SRI AUROBINDO
Collected Plays and Short Stories
Part One
A hall in the palace.
Cleone, Phayllus.
Worry the conscience of the Queen to death
Like the good bitch thou art. If this goes well,
I may sit unobserved on Syria's throne.
Do not forget me.
Do not forget thyself,
Then how shall I forget thee?
I shall remember.
If for a game you are the queen, Cleone,
And I your minister, how would you start
Your play of reigning?
I would have many perfect tortures made
To hurt the Parthian with, for every nerve
A torture. I would lie in flowers the while
Drinking sweet Cyprian wine and hear her moan.
I do not like your thought, have better ones.
Shall I not satisfy my love, my hate?
Then just as well I might not reign at all.
O hatred, love and wrath, you instruments
By which we are driven! Cleone, the gods use these
For their own purposes, not we for ours.
I'll do my will, Phayllus; you do yours.
Our kingdom being won! It is not, yet.
She's too violent for my calmer ends;
Lust drives her, not ambition. I wait on you,
You gods who choose. If Fate intends my rise,
She will provide the instruments and cause.
Timocles enters from the inner palace.
I think I am afraid to speak to her.
I never felt so with the Egyptian girls
In Thebes or Alexandria. Are you not
Phayllus?
You remember faces well,
And have the trick for names, the monarch's trick.
Antiochus, all say, will be the king. 
But I say otherwise and what I say
Has a strange gift of happening.
You're my friend!
My own and therefore yours.
This is your sister?
Cleone.
A name that in its sound agrees
With Syria's roses. Are you too my friend,
Cleone?
Your subject, prince.
And why not both?
To serve is better.
Shall I try your will?
Thou art warm fire against the lips, thou rose,
Cleone. 
May I test in turn?
Oh, do!
A rose examines by her thorns, — as thus.
She strikes him lightly on the cheek and goes out.
Timocles (looking uncertainly at Phayllus who is stroking his chin)
It was a courtesy, — our Egyptian way.
Hers was the Syrian. Do not excuse yourself;
I am her brother.
Timocles (turns as if to go, hesitates, then comes back)
A Parthian lady here named Rodogune?
Blows the wind east? But if it brings me good,
Let it blow where it will. I know the child.
Fie on you, Phayllus!
Prince, I have a plain tongue which, when I hunger,
Owns that there is a belly. Speak in your language!
I understand men's phrases though I use them not. 
Think not that evil! she is not like those,
The common flowers which have a fair outside
Of beauty, but the common hand can pluck.
We wear such lightly, smell and throw away.
Born from one mother Nature. What if she wears
The quick barbarian's robe called modesty?
There is a woman always in the end
Behind that shimmering. Pluck the robe, 'twill fall;
Then is she Nature's still.
I have seen her eyes, they are a liquid purity.
And yet a fish swims there which men call love,
But truth names lust or passion. Fear not, prince;
The fish will rise to such an angler's cast.
Mistake me not, nor her. These things are done,
But not with such as she; she is heaven-pure
And must like heaven be by worship won.
What is it then that you desire of her
Or ask of me? I can do always much.
O nothing else but this, only to kneel,
Look up at her and touch the little hand
That fluttered like a moonlit butterfly
About my mother's hair.
If she consenting smiled 
A little, I might even dare so much.
Why, she's your slave-girl!
I shall kneel to her
Some day and feel her hand upon my brow.
What animal this is, I hardly know,
But know it is the animal for me:
My genius tells me, Prince, I need a bribe
Before I'll stir in this.
What bribe, Phayllus?
A name, — your friend.
O more than merely friend!
Bring me into the temple dim and pure
Whence my own hopes and fears now bar me out,
Then I am yours, Phayllus, you myself
For all things.
Remember me when you have any need.
I have a friend! He is the very first
Who was not conquered by Antiochus.
Now has this love like lightning leaped at me! 
Heaven had a purpose in my servitude!
One sees not now such men.
What a calm royalty his glances wield!
We are their subjects. And he treads the earth
As if it were already his.
All must be.
I have lived a slave, yet always held myself
A nobler spirit than my Grecian lords;
But when he spoke, O when he looked at me,
I felt indeed the touch of servitude
And this time loved it.
