SRI AUROBINDO
Collected Plays and Short Stories
Part One
A hall in the palace.
Phayllus, alone.
My brain has loosened harder knots than this.
Timocles gets by this his Rodogune;
That's one thing gained. Tonight or else tomorrow
I'll have her in his bed though I have to hale her
Stumbling to it through her own husband's blood.
For he must die. He is too great a man
To be a subject: nor is that his intention
Who hides some subtler purpose. Exile would free him
For more stupendous mischief. Death! But how?
There is this Syrian people, there is Timocles
Whose light unstable mind like a pale leaf
Trembles, desires, resolves, renounces.
Phayllus,
It is the high gods bring about this good.
My great high brother, strong Antiochus
To come and kneel to me! No hatred more!
He is the brother whom I loved in Egypt.
Oh, wilt thou always be, thou shapeless soul,
Clay for each passing circumstance to alter?
Do you not think I have only now to ask 
And he will give me Rodogune? She's not his wife!
Cast always together in the lonely desert,
Long nearness must have wearied him of her;
For he was never a lover; O Phayllus,
When so much has been brought about, will you tell me
This will not happen too? I am sure the gods
Intend this.
So you think Antiochus comes
To lay his lofty head below your foot?
You can believe it! Truly, if you think that,
There's nothing left that cannot be believed.
This soul that dreamed of conquests at its birth,
This strong overweening swift ambitious man
Whom victory disappoints, to whom continents
Seem narrow, will submit, you say, — to you?
You'll keep him for your servant?
What is it you hint?
Stroke not your chin! Speak plainly. Do you know,
I sometimes hate you!
I care not, if you hear me
And let me guard you from your enemies.
I know you love me but your thoughts are evil
To every other and your ways are worse.
Yet speak; what is it you fear?
How should I know? 
Yet this seems probable that having failed
By violent battle he is creeping in
To slay you silently. You smile at that?
It is the commonest rule of statesmanship
And History's strewn with instances. Believe it not;
Believe your wishes, not mankind's record;
Slumber till with the sword in you you wake
And he assumes your purple.
I hear, Phayllus. Let him give me Rodogune
And all's excused he has ever done to me.
He will keep her and take all hearts besides
That ever loved you.
Timocles (still indifferently)
It is true, Timocles? It is even true?
Antiochus my son is coming to me,
Is coming to me!
Thus you love him still!
He is my child, he has his father's face.
And I shall have my Parthian Rodogune
With her sweet voice and gentle touch, and her,
My darling, my clear-eyed delight, Eunice,
And I shall not be lonely any more.
I have not been so happy since you came
From Egypt.
But, O heaven! what followed that? 
Will now no stark calamity arise
With Gorgon head to turn us into stone
Venging this glimpse of joy? Torn by your scourges
I fear you, gods, too much to trust your smile.
Antiochus comes.
Hail, thou victorious captain,
Syria's strong rescuer!
Syria's rescuer comes,
Thy brother Antiochus who makes himself
A sword to smite thy dangerous enemies.
You used not once to praise him so, Nicanor.
Because I knew not then his nobleness
Who had only seen his might.
Yet had you promised
That if he entered Antioch, it would be chained
And naked, travelling to the pit or sword,
Nicanor.
He comes not as a prisoner,
But royally disdaining to enslave
For private ends his country to the Parthian. 
Comes my dear brother soon?
Even at this moment
He enters.
Summon our court. Let all men's eyes behold
This reconciliation. I shall see
Next moment Rodogune!
There enter from one side Callicrates, Melitus,
Cleone, courtiers; from the other Antiochus, Eunice,
Rodogune, Thoas, Leosthenes, Philoctetes.
O brother, in my arms! Let this firm clasp
Be sign of the recovered amity
That binds once more for joy Nicanor's sons.
This is like thee, my brother Timocles.
Let all vain strife be banished from our souls.
