? Where am I? Friends, your pardon: I am prepared; yet grant me for a moment, One little moment, to be left alone.

CTESIPHON.

Be brief then, or the season of revenge Will pass. At yonder thicket we'll expect thee.

[Exeunt all but Ion.]

ION.

Methinks I breathe more freely, now my lot Is palpable, and mortals gird me round, Though my soul owns no sympathy with theirs. Some one approaches—I must hide this knife— Hide! I have ne'er till now had aught to hide From any human eye. [He conceals the knife in hit vest.]

[Enter Clemahthe.]

Clemanthe here!

CLEMANTHE.

Forgive me that I break upon thee thus: I meant to watch thy steps unseen; but night Is thickening; thou art haunted by sad fancies, And 'tis more terrible to think upon thee Wandering with such companions in thy bosom, Than in the peril thou art wont to seek Beside the bed of death.

ION.

Death, sayst thou? Death? Is it not righteous when the gods decree it? And brief its sharpest agony? Yet, fairest, It is no theme for thee. Go in at once, And think of it no more.

CLEMANTHE.

Not without thee. Indeed thou art not well; thy hands are marble; Thine eyes are fix'd; let me support thee, love:— Ha! what is that gleaming within thy vest? A knife! Tell me its purpose, Ion!

ION.

No; My oath forbids.

CLEMANTHE.

An oath! O gentle Ion, What can have link'd thee to a cause which needs A stronger cement than a good man's word? There's danger in it. Wilt thou keep it from me?

ION.

Alas, I must. Thou wilt know all full soon— [Voices call "Ion!"] Hark! I am call'd.

CLEMANTHE.

Nay, do not leave me thus.

ION.

'Tis very sad [voices again]—I dare not stay—farewell! [Exit.]

CLEMANTHE.

It must be to Adrastus that he hastes! If by his hand the fated tyrant die, Austere remembrance of the deed will hang Upon his delicate spirit like a cloud, And tinge its world of happy images With hues of horror. Shall I to the palace, And, as the price of my disclosure, claim His safety? No!—'Tis never woman's part Out of her fond misgivings to perplex The fortunes of the man to whom she cleaves; 'Tis hers to weave all that she has of fair And bright in the dark meshes of their web Inseparate from their windings. My poor heart Hath found its refuge in a hero's love, Whatever destiny his generous soul Shape for him;—'tis its duty to be still, And trust him till it bound or break with his. [Exit.]

Scene III
A Chamber in the Temple.

Enter Medon, followed by Abra.

MEDON.

My daughter not within the temple, sayst thou? Abroad at such an hour? Sure not alone She wander'd: tell me truly, did not Phocion Or Ion bear her company? 'twas Ion— Confess;—was it not he? I shall not chide, Indeed I shall not.

ABRA.

She went forth alone; But it is true that Ion just before Had taken the same path.

MEDON.

It was to meet him. I would they were return'd; the night is grown Of an unusual blackness. Some one comes— Look if it be my daughter.

ABRA. [looking out]         No; young Irus, The little slave, whose pretty tale of grief Agenor, with so gracious a respect, This morning told us.

MEDON.

Let him come; he bears Some message from his master.

[Enter Irus.]

MEDON. [to Irus.]

Thou art pale: Has any evil happen'd to Agenor?

IRUS.

No, my good lord; I do not come from him; I bear to thee a scroll from one who now Is number'd with the dead; he was my kinsman, But I had never seen him till he lay Upon his death-bed; for he left these shores Long before I was born, and no one knew His place of exile;—on this mournful day He landed, was plague-stricken, and expired. My gentle master gave me leave to tend His else unsolaced death-bed;—when he found The clammy chilness of the grave steal on, He call'd for parchment, and with trembling hand, That seem'd to gather firmness from its task, Wrote earnestly; conjured me take the scroll Instant to thee; and died.

[Irus gives a scroll to Medon.]

MEDON. [reading the scroll]

These are high tidings. Abra! is not Clemanthe come? I long To tell her all.

[Enter Clemanthe.]

MEDON.

Sit down, my pensive child. Abra, this boy is faint; see him refreshed With food and wine before thou lett'st him pass.

IRUS.

I have too long been absent from Agenor, Who needs my slender help.

MEDON.

Nay, I will use Thy master's firmness here, and use it so As he would use it. Keep him prisoner, Abra, Till he has done my bidding.

[Exeunt Abra and Irus.]

Now, Clemanthe, Though thou hast play'd the truant and the rebel, I will not be too strict in my award, By keeping from thee news of one to thee Most dear—nay, do not blush—I say most dear.

CLEMANTHE.

It is of Ion;—no—I do not blush, But tremble. O my father, what of Ion?

MEDON.

How often have we guess'd his lineage noble! And now 'tis proved. The kinsman of that youth Was with another hired to murder him A babe;—they tore him from his mother's breast, And to a sea-girt summit, where a rock O'erhung a chasm, by the surge's force Made terrible, rush'd with him. As the gods In mercy order'd it, the foremost ruffian, Who bore no burden, pressing through the gloom In the wild hurry of his guilty purpose, Trod at the extreme verge upon a crag Loosen'd by summer from its granite bed, And suddenly fell with it;—with his fall Sank the base daring of the man who held The infant; so he placed the unconscious babe Upon the spot where it was found by me; Watch'd till he saw the infant safe; then fled, Fearful of question; and return'd to die. That child is Ion. Whom dost guess his sire?— The first in Argos.

CLEMANTHE.

Dost thou mean Adrastus? He cannot—must not—be that tyrant's son!

MEDON.

It is most certain. Nay, my thankless girl, He hath no touch of his rash father's pride; For Nature, from whose genial lap he smiled Upon us first, hath moulded for her own The suppliant of her bounty;—thou art bless'd; Thus, let me bid thee joy.

CLEMANTHE.

Joy, sayst thou—joy! Then I must speak—he seeks Adrastus' life; And at this moment, while we talk, may stain His soul with parricide.

MEDON.

Impossible! Ion, the gentlest——

CLEMANTHE.

It is true, my father; I saw the weapon gleaming in his vest; I heard him call'd!

MEDON.

Shall I alarm the palace?

CLEMANTHE.

No; in the fierce confusion, he would fall Before our tale could be his safeguard. Gods! Is there no hope, no refuge?

MEDON.

Yes, if Heaven Assist us. I bethink me of a passage, Which, fashion'd by a king in pious zeal, That he might seek the altar of the god In secret, from the temple's inmost shrine Leads to the royal chamber. I have track'd it In youth for pastime. Could I thread it now, I yet might save him.

CLEMANTHE.

O, make haste, my father! Shall I attend thee?

MEDON.

No; thou wouldst impede My steps;—thou art fainting; when I have lodged thee safe In thy own chamber, I will light the torch, And instantly set forward.

CLEMANTHE.

Do not waste An instant's space on me; speed, speed, my father— The fatal moments fly; I need no aid;— Thou seest I am calm, quite calm.

MEDON.

The gods protect thee!

[Exeunt severally.]