O, you too, Rodogune!
I too! What do you mean? Are you, Eunice —
I mean our thorny rose Cleone too
Has fallen in love with pretty Timocles.
You slanderer! But I thought a nearer thing
That ran like terror through my heart. 
And so
You love him?
What have I said, Eunice? What have I said?
You did not say it, no!
You lovely fool, hide love with blushes then
And lower over your liquid love-filled eyes
Their frightened lashes! Quake, my antelope!
I'll have revenge at least. O sweet, sweet heart,
My delicate Parthian! I shall never have
Another love but only Rodogune,
My beautiful barbarian Rodogune
With the tall dainty grace and the large eyes
And vague faint pallor just like twilit ivory.
My own Eunice!
They embrace. Phayllus enters.
Your steps too steal, Phayllus?
I have a message.
I do not like the envoy. Find another
And I will hear it.
Come, you put me out.
Of your accounts? They say there is too much
You have put out already for your credit.
You're called. The Queen's in haste, Cleone said.
Parthian, will you be Syria's queen or no?
I startle you. The royal Timocles
By your beauty strives ensnared. Don not your mask
Of modesty, keep that for Timocles.
I offer you a treaty. By my help
You can advance your foot to Syria's throne:
His bed's the staircase and you shall ascend,
Nor will I rest till you are seated there.
Come, have I helped you? Shall we be allies?
You speak a language that I will not hear.
Oh, language! you're for language, all of you.
Are you not Parthia's daughter? Do you not wish
To sit upon a throne?
Not by your help,
Nor as the bride of Syrian Timocles.
What are these things you speak?
Weigh not my speech,
But only my sincerity. I have a tongue
Displeasing to all women.
Heed not that! 
My heart is good, my meaning better still.
Perhaps! But know I yearn not for a throne.
And if I did, Antiochus is king
And not this younger radiance.
That's your reason?
You are deceived. Besides he loves you not
Nor ever will put on a female yoke.
Prefer this woman's clay, this Timocles
And by my help you shall have empire, joy,
All the heart needs, the pleasures bodies use.
I need no empire save my high-throned heart,
I seek no power save that of sceptred love,
I ask no help beyond what Ormuzd gives.
You're subtler than these Greeks.
Must he then pine? Shall he not plead his cause?
I would not have him waste his heart in pain
If what you say is true. Let him then know
This cannot be.
He will not take from me
An answer you yourself alone can give.
I think you parry to be more attacked.
Think what you will, but leave me.
If you mean that,
The way to show it is to let him come.
You feign and do not mean this, or else you would
Deny him to his face.
I thought so. Come he shall. Remember me.
I did not well to bid him come to me.
It is some passing fancy of the blood.
I do not hear that he was ever hurt
But danced a radiant and inconstant moth
Above the Egyptian blossoms.
Timocles enters hastily, hesitates, then rushes and
throws himself at the feet of Rodogune.
Rodogune!
I love thee, princess; thou hast made me mad.
I know not what I do nor what I speak.
What dreadful god has seized upon my heart?
I am not Timocles and not my own,
But am a fire and am a raging wind
To seize on thee and am a driven leaf.
O Rodogune, turn not away from me.
Forgive me, O forgive me. I cannot help it
If thou hast made me love thee. Tremble not,
Nor grow so pale and look with panic glances
As if a fire had clutched thee by the robe.
I am thy menial, thy poor trembling slave
And thou canst slay me with a passing frown.
Touch not my hand! 'tis sacred from thy touch!
It is most sacred; even the roseate nail
Of thee, O thou pale goddess, is a mystery
And a strange holiness. Scorched be his hand
Who dares with lightest sacrilegeous touch
Profane thee, O deep-hearted miracle,
Unless thy glorious eyes condone the fault
By growing tender. O thou wondrous Parthian,
Fear not my love; it grows a cloistered worship.
See, I can leave thee! see, I can retire.
Look once on me, one look is food enough
For many twelve months.
You wrong your mother, cousin.
Her moments linger when you are not there;
Always she asks for you.
My mother! you gods,
Forbid it, lest I weary of her love.
Was Fate not satisfied
With my captivity? Waits worse behind?