My sword is thine, and I am thine and all
I have and love is thine, O Syrian Timocles,
Devoted to thy throne for Syria.
All?
Brother! O clasp me once again, Antiochus.
The Syrian land once cleansed of perils, rescued
From these fierce perils, I shall have thy leave,
Brother, to voyage into distant lands;
But not till I have seen your Antioch joys
Of which they told us, I and my dear wife,
The Parthian princess Rodogune. See, brother,
How all things work out by a higher will.
Thou hast the Syrian kingdom, I have her
And my own soul for monarchy.
His wife!
The King is pale and gnaws his nether lip.
Mother, I kneel to you; raise me this time
And I will not be forward.
My child! my child!
He will not give me Rodogune! And now he'll steal
My mother's heart. Captains, I welcome you:
You are my soldiers now.
We thank thee, King.
We are thy brother's soldiers, therefore thine.
Yes! Philoctetes, old Egyptian friend,
You go not yet to Egypt?
I know not where.
I have forgotten why I came from thence.
I hope that you will love your brother.
Him!
Brother Timocles,
We have come far today; will you appoint us
Our chamber here?
I'll take you to them, brother.
All leave the hall except Cleone and Phayllus.
Is this their peace? But he'll have Rodogune
And I shall like a common flower be thrown
Into the dust-heap.
Pooh!
I have eyes, I see.
Even then I knew I would be nothing to you
Once you were seated. I'll not be flung away!
Beware, Phayllus; for Antiochus lives.
Make change of lovers then with Rodogune
While yet he lives.
I might even do that.
He has a beautiful body like a god's.
You may be his widow
If you make haste in marrying him; for soon
He will be carrion.
I'ld have a word with you,
Phayllus.
Cleone withdraws out of hearing.
Where will they put the Parthian Rodogune?
Put her?
To sleep, dull ruffian! Her chamber! Where?
Why, in one bed with Prince Antiochus.
Thou bitter traitor, dar'st thou say it too?
Art thou too leagued to slay me? Shall I bear it?
In my own palace! In one bed! O God!
I will go now and stab him through the heart
And drag her, drag her —
Restrain thy passions, King! He is transformed.
This is that curious devil, jealousy.
As if it mattered!
He will have her soon. 
Cleone, I thank you. When I think of this,
Something revolts within to strangle me
And tears my life out of my bosom. Phayllus,
You spoke of plots; where are they? Let me see them.
That's hard. Are they not hidden in his breast?
Can you not tear them out?
Torture your brother!
Torture his generals; let them howl their love for him!
Torture Eunice. Let truth come out twixt shrieks!
Number her words with gouts of blood!
You'll hurt yourself.
Be calmer. Torture! To what purpose that?
I will have proofs.
Wilt thou thwart me, thou traitor, even thou?
Arrange his trial instantly, arrange
His exile.
Exile! You might as well arrange
At once your ruin.
There shall be justice, justice. 
Thou shalt be fairly judged, Antiochus.
I will not slay him. Exile! And Rodogune
With me in Antioch.
Listen! the passing people sing his name.
They'll rise to rescue him and slay us all
As dogs are killed in summer. Command his death:
No man will rise for a dead carcase. Death,
Not exile! He'll return with Ptolemy
Or great Phraates, take your Syria from you,
Take Rodogune.
I give my power to you.
Try him and sentence him. But execution,
Let it be execution. I will have
He goes out followed by Cleone.
While he's in the mood,
It must be quickly done. But that's to venture
With no support in Syria when it's done
Except this brittle king. It matters not.
Fortune will bear me out; she's grown my slave girl.
What liberties have I not taken with her
Which she has suffered amorously, kinder grown
After each handling. Watch me, my only lover!
Sudden and swift shall be Phayllus' stroke.
Antiochus' chamber.
Cleopatra, Antiochus, Eunice, Rodogune.
Eunice, cruel, heartless, sweet Eunice,
How could you leave me?
