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_ ACT II
[_Scene; a splendid apartment in the Palace of Midas._]
[_Enter Midas]
(with a golden rose in his hand)._
Mid. Gold! glorious gold! I am made up of gold!
I pluck a rose, a silly, fading rose,
Its soft, pink petals change to yellow gold;
Its stem, its leaves are gold--and what before
Was fit for a poor peasant's festal dress
May now adorn a Queen. I lift a stone,
A heavy, useless mass, a slave would spurn,
What is more valueless? 'Tis solid gold!
A king might war on me to win the same.
And as I pass my hand thus through the air,
A little shower of sightless dust falls down
A shower of gold. O, now I am a king!
I've spread my hands against my palace walls,
I've set high ladders up, that I may touch
Each crevice and each cornice with my hands,
And it will all be gold:--a golden palace,
Surrounded by a wood of golden trees,
Which will bear golden fruits.--The very ground
My naked foot treads on is yellow gold,
Invaluable gold! my dress is gold! [53]
Now I am great! Innumerable armies
Wait till my gold collects them round my throne;
I see my standard made of woven gold.
Waving o'er Asia's utmost Citadels,
Guarded by myriads invincible.
Or if the toil of war grows wearisome,
I can buy Empires:--India shall be mine,
Its blooming beauties, gold-encrusted baths,
Its aromatic groves and palaces,
All will be mine! Oh, Midas, ass-eared king!
I love thee more than any words can tell,
That thus thy touch, thou man akin to Gods,
Can change all earth to heaven,--Olympian gold!
For what makes heaven different from earth!
Look how my courtiers come! Magnificent!
None shall dare wait on me but those who bear
An empire on their backs in sheets of gold.
Oh, what a slave I was! my flocks & kine,
My vineyards & my corn were all my wealth
And men esteemed me rich; but now Great Jove
Transcends me but by lightning, and who knows
If my gold win not the Cyclopean Powers,
And Vulcan, who must hate his father's rule,
To forge me bolts?--and then--but hush! they come. [54]
[_Enter Zopyrion, Asphalion, & Lacon._]
Lac. Pardon us, mighty king--
Mid. What would ye, slaves?
Oh! I could buy you all with one slight touch
Of my gold-making hand!
Asph. Royal Midas,
We humbly would petition for relief.
Mid. Relief I Bring me your copper coin, your brass,
Or what ye will--ye'll speedily be rich.
Zopyr. 'Tis not for gold, but to be rid of gold,
That we intrude upon your Majesty.
I fear that you will suffer by this gift,
As we do now. Look at our backs bent down
With the huge weight of the great cloaks of gold.
Permit us to put on our shabby dress,
Our poor despised garments of light wool:--
We walk as porters underneath a load.
Pity, great king, our human weaknesses,
Nor force us to expire--
Mid. Begone, ye slaves!
Go clothe your wretched limbs in ragged skins!
Take an old carpet to wrap round your legs,
A broad leaf for your feet--ye shall not wear [55]
That dress--those golden sandals--monarch like.
Asph. If you would have us walk a mile a day
We cannot thus--already we are tired
With the huge weight of soles of solid gold.
Mid. Pitiful wretches! Earth-born, groveling dolts!
Begone! nor dare reply to my just wrath!
Never behold me more! or if you stay
Let not a sigh, a shrug, a stoop betray
What poor, weak, miserable men you are.
Not as I--I am a God! Look, dunce!
I tread or leap beneath this load of gold!
(_Jumps & stops suddenly._)
I've hurt my back:--this cloak is wondrous hard!
No more of this! my appetite would say
The hour is come for my noon-day repast.
Lac. It comes borne in by twenty lusty slaves,
Who scarce can lift the mass of solid gold,
That lately was a table of light wood.
Here is the heavy golden ewer & bowl,
In which, before you eat, you wash your hands.
Mid. (_lifting up the ewer_)
This is to be a king! to touch pure gold!
Would that by touching thee, Zopyrion, [56]
I could transmute thee to a golden man;
A crowd of golden slaves to wait on me!
(_Pours the water on his hands._)
But how is this? the water that I touch
Falls down a stream of yellow liquid gold,
And hardens as it falls. I cannot wash--
Pray Bacchus, I may drink! and the soft towel
With which I'd wipe my hands transmutes itself
Into a sheet of heavy gold.--No more!
I'll sit and eat:--I have not tasted food
For many hours, I have been so wrapt
In golden dreams of all that I possess,
I had not time to eat; now hunger calls
And makes me feel, though not remote in power
From the immortal Gods, that I need food,
The only remnant of mortality!
(_In vain attempts to eat of several dishes._)
Alas! my fate! 'tis gold! this peach is gold!