It was a grey and clouded sky before
And bleak enough but quiet. Now I see
Fresh clouds come stored with thunder toiling up
From a black-piled horizon.
Tell me all.
What said Phayllus to you, the dire knave
Who speaks to poison?
He spoke of love and thrones and Timocles;
He spoke as selfish cunning men may speak
Who mean some evil they call good.
And how
Came Timocles behind him?
Called by him,
With such wild passion burning under his lids
I never thought to see in human eyes.
We move as we must,
Not as we choose, whatever we may think.
Your beauty is a torch you needs must carry
About the world with you. You cannot help it
If it burns kingdoms.
I pray it may not. God who only rulest,
Let not the evil spirit use my love
To bring misfortune on Antiochus.
Which is the Parthian?
She.
Antiochus
Desires you in his chamber with a bowl
Of Lesbian vintage.
Does he desire? The gods then choose their hour
For intervention. Move, you Parthian piece.
Send someone else. I cannot go.
I think
You have forgotten that you are a slave.
You are my piece and I will have you move.
Surely he did not speak my name?
Why do you fear, my child? He's good and noble
And kind in speech and gentle to his servants.
It is not him I fear, it is myself.
Fear me instead. You shall be cruelly whipped
Unless you move this instant.
Oh, Eunice!
Whipped savagely! I'll sacrifice so much
For a shy pawn who will not move? Go, go,
And come not back unkissed if you are wise.
She pushes Rodogune to the door and
she goes followed by Mentho.
His heart's not free, nor hers, or else I'ld try
My hand at reigning. As the gods choose through her,
I may rule Syria.
Antiochus' chamber.
Antiochus, with a map before him.
Ecbatana, Susa, and Sogdiana,
The Aryan country which the Indus bounds,
Euphrates' stream and Tigris' golden sands,
The Oxus and Jaxartes and these mountains
Vague and enormous shouldering the moon
With all their dim beyond of nations huge;
This were an empire! What are Syria, Greece
And the blue littoral to Gades? They are
Too narrow to contain my soul, too petty
To satisfy its hunger and its vastness.
O pale sweet Parthian face with liquid eyes
Mid darkest masses and O gracious limbs
Obscuring this epitome of earth,
You will not let me fix my eyes on Susa.
I never yearned for any woman yet.
While Timocles with the light Theban dames
Amused his careless heart, I walked aside;
Parthia and Greece became my mistresses.
But now my heart is filled with one pale girl.
Exult not, archer, I will quiet thee
With sudden and assured possession first,
Then keep thee beating an eternal strain.
I have loved her through past lives and many ages.
The Parthian princess, lovely Rodogune!
O name of sweetness! Renowned Phraates' daughter,
A bud of kings, — my glorious prisoner
With those beseeching eyes. O high Antiochus,
Who snatched her from among her guardian spears,
Thou hast gone past but left this prophecy
Of beautiful conquered Persia grown my slave
To love me.
It is thou, my Rodogune!
Thou art the only wine,
O Parthian! Wine to flush Olympian souls
Is in this glorious flask. Set down the bowl.
Lift up instead thy long and liquid eyes;
I grudge them to the marble Rodogune.
Thou knowest well why I have sent for thee.
Have we not gazed into each other's eyes
And thine confessed their knowledge?
Prince, I am
Thy mother's slave.
Mine, mine, O Rodogune,
For I am Syria.
Thine.
O, thou hast spoken!
Touch me not, touch me not, Antiochus!
Son of Nicanor, spare me, spare thyself.
O me! I know the gods prepare some death;
I am a living misfortune.
Wert thou my fate
Of death itself, delightful Rodogune,
Not, as thou art, heaven's pledge of bliss, I'ld not abstain
From thy delight, but have my joy of thee
The short while it is possible on earth.
O, play not with the hours, my Rodogune.
Why should brief man defer his joys and wait
As if life were eternal? Time does not pause,
Death does not tarry.
Alas!
Thou lingerest yet.
Wilt thou deny the beating of our hearts
That call to us to bridge these sundering paces?
O, then I will command thee as a slave.
Thou would'st not let me draw thee, come thyself
Into my arms, O perfect Rodogune,
My Parthian captive!
Antiochus, my king!
