Heautontimorumenos; or, The Self-Tormenter

Would I were dead!

Prithee, first learn what it is to live. When you know that, if life displeases you, then try the other.

Master, may I be allowed—?

Say on.

But may I safely?

Say on.

What injustice or what madness is this, that that in which I have offended, should be to his detriment?

It’s all over.

Don’t you mix yourself up in it; no one accuses you, Syrus, nor need you look out for an altar, or for an intercessor for yourself.

What is your design?

I am not at all angry either with you, (to SYRUS), or with you (to CLITIPHO); nor is it fair that you should be so with me for what I am doing.

He’s gone. I wish I had asked him—

What, Syrus?

Where I am to get my subsistence; he has so utterly cast us adrift. You are to have it, for the present, at your sister’s, I find.

Has it then come to this pass, Syrus—that I am to be in danger even of starving?

So we only live, there’s hope—

What hope?

That we shall be hungry enough.

Do you jest in a matter so serious, and not give me any assistance with your advice?

On the contrary, I’m both now thinking of that, and have been about it all the time your father was speaking just now; and so far as I can perceive—

What?

It will not be wanting long.

What is it, then?

It is this—I think that you are not their son.

How’s that, Syrus? Are you quite in your senses?

I’ll tell you what’s come into my mind; be you the judge. While they had you alone, while they had no other source of joy more nearly to affect them, they indulged you, they lavished upon you. Now a daughter has been found, a pretense has been found in fact on which to turn you adrift.

It’s very probable.

Do you suppose that he is so angry on account of this fault?

I do not think so.

Now consider another thing. All mothers are wont to be advocates for their sons when in fault, and to aid them against a father’s severity; ’tis not so here.

You say true; what then shall I now do, Syrus?

Question them on this suspicion; mention the matter without reserve;

either, if it is not true, you’ll soon bring them both to compassion, or else you’ll soon find out whose son you are.

You give good advice; I’ll do so.

Most fortunately did this come into my mind. For the less hope the young man entertains, the greater the difficulty with which he’ll bring his father to his own terms. I’m not sure even, that he may not take a wife, and then no thanks for Syrus.

But what is this? The old man’s coming out of doors; I’ll be off. What has so far happened, I am surprised at, that he didn’t order me to becarried off from here: now I’ll away to Menedemus here, I’ll secure him as my intercessor; I can put no trust in our old man.

Really, sir, if you don’t take care, you’ll be causing some mischief to your son; and indeed I do wonder at it,

my husband, how anything so foolish could ever come into your head.

Oh, you persist in being the woman? Did I ever wish for any one thing in all my life, Sostrata, but that you were my contradicter on that occasion? And yet if I were now to ask you what it is that I have done amiss, or why you act thus, you would not know in what point you are now so obstinately opposing me in your folly.

I, not know?

Yes, rather, I should have said you do know; inasmuch as either expression amounts to the same thing.

Alas! you are unreasonable to expect me to be silent in a matter of such importance.

I don’t expect it; talk on then, I shall still do it not a bit the less.

Will you do it?

Certainly.

Don’t you see how much evil you will be causing by that course?—He suspects himself to be a foundling.

Do you say so?

Assuredly it will be so.

Admit it.

Hold now—prithee, let that be for our enemies. Am I to admit that he is not my son who really is?

What! are you afraid that you can not prove that he is yours, whenever you please?

Because my daughter has been found?

No; but for a reason why it should be much sooner believed—because he is just like you in disposition,

you will easily prove that he is your child; for he is exactly like you; why, he has not a single vice left him but you have just the same. Then, besides, no woman could have been the mother of such a son but yourself. But he’s coming out of doors, and how demure! When you understand the matter, you may form your own conclusions.

If there ever was any time, mother, when I caused you pleasure,

being called your son by your own desire, I beseech: you to remember it, and now to take compassion on me in my distress. A thing I beg and request—do discover to me my parents.

I conjure you, my son, not to entertain that notion in your mind, that you are another person’s child.

I am.

Wretch that I am! (Turning to CHREMES.) Was it this that you wanted, pray?

(To CLITIPHO.) So may you be the survivor of me and of him, you are my son and his; and henceforth, if you love me,take care that I never hear that speech from you again.

But I say, if you fear me, take care how I find these propensities existing in you.

What propensities?

If you wish to know, I’ll tell you; being a trifler, an idler, a cheat, a glutton, a debauchee, a spendthrift—Believe me, and believe that you are our son.

This is not the language of a parent.

If you had been born from my head, Clitipho, just as they say Minerva was from Jove’s, none the more on that account would I suffer myself to be disgraced by your profligacy.

May the Gods forbid it.

I don’t know as to the Gods; so far as I shall be enabled, I will carefully prevent it. You are seeking that which you possess—parents; that which you are in want of you don’t seek—

in what way to pay obedience to a father, and to preserve what he acquired by his industry. That you by trickery should bring before my eyes—I am ashamed to mention the unseemly word in her presence (pointing to SOSTRATA), but you were not in any degree ashamed to act thus.

Alas! how thoroughly displeased I now am with myself! How much ashamed! nor do I know how to make a beginning to pacify him.

Why really, Chremes is treating his son too harshly and too unkindly. I’m come out, therefore, to make peace between them. Most opportunely I see them both.

Well, Menedemus, why don’t you order my daughter to be sent for, and close with the offer of the portion that I mentioned?

My husband, I entreat you not to do it.

Father, I entreat you to forgive me.

Forgive him, Chremes;

do let then prevail upon you.

Am I knowingly to make my property a present to Bacchis? I’ll not do it.

Why, we would not suffer it.

If you desire me to live, father, do forgive me.

Do, my dear Chremes.

Come, Chremes, pray, don’t be so obdurate.

What am I to do here? I see I am not allowed to carry this through, as I had intended.

You are acting as becomes you.

On this condition, then, I’ll do it; if he does

that which I think it right he should do.

Father, I’ll do any thing; command me.

You must take a wife.

Father—

I’ll hear nothing.

I’ll take it upon myself; he shall do so.

I don’t hear any thing from him as yet.

I’m undone!

Do you hesitate, Clitipho?

Nay, just as he likes.

He’ll do it all.

This course, while you are making a beginning, is disagreeable, and while you are unacquainted with it. When you have become acquainted with it, it will become easy.

I’ll do it, father.

My son, upon my honor I’ll give you that charming girl, whom you may soon become attached to, the daughter of our neighbor Phanocrata.

What! that red-haired girl, with cat’s eyes, freckled face, and hooked nose? I can not, father.

Heyday! how nice he is! You would fancy he had set his mind upon it.

I’ll name another.