This bread, these grapes & all I touch! this meat
Which by its scent quickened my appetite
Has lost its scent, its taste,--'tis useless gold.
Zopyr. (_aside_) He'd better now have followed my advice.
He starves by gold yet keeps his asses' ears. [57]
Mid. Asphalion, put that apple to my mouth;
If my hands touch it not perhaps I eat.
Alas! I cannot bite! as it approached
I felt its fragrance, thought it would be mine,
But by the touch of my life-killing lips
'Tis changed from a sweet fruit to tasteless gold,
Bacchus will not refresh me by his gifts,
The liquid wine congeals and flies my taste.
Go, miserable slaves! Oh, wretched king!
Away with food! Its sight now makes me sick.
Bring in my couch! I will sleep off my care,
And when I wake I'll coin some remedy.
I dare not bathe this sultry day, for fear
I be enclosed in gold. Begone!
I will to rest:--oh, miserable king!
(_Exeunt all but Midas. He lies down, turns restlessly
for some time & then rises._)
Oh! fool! to wish to change all things to gold!
Blind Ideot that I was! This bed is gold;
And this hard, weighty pillow, late so soft,
That of itself invited me to rest,
Is a hard lump, that if I sleep and turn
I may beat out my brains against its sides. [58]
Oh! what a wretched thing I am! how blind!
I cannot eat, for all my food is gold;
Drink flies my parched lips, and my hard couch
Is worse than rock to my poor bruised sides.
I cannot walk; the weight of my gold soles
Pulls me to earth:--my back is broke beneath
These gorgeous garments--(_throws off his cloak_)
Lie there, golden cloak!
There on thy kindred earth, lie there and rot!
I dare not touch my forehead with my palm
For fear my very flesh should turn to gold.
Oh! let me curse thee, vilest, yellow dirt!
Here, on my knees, thy martyr lifts his voice,
A poor, starved wretch who can touch nought but thee[,]
Wilt thou refresh me in the heat of noon?
Canst thou be kindled for me when I'm cold?
May all men, & the immortal Gods,
Hate & spurn thee as wretched I do now.
(_Kicks the couch, & tries to throw down the pillow
but cannot lift it._)
I'd dash, thee to the earth, but that thy weight
Preserves thee, abhorred, Tartarian Gold! [59]
Bacchus, O pity, pardon, and restore me!
Who waits?
[_Enter Lacon._]
Go bid the priests that they prepare
Most solemn song and richest sacrifise;--
Which I may not dare touch, lest it should turn
To most unholy gold.
Lacon. Pardon me, oh King,
But perhaps the God may give that you may eat,
And yet your touch be magic.
Mid. No more, thou slave!
Gold is my fear, my bane, my death! I hate
Its yellow glare, its aspect hard and cold.
I would be rid of all.--Go bid them haste.
(_Exit Lacon._)
Oh, Bacchus I be propitious to their prayer!
Make me a hind, clothe me in ragged skins--
And let my food be bread, unsavoury roots,
But take from me the frightful curse of gold.
Am I not poor? Alas! how I am changed!
Poorer than meanest slaves, my piles of wealth
Cannot buy for me one poor, wretched dish:--
In summer heat I cannot bathe, nor wear
A linen dress; the heavy, dull, hard metal
Clings to me till I pray for poverty.
[_Enter Zopyrion, Asphalion & Lacon._] [60]
Zopyr. The sacrifice is made, & the great God,
Pitying your ills, oh King, accepted it,
Whilst his great oracle gave forth these words.
"Let poor king Midas bathe in the clear stream
"Of swift Pactolus, & to those waves tran[s]fer
"The gold-transmuting power, which he repents."
Mid. Oh joy! Oh Bacchus, thanks for this to thee
Will I each year offer three sucking lambs--
Games will I institute--nor Pan himself
Shall have more honour than thy deity.
Haste to the stream,--I long to feel the cool
And liquid touch of its divinest waves.
(_Exeunt all except Zopyrion and Asphalion._)
Asph. Off with our golden sandals and our cloaks!
Oh, I shall ever hate the sight of gold!
Poor, wealthy Midas runs as if from death
To rid him quick of this meta[l]lic curse.
Zopyr. (_aside_) I wonder if his asses['] ears are gold;
What would I give to let the secret out?
Gold! that is trash, we have too much of it,--
But I would give ten new born lambs to tell
This most portentous truth--but I must choke.
Asph. Now we shall tend our flocks and reap our corn
As we were wont, and not be killed by gold.
Golden fleeces threatened our poor sheep, [61]
The very showers as they fell from heaven
Could not refresh the earth; the wind blew gold,
And as we walked [Footnote: MS. _as he walked._]
the thick sharp-pointed atoms
Wounded our faces--the navies would have sunk--
Zopyr. All strangers would have fled our gold-cursed shore,
Till we had bound our wealthy king, that he
Might leave the green and fertile earth unchanged;--
Then in deep misery he would have shook
His golden chains & starved.