So heave against me like a wave for ever.
Melt warmly into my bosom like the Spring,
O honied breathing tumult!
O release me!
Thou sudden sorceress, die upon my breast!
My arms are cords to bind thee to this stake,
Slowly to burn away in crimson fire.
Release me, O release me!
Not till our lips have joined
Eternal wedlock. With this stamp and this
And many more I'll seal thee to myself.
Eternal Time's too short for all the kisses
I yearn for from thee, O pale loveliness,
Dim mystery! Press thy lips to mine. Obey.
Again! and so again and even for ever
Chant love, O marvel, let thy lips' wild music
Come faltering from thy heart into my bosom.
Rodogune sinks at his feet and
embraces his knees.
I am thine, thine, thine, thine for ever.
She rises and hides her face in her hands.
Antiochus (uncovering her face)
Hide not thy face from love. The gods in heaven
Look down on us; let us look up at them
With fearless eyes of candid joy and tell them
Not Time nor any of their dooms can move us now.
The passion of oneness two hearts are this moment
Denies the steps of death for ever.
My heart
Stops in me. I can bear no more of bliss.
O, leave me now that I may live for thee.
Stay where thou art. Or go, for thou art mine
And I can send thee from me when I will
And call thee when I will.
Go, Rodogune
Who yet remain with me.
Rodogune leaves the chamber with
faltering steps.
Diviner in the enjoying. Can I now
Unblinded scan this map? No, she is there;
It is her eyes I see and not Ecbatana.
The hall in the palace.
Timocles, Phayllus.
O, all the sweetness and the glory gathered
Into one smiling life, the others left
Barren, unbearable, bleak, desolate,
A hell of silence and of emptiness
Impossible for mortal souls to imagine,
Much less to suffer. My mother does this wrong to me!
Why should not we, kind brothers all our lives, —
O, how we loved each other there in Egypt! —
Divide this prize? Let his be Syria's crown, —
Oh, let him take it! I have Rodogune.
He will consent?
Oh, yes, and with a smile.
He is all loftiness and warlike thoughts.
My high Antiochus! how could I dream
Of taking from him what he'ld wear so well?
Let me have love and joy and Rodogune.
The sunlight is enough for me.
It may be,
Yet not enough for both. Look! there he comes
Carrying himself as if he were the sun
Brilliant alone in heaven. Oh, that to darken!
Brother, it is the kind gods send you here.
Dear Timocles, we meet not all the day.
It was not so in Egypt. Tell me now,
What were you doing all these busy hours?
How many laughing girls of this fair land
Have you lured on to love you?
Have you not heard?
What, Timocles?
Our mother gives the crown
And with the crown apportions Rodogune.
Our royal mother? Are they hers to give?
I do not marry by another's will.
O brother, no; our hearts at least are ours.
You have not marked, I think, Antiochus,
This pale sweet Parthian Rodogune?
You are so blind
To woman's beauty. You only woo great deeds
And arms imperial. It is well for me
You rather chose to wed the grandiose earth.
I am ashamed to tell you, dear Antiochus,
I grudged the noble crown that soon will rest
So gloriously upon you. Take it, brother,
But leave me my dim goddess, Rodogune.
Thy goddess! thine!
It is not possible
That you too love her!
What is it to thee whom or what I love?
Then is my offer
Just, brotherly, not like this causeless wrath.
Thy wondrous offer! Of two things that were mine
To fling me over with “There, I want it not,
I'll take the other”!
Timocles (in a suffocated voice)
I need no human voice to make me anything,
Who am king by birth and nature. Who else should reign
In Syria? Thoughtst thou thy light and shallow head
Was meant to wear a crown?
In Egypt you were not like this, Antiochus.
See not the Parthian even in dreams at night!
She is my mother's slave:
I'll ask for her and have her.
Thou shalt have
My sword across thy heart-strings first. She is
The kingdom's prize and with the kingdom mine.
My dream, my goddess with those wondrous eyes!
My sweet veiled star cloistered in her own charm!
I will not yield her to thee, nor the crown,
Not wert thou twenty times my brother.
Capital!
Delightful! O my fortune! my kind fortune!
Thou lov'st her not who dar'st to think of her
As if she were a prize for any arms,
Thy slave, thy chattel.
