optimism provokes a challenge; just as the tentative 'perhaps' in the
last line of "Sophocles' Antigone" softly woos the sceptic:
There are fair flowers that never came to fruit;
Cut by sharp winds, or eaten by late frost,
Barrenly in forgetfulness, they're lost
To little-heedful Nature; so, in suit,
Beneath the footsteps of calamity
Young lives and lovely innocently come
To total up old evil's deadly sum--
Do the gods pity dead Antigone?
We look too close, we look too close on earth
At good and evil; blind are Nature's laws
That kill, or make alive, and so are done.
Not in the circle of this death and birth
May we perceive a justifying cause,
Beyond, perhaps, for God and good are one.
One must not pause to gather up the threads of personality in these
three volumes of lyrics; and, with the more important work in drama
still ahead, it is only possible just to glance at their specific
values. All the pieces are not equally good, of course, but there is a
proportion of exquisite poetry in each volume, and--a healthy sign--the
proportion is greatest in the last of the three, _Songs of Changing
Skies_, published in 1913. Of this best work there are at least three
kinds. There is that which one may call the lyric proper, small in size,
simple in design, light in texture, the free expression of a single
mood. Such is "From a Window," in which the peculiar charm of the poet's
verse in this kind is well seen. It is not a showy attractiveness: it
does not storm the senses nor clamour for approval. It enters the mind
quietly, and perhaps with some hesitancy; but having entered, it takes
absolute possession.
To-night I hear the soft Spring rain that falls
Across the gardens, in the falling dusk,
The Spring dusk, very slow;
And that clear, single-noted bird that calls
Insistently, from somewhere in the gloom
Of wet Spring leafage, or the scattering bloom
Of one tall pear-tree.
On, on, on, they go,
Those single, sweet, reiterated sounds,
Having no passion, similarly free
Of laughter, and of memory, and of tears,
Poignantly sweet, across the falling rain,
They fall upon my ears.
The delicate rapture of that will fairly represent most of the nature
poetry in these volumes; and it may stand alike for its music and the
technical means by which that music is conveyed. It will be seen that
there is a close relation between means and end; that the simple
language, natural phrasing and controlled freedom of movement, directly
subserve the final effect of clear sweetness. A similar adaptation will
be found in verse which is written in a sharply contrasted manner. In
"Atlantic Rollers," for instance, we have a bigger theme, demanding by
its nature a swifter and stronger treatment. And surely the wild energy
and sound, the dazzling light and colour of stormy breakers have been
almost brought within sight and sound, in the speed and vigour of this
poem. There is the opening rush, secretly obedient to a metrical scheme;
there is a choice of words which are themselves dynamic; the rapid,
cumulative pressure of the verse, with epithets only to help the rising
movement until the crest is reached, at say the tenth or twelfth line;
and then a slight diminution of speed and force, as a richer style
describes the breaking wave.
Do you dare face the wind now? Such a wind,
Bending the hardy cliff-grass all one way,
Hurling the breakers in huge battle-play
On these old rocks, whose age leaves Time behind,
--The whorls and rockets of the fiery mass
Ere earth was earth--shoots over them the spray
In furious beauty, then is twisted, wreathed,
Dispersed, flung inland, beaten in our face,
Until we pant as if we hardly breathed
The common air. See how the billows race
Landward in white-maned squadrons that are shot
With sparks of sunshine.
Where they leap in sight
First, on the clear horizon, they fleck white
The blue profundity; then, as clouds shift,
Are grey, and umber, and pale amethyst;
Then, great green ramparts in the bay uplift,
Perfect a moment, ere they break and fall
In fierce white smother on the rocky wall.
The third kind of lyric is perhaps the most interesting, for it points
directly to the poet's dramatic gift. It appears quite early in this
work; and indeed, a striking example of it is the duologue which gives
its name to the author's first book, _The Marionettes_, published in
1907. It is described in the sub-title as _A Puppet Show_, and a
definition of its form would probably be a dramatic lyric. Yet, although
the tragic story is sharply outlined and is told by the voices of
husband and wife alternately, the poem is not so dramatic in essence as
other pieces which are more strictly lyrical in form, notably "Outside
Canossa," in the last book. In _The Marionettes_ we see the events of
the story as they are reflected in the minds of the interlocutors; as
the mood or the thought which they have given rise to. They do not live
and move before us in visible action: which is to say, the lyric element
predominates. "Outside Canossa," on the other hand, is frankly narrative
in form, and has an historical theme. It relates the famous episode of
the humiliation of the Emperor Henry IV by Hildebrand, and is
necessarily concerned with material that is static in its nature. It
must define and describe the scene, announce the antecedents of the
story, and throw light upon character. In spite of this, however, the
conception of the poem is dramatic; and certain vivid situations have
been created. As we read we actually live in this snow-clothed, silent
forest world; we stand inside the king's tent as he returns each evening
from his bare-foot, bare-headed penance outside Hildebrand's castle
gate; and we tremble, with the waiting courtiers, at the fury of
outraged pride in his eyes.
Yesterday,
Speech leapt from out the King, as leaps
A sword-blade, dazzling in the sun
From out its scabbard; as there leaps
Fire from the mountain, ere it run
Destruction-dealing, far and wide.