[_Enter Lacon._]
Lacon. Sluggards, how now I
Have you not been to gaze upon the sight?
To see the noble king cast off the gift
Which he erewhile so earnestly did crave[?]
Asph. I am so tired with the weight of gold
I bore to-day I could not budge a foot
To see the finest sight Jove could display.
But tell us, Lacon, what he did and said.
Lac. Although he'd fain have run[,] his golden dress
And heavy sandals made the poor king limp
As leaning upon mine and the high priest's arm,
He hastened to Pactolus. When he saw
The stream--"Thanks to the Gods!" he cried aloud
In joy; then having cast aside his robes
He leaped into the waves, and with his palm
Throwing the waters high--"This is not gold," [62]
He cried, "I'm free, I have got rid of gold."
And then he drank, and seizing with delight
A little leaf that floated down the stream,
"Thou art not gold," he said--
Zopyr. But all this time--
Did you behold?--Did he take off his crown?--
Lacon. No:--It was strange to see him as he plunged
Hold tight his crown with his left hand the while.
Zopyr. (_aside_) Alas, my fate! I thought they had been seen.
Lac. He ordered garments to the river side
Of coarsest texture;--those that erst he wore
He would not touch, for they were trimmed with gold.
Zopyr. And yet he did not throw away his crown?
Lac. He ever held it tight as if he thought
Some charm attached to its remaining there.
Perhaps he is right;--know you, Zopyrion,
If that strange voice this morning spoke the truth?
Zopyr. Nay guess;--think of what passed & you can judge.
I dare not--I know nothing of his ears.
Lac. I am resolved some night when he sleeps sound
To get a peep.--No more,'tis he that comes.
He has now lost the boon that Bacchus gave,
Having bestowed it on the limpid waves.
Now over golden sands Pactolus runs, [63]
And as it flows creates a mine of wealth.
[_Enter Midas, (with grapes in his hand)._]
Mid. I see again the trees and smell the flowers
With colours lovelier than the rainbow's self;
I see the gifts of rich-haired Ceres piled
And eat. (_holding up the grapes_)
This is not yellow, dirty gold,
But blooms with precious tints, purple and green.
I hate this palace and its golden floor,
Its cornices and rafters all of gold:--
I'll build a little bower of freshest green,
Canopied o'er with leaves & floored with moss:--
I'll dress in skins;--I'll drink from wooden cups
And eat on wooden platters--sleep on flock;
None but poor men shall dare attend on me.
All that is gold I'll banish from my court,
Gilding shall be high treason to my state,
The very name of gold shall be crime capital[.]
Zopyr. May we not keep our coin?
Mid. No, Zopyrion,
None but the meanest peasants shall have gold.
It is a sordid, base and dirty thing:--
Look at the grass, the sky, the trees, the flowers,
These are Joves treasures & they are not gold:-- [64]
Now they are mine, I am no longer cursed.--
The hapless river hates its golden sands,
As it rolls over them, having my gift;--
Poor harmless shores! they now are dirty gold.
How I detest it! Do not the Gods hate gold?
Nature displays the treasures that she loves,
She hides gold deep in the earth & piles above
Mountains & rocks to keep the monster down.
Asph. They say Apollo's sunny car is gold.
Mid. Aye, so it is for Gold belongs to him:--
But Phoebus is my bitterest enemy,
And what pertains to him he makes my bane.
Zopyr. What [!] will your Majesty tell the world?--
Mid. Peace, vile gossip! Asphalion, come you here.
Look at those golden columns; those inlaid walls;
The ground, the trees, the flowers & precious food
That in my madness I did turn to gold:--
Pull it all down, I hate its sight and touch;
Heap up my cars & waggons with the load
And yoke my kine to drag it to the sea:
Then crowned with flowers, ivy & Bacchic vine,
And singing hymns to the immortal Gods,
We will ascend ships freighted with the gold, [65]
And where no plummet's line can sound the depth
Of greedy Ocean, we will throw it in,
All, all this frightful heap of yellow dirt.
Down through the dark, blue waters it will sink,
Frightening the green-haired Nereids from their sport
And the strange Tritons--the waves will close above
And I, thank Bacchus, ne'er shall see it more!
And we will make all echoing heaven ring
With our loud hymns of thanks, & joyous pour
Libations in the deep, and reach the land,
Rich, happy, free & great, that we have lost
Man's curse, heart-bartering, soul-enchaining gold.
FINIS.
[THE END]
Mary Shelley's Mythological Drama Plays: Proserpine and Midas
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