Speak not another word.
More! more! My star, thou risest o'er this storm.
I pardon thee, my brother Timocles;
Thy light passions are thy excuse. Henceforth
Offend not. For the Parthian, she is mine
And I would keep her though a god desired.
Exalt not thy presumptuous eyes henceforth
Higher than her sandals.
This is your brother!
Nor her, nor Syria.
passing through the hall.
My Rodogune, my star! Thou knowest the trade
Which others seek to make of thee. Resist it,
Prevent the insult of this cold award!
Prince, I pity thee,
But cannot love.
My cousin Timocles,
All flowers are not for your plucking. Roses
Enough that crave to satisfy your want
Are grown in Syria; take them. Here be wise;
Touch not my Parthian blossom.
How am I smitten as with a thunderbolt!
Will you be dashed by this? They make her think
Antiochus will reign in Syria.
No,
She loves him.
Is love so quickly born? Oh, then,
It will as quickly die. Eunice works here
To thwart you; she is for Antiochus.
All, all are for Antiochus, the crown,
And Syria and men's homage, women's hearts
And life and sweetness and my love.
Young prince,
Be more a man. Besiege the girl with gifts
And graces; woo her like a queen or force her
Like what she is, a slave. Be strong, be sudden,
Forestalling this proud brother.
I would not wrong her pure and shrouded soul
Though all the gods in heaven should give me leave.
The graceful, handsome fool! Then from your mother
Demand her as a gift.
Is hunted by the tempest.
Cleopatra's chamber.
Cleopatra, Cleone.
I am resolved; but Mentho the Egyptian knows
The true precedence of the twins. Send her to me.
O you high-seated cold divinities,
You sleep sometimes, they say you sleep. Sleep now!
I only loosen what your careless wills
Have tangled.
You have not breathed our secret? Keep it, Mentho,
Dead in your bosom, buy a queen for slave.
Is often terrible. Justice! but was ever
Justice yet seen upon the earth? Man lives
Because he is not just and real right
Dwells not with law and custom but for him
It grows by whose arriving our brief happiness
Is best assured and grief prohibited
For a while to mortals.
This is the thing I feared.
O wickedness! Well, Queen, I understand.
Not less than you I love Antiochus;
But Timocles seeks Parthian Rodogune.
O, if these brother-loves should turn to hate
And slay us all! Then rather let thy nursling stand, —
Will he not rule whoever fills the throne? —
Approved of heaven and earth, indeed a king,
Protector of the weaker Timocles,
His right hand in his wars, his pillar, guard
And sword of action, grand in loyalty,
Kingly in great subjection, famed for love.
Then there shall be no grief for any one
And everything consent to our desires.
Queen Cleopatra, shall I speak, shall I
Forget respect? The God demands my voice.
I tell thee then that thy rash brain has hatched
A wickedness beyond all parallel,
A cold, unmotherly and cruel plot
Thou striv'st in vain to alter with thy words.
O nature self-deceived! O blinded heart!
It is the husband of thy boasted love,
Woman, thou wrongest in thy son.
Alas,
Mentho, my nurse, thou knowest not the cause.
I do not need to know. Art thou Olympian Zeus?
Has he given thee his sceptre and his charge
To guide the tangled world? Wilt thou upset
His rulings? wilt thou improve his providence?
Are thy light woman's brain and shallow love
A better guide than his all-seeing eye?
O wondrous arrogance of finite men
Who would know better than omniscient God!
Beware his thunders and observe his will.
What he has made strive not to unmake but shun
The tragical responsibility
Of such dire error. If from thy act spring death
And horror, are thy human shoulders fit
To bear that heavy load? Observe his will,
Do right and leave the rest to God above.
Thy words have moved me.
Let thy husband move thee.
How wilt thou meet him in the solemn shades?
Will he not turn his royal face from thee
Saying, “Murderess of my children, come not near me!”?
O Mentho, curse me not. My husband's eyes
Shall meet me with a smile. Mentho, my nurse,
You will not tell this to Antiochus?
I am not mad nor wicked. Remain fixed
In this resolve. Dream not that happiness
Can spring from wicked roots. God overrules
And Right denied is mighty.
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