Pardon me, dear lady.
Mine was the error, mother.
O my son,
If you had said that “mother” to me then,
All this had never happened.
I have been hard
To you my mother, you to me your son.
We have both erred and it may be the gods
Will punish our offences even yet.
O, say not that, my child. We must be happy;
I will have just a little happiness.
O, answer her with kisses, dear Antiochus.
Do you too plead for me, sweet Parthian?
Cousin
Antiochus.
My heart is chastened and I love,
Mother, though even now I will not lie
And say I love you as a child might love
Who from his infancy had felt your clasp.
But, mother, give me time and if the gods
Will give it too, who knows? we may be happy.
Pardon me, Madam, but my soul is harried
With fierce anxieties. You do not well
To linger with your son Antiochus.
A jealous anger works in Timocles
When he hears of it.
Is't possible?
Fear it!
I will not give the gods a handle.
But I may take Eunice and your wife
To comfort me a little?
Go with her,
Eunice. Leave me for an hour, my Rodogune.
All go from the chamber except Antiochus
When, when will the gods strike?
I feel the steps 
Of Doom about me. Open thy barriers, Death;
I would not linger underneath the stroke.
Phayllus enters with soldiers.
Seize him! This is the prince Antiochus.
So soon! I said not farewell to my love.
Well, Syrian, dost thou carry only warrants
Or keeps the death-doom pace with thy arrest?
Thy plots have been discovered, plotter.
Plots!
Vain subtle fool, I will not answer thee.
What matters the poor pretext? Guards, conduct me.
Must thou be royal even in thy fall?
Will they not let me go and see him even?
We'll make our way to him and out for him
To Egypt, Egypt.
There's only one joy left:
To be with him whether we live or die.
You are too meek. Cleone helps us here
Whatever be the spring of her strange pity.
When we come back, Phayllus, we shall find out
Whether the ingenuity of men
Holds tortures huge enough for your deserts.
Why do you pace about with flaming eyes?
Be still and sit and put your hand in mine.
My Parthian sweetness! O, the gods are cruel
Who torture such a heart as thine.
Where is
My mother?
She is lying in her room
Dry-eyed and voiceless, gazing upon Fate
With eyes I dare not look at. Till tomorrow.
At dawn we'll have him out. Cleone bribes
The sentries; Thoas has horses and a ship
Wide-winged for Egypt, Egypt.
O yes, let us leave
Syria and cruel Antioch.
For a while.
I would have had him out tonight, my King,
But ruffian Theras keeps the watch till dawn.
How long will walls immure so huge a prisoner?
Trial! When he returns in arms from Egypt,
Try him, Phayllus. We must wait till dawn.
I shall behold him once again at dawn.
A guard-room in the palace.
Antiochus, alone.
What were Death then but wider life than earth
Can give us in her clayey limits bound?
Darkness perhaps! There must be light behind.
As he speaks, Phayllus enters.
Phayllus and thy conqueror.
In some strange warfare then!
I came to see
Before thy end the greatness that thou wert;
For thou wert great as mortals measure. Thou hast
An hour to live.
Shorter were better.
An hour!
It is strange. The beautiful strong Antiochus
In one brief hour and by a little stroke
Shall be mere rotten carrion for the flies
To buzz about.
Thinkest thou so, Phayllus?
I know it, and in thy fall, because thou wert great,
I feel my greatness who am thy o'erthrower.
I long to probe the mightiness thou art
And know the thoughts that fill thee at this hour,
For it must come to me some day. The things
We are, do and are done to! Let it be.
Dost thou not ask to kiss thy wife? She'ld come,
Though she must leave thy brother's bed for it.
What a poor lie, Phayllus, for the great man
Thou think'st thyself!
Thou know'st not then for her
Thou diest, that his hungry arms may clasp
Her warm sweet body thou hast loved to kiss?
So didst thou work it? Thou art a rare study,
Thou Greco-Syrian.
I am what my clay
Has made me. It does not hurt thee then to know
That while thou art dying, they are hard at work
Even now before thy kingly corpse is cold?
What a blind owl thou art that see'st the sun
And think'st it darkness! Hence! I weary of thee.
Thou art too shallow after all. Outside
Is it the dawn?
The dawn.
Thou wak'st too early
For one who shall not sleep again.
Yes, sleep
I have done with; now for an immortal waking.
That dream of fools! Thou art another man
Than any I have seen and to my eyes
Thou seem'st a grandiose lack-wit. Yet in defeat
I could not move thee. I have limits then?
Yes, didst thou think thyself a god in evil
And souls of men thy subjects? Leave me, send
Thy executioner. Let him be quick.
I fear he still will loiter. Waiting
Was ever tedious to me: I will sleep.
Is this that other country? Theramenes
Before me smiling with his twenty wounds
And Mentho with the breasts that suckled me!
Who are these crowding after me so fast?
My mother follows me and cousin Eunice
Treads in her footsteps. Thou too, Timocles?
Thoas, Leosthenes and Philoctetes,
Good friends, will you stay long? The world grows empty.
Why, all that's great in Syria staggers after me
Into blind Hades; I am royally
Attended.
Phayllus' will compels me to it,
Or else I do not like the thing I do.
Who is it? Thou art the instrument. Strike in.
Keep me not waiting. I ever loved proud swiftness
And thorough spirits.
I must strike suddenly or never strike.
I pass the barrier.
Will not this blood stop flowing?
The blood? Let the gods have it; 'tis their portion.
A red libation, O thou royal sacrifice!
I have done evil. Will sly Phayllus help me?
He was a trickster ever. I have done evil.
Tell Parthian Rodogune I wait for her
Behind Death's barrier.
The world's too still. Will he not speak again
Upon this other side of nothingness?
O sounds, sounds, sounds! The sentries change, I think.
I'll draw thy curtains, O thou mighty sleeper.
He draws the curtains, extinguishes the light and
goes out. All is still for a while, then the door opens
again and Eunice and Rodogune enter.
Tread lightly, for he sleeps. The curtain's drawn.
O my Antiochus, on thy hard bed
In the rude camp with horses neighing round
Thou well mightest slumber nor the undistant trumpet
Startling unseal thy war-accustomed ears
From the sweet lethargy of earned repose.
But in the horrible silence of this prison
How canst thou sleep? It clamours in my brain
More than could any sound, with terror laden
And voices.
I'll wake him.
And you will spoil his rest.
He moves no more
Than the dead might.
Speak not of death, Eunice;
We are too near to death to speak of him.
He must be waked. Cousin Antiochus,
You sleep too soundly for a prisoner. Wake!
There is some awful presence in this room.
I partly feel it.
Wake, wake, Antiochus.
She draws apart the curtain and puts in
her arm, then hastily withdraws it.
O God, what is this dabbles so my hand,
That feels almost like blood?
She falls half-swooned against the wall. There
is a silence, then noise is heard in the corridors
and the voice of Nicanor at the door.
Guard carefully the doors; let no evasion
Deceive you.
Call him not; he will wake
And Heaven be angry. O my Rodogune,
Let us too sleep.
Nicanor enters armed with soldiers and light.
Am I in time? Thou, thou? How cam'st thou here?
Who is this woman with the dreadful face?
Can this be Rodogune? Eunice, speak.
What is this blood upon thy hands and dress?
Thou dost not speak! Oh, speak!
I am going, I am going to my chamber
To sleep.
Arrest her, guards.
He approaches the bed and recoils.
Sound the alarm! O palace of Nicanor,
Thou canst stand yet upon thy stony base
Untroubled! The warlike prince Antiochus
Lies on this bed most treacherously murdered.
Speak, wretched girl. What villain's secret hand
Profaned with death this royal sanctuary?
How cam'st thou here or hast this blood on thee?
There enter in haste Callicrates, Melitus,
Cleone; afterwards Phayllus and others.
Thou couldst not save him then for all my warning?
In vain didst thou mistrust me!
It is done. Yet Theras came not! Do I fail!
Fortune, my kindly goddess, help me still
In the storm I have yet to weather.
Thou hast come!
This is thy work, thou ominous counsellor.
In all the land who dare impugn me, if it be?
Thou art a villain. Thou shalt die for this.
One day I shall, for this or something else.
No more a king for me
Or Syria.
Timocles enters followed by Cleopatra.
The Queen comes cold and white and shuddering.
Cleopatra (speaking with an unnatural calmness)
Why do these cries of terror shake the house
Repeating Murder and Antiochus?
Behold, O woman,
The frame you fashioned for Antiochus,
Cast from your love before, now cast from life,
By whose unnatural contrivance, let them say
Who did it.
It is not true, it is not true!
There can be no such horror; O, for this,
For this you gave him back!
I did not think that he would look like this.
Cover this death. It troubles the good King.
This is a piteous sight, beloved mother;
Would that he lived and wore the Syrian crown
Unquestioned.
What yet a horror in my blood believes.
The eyes of all men charge you with this act;
Deny it!
Mother!
Deny it!
Alas, mother!
Deny it!
O mother, what shall I deny?
It had to be. Blame only the dire gods
And bronze Necessity.
Call me not mother!
I have no children. I am punished, gods,
Who dared outlive my great unhappy husband
For this!
Is this thy end, O great Seleucus?
What Fury rules thy house? The Queen is gone
With desperate eyes. Who next?
There enter in haste Philoctetes, Thoas, Leosthenes
and others of Antiochus' party.
It is true then,
It is most true! O high Antiochus,
How are thy royal vast imaginations
All spilt into a meagre stream of blood!
And yet thy eyes seem to gaze royally
Into death's vaster realms as if they viewed
More conquests there and mightier monarchies.
When we were boys and slumber came with noon,
Often you'ld lay your head upon my knee
Even thus. O little friend Antiochus,
We are again in hundred-gated Thebes
And life is all before us.
O insupportable!
Thou styled by men a king, no king of mine,
Acquit thyself of this too kindred blood.
No murderer sits in great Seleucus' chair
Longer than takes the movement of my sword
Out of its scabbard. I live to ask this question.
Nor think thy royal title nor thy guards
Shall fence thy life, thou crownèd fratricide,
Nor many ranks of triple-plated iron
Shut out swift vengeance.
His eyes look up and seem to smile at me.
Thoas, thy anger ranges far too wide.
Respect the blood of kings, Leosthenes.
See dabbled on this couch the blood of kings
Thus by a kindred blood respected.
The hearts
Of kings are not their own, nor yet their acts.
This was an execution, not a murder.
In better time and place you shall have proofs:
Phayllus knows it all. Be satisfied.
Lift up this royal dead. All hatred now
Forgotten, I will royally inter
His ashes guarding still his diadem
And sword and armour. All that most he loved
Shall go with him into the silent world.
I come.
The voice of Rodogune! That woman's form
The shadowy anguished robe concealed! She here
Beside my brother!
We had forgotten how piteous was this scene.
O you who loved the dead, forbear a while;
All shall be sternly judged.
O Rodogune,
The dead demands thy grief, since he too loved thee,
But not in this red chamber pay thy debt,
Not in this square of horror. In thy calm room
Gently bedew his memory with tears
And I will help them with my own. Me too
He loved once.
Shall our swords yet sleep? He wooes
His brother's wife beside his brother's corpse
Whom he has murdered.
Yet, Leosthenes.
For Heaven has borne enough from him. At last
The gods lift up their secret thunderbolts
Above us.
She totters and can hardly move.
Philoctetes (raising his head)
What wilt thou with my dead?
Shall it be allowed?
I do not grudge this corpse her sad farewell.
O Rodogune, embrace the unresponsive dead;
But afterwards remember life and love
Are still on earth.
Afterwards, Timocles.
There is a silence while Rodogune bends
swaying over the dead Antiochus.
O my Rodogune,
Leave now the dead man's side whose debt is paid.
Rodogune (stretching out her arms)
Leave me not, leave me not! I am behind thee.
She falls dead at the feet of Antiochus.
O take me also!
She rushes to Rodogune and throws
herself on the dead bodies.
Raise the princess up;
She has swooned.
Her heart has failed her: she is dead.
Rise up, my Rodogune.
She is dead, Timocles;
She is safe from thee. Thou goest not alone,
My King, into the darkness.
Look to the King!
Timocles (speaking with difficulty)
No, she is dead, King Timocles.
Brother, the King!
Timocles has been tearing at the robe round
his neck. Phayllus, Melitus and others crowd
round to support him as he falls.
It is a fit at worst
Which anger and despair have forced him to.
Death, thou intriguer!
Art thou not Death who with thy wicked promptings
And poisonous whispers worked to dangerous rage
The kindly moods of Timocles? Seize him,
He shall atone this murder.
You build too soon
Your throne upon these prostrate bodies. Your King
Lives still, Nicanor.
Not to save thee from death,
Nor any murderer. Drag him hence.
The King revives.
Ten kings should not avail
To save him.
Drag hence that subtle Satan.
I live
And I remember!
Sleepest thou, Phayllus?
My King, they drag me hence to murder me.
Who art thou? Thou abhorred and crooked devil,
Thou art the cause that she is lost to me.
Slay him! And that shrewd-lipped, rose-tainted harlot,
Let her be banished somewhere from men's sight
Where she can be forgotten. O brother, brother,
I have sent thee into the darkling shades,
Myself am barred the way.
What I have done,
I did for this poor king and thankless man.
But there's no use in talking. I am ready.
Timocles (half-rising, furiously)
Slay him with tortures! Let him feel his death
As he has made me feel my living.
Take him
And see this sentence ruthlessly performed
Upon this frame of evil. May the gods
In their just wrath with this be satisfied.
And yet I loved thee, Timocles.
Daughter,
Eunice, rise.
I did not know till now
Life was so difficult a thing to leave.
Ah, girl, this tragic drama owns in part
Thy authorship! Henceforth be wise and humble.
Do with me what you will.
My heart has gone to journey with my dead.
O father, for a few days bear with me;
I do not think that I shall long displease you
Hereafter.
She goes, attended by Melitus.
Follow her, Callicrates,
And let no dangerous edge or lethal drink
Be near to her despair.
This cannot keep us
From those we loved.
Syrians, what yet remains
Of this storm-visited, bolt-shattered house
Let us rebuild, joining our strength to save
The threatened kingdom. For when this deed is known,
The Parthian lion leaps raging for blood
And Ptolemy's dangerous grief for the boy he cherished
Darkens on us from Egypt. Syria beset
And we all broken!
Something has snapped in me
Physicians cannot bind. Thou, Prince Nicanor,
Art from the royal blood of Syria sprung
And in thy line Seleucus may descend
Untainted from his source. Brother, brother,
We did not dream that all would end like this,
When in the dawn or set we roamed at will
Playing together in Egyptian gardens,
Or in the orchards of great Ptolemy
Walked with our arms around each other's necks
Twin-hearted. But now unto eternity
We are divided. I must live for ever
Unfriended, solitary in the shades;
But thou and she will lie at ease inarmed
Deep in the quiet happy asphodel
And hear the murmur of Elysian winds
While I walk lonely.
We too without thee now
Breath-haunted corpses move, Antiochus.
Thou goest attended to a quiet air;
Doomed still to live we for a while remain
Expecting what the gods have yet in store.
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