"Rather as Satan damned, I say,
Falling through pride, yet keeping pride,
Than buy salvation at this price...."
To the enraged King the Queen enters softly, carrying her little son;
and though her husband has threatened death to any who should approach
him, though he sits with his unsheathed dagger ready to strike, she
walks steadily to his side, places the child upon his knee, and goes
slowly out without a word.
Through the door
The King has hurled the dagger, holds
His son against his breast, and pain
Contorts him, like a smitten oak;
Then sets the child upon the floor,
And rises, and undoes the clasp
Of his great mantle (like a stain
Of blood it lies about his feet).
Next from his head he takes the crown,
Holds it arm's-length, and drops it down
Suddenly, from his loosened grasp,
And for the third time goes he forth,
Bare-footed as a penitent,
Humble, and excommunicate,
To stand all day in falling snow
Outside Canossa's guarded gate,
Till Hildebrand shall mercy show.
The dramatic sense is clearly operative there. Here is an instinct which
perceives the kinetic values of things; which seizes unerringly upon the
stuff of drama, and, contemplating a character, an event or a situation,
feels it start into life under the touch and sees it move forward and
rush to a crisis before the eyes. In the lyrics this quality is often
merely latent; but in the plays it has come to full power and has found
expression through its own proper medium. It is, of course, the
originating impulse of drama as well as the force that shapes it; and if
we would take some measure of this creative energy in our poet, we have
only to observe that all of his five plays were published in five years,
one play to each year. The first, _Joan of Arc_, appeared in 1909; the
last, _Belisarius_, came out in 1913; the other three, _Mary Queen of
Scots_, _Manin_, and _Marcus Aurelius_, belong respectively to the three
intervening years. And there is another ready, representing 1914!
Moreover, they are all fully developed and of rather elaborate
structure. Being poetic and historical drama, perhaps it is natural that
they should follow the Shakespearean model, though their dependence on
tradition is a curious fact at this time of day. _Joan of Arc_ and _Mary
Queen of Scots_ are both of five-act length, and the rest are of four
acts. Numerous characters are introduced and a great deal of material is
handled: incident is plentiful, situations vary and scenes change with
some frequency; while underplot and crossaction bring in interests which
are additional to, though subserving, the main theme.
Looking at the work thus, and noting its mass and general character, one
is impelled to pay a first tribute to the fertility of the genius from
which it springs, and to the strength and staying power of the dramatic
impulse which directs it. But we soon find that this is reinforced by
other qualities which are almost as remarkable. There is what one may
call a comprehensive intelligence, ranging over wide areas and gathering
material in many places, but keeping it all strictly under control and
constantly striving to relate and unify so much diversity. There is a
constructive gift patiently building up, fitting together, organizing
and articulating the form of the work. Selection acts persistently;
proportion is generally--though not always--true and fine; a noble
spirit and a manner at once gracious and dignified give the work
distinction.
However, all that is little more than to say--here is a genuine artist
working conscientiously in a given medium. It does not go far towards a
relative estimate of the work as pure drama. Only a detailed critical
analysis could do that adequately; though one may perhaps try to
indicate two or three of the prominent features of the plays. Thus in
_Joan of Arc_ we meet at once certain qualities which become in the
later plays definitely characteristic. There is, for example, a
conception of the theme which stresses the element of spiritual
conflict, and draws upon it, as well as upon its human values, for
dramatic inspiration. That is a primary fact in all this work; and in
four of the five plays it is implied in the very name of the
protagonist. _Joan_, _Manin_, _Marcus Aurelius_ and _Belisarius_ are
synonyms for the purest spirituality of which human nature is capable.
They suggest, before a page of this poetry has been turned, that the
conflict out of which drama always springs is in this case largely a
matter of invisible forces--of principles and ideas. And they point to
a type of dramatic art which, trending to fine issues, inevitably deals
in quiet effects.
There is, in fact, in the extreme grandeur of these four characters, a
possible source of weakness to the plays, as actual drama. There is a
danger that Joan may be too good a Christian, Marcus Aurelius too
austere a stoic, Manin or Belisarius too absolute an idealist, to put up
a strenuous fight against destiny. In the final impression of the plays,
indeed, one is aware of a vague touch of regret on that very account;
and although that may arise from one's own pugnacity, one suspects the
existence of a good many other imperfect humans who will share it; from
which it may be inferred that the weakness inherent in the subject has
not been entirely overcome. I doubt whether it would be possible to
overcome it altogether; and by the same token I salute the power which
has evoked profoundly moving and stimulating drama out of themes like
these.
Again, in _Joan of Arc_, one may see how the poet uses the human
elements of a story to make the stirring scenes through which the
spiritual crisis is reached. Thus Joan, in the fundamental struggle of
her soul for the soul of France, is brought into external conflict which
rounds out the plot with incident. It belongs, of course, to the
historical setting of her life, that that conflict is one of actual
warfare; but we are bound to admire the art which has placed her as the
central figure of those warring factions--the invading English, the army
of the Duke of Burgundy, the Church, and Charles the Dauphin. Out of
that come the events through which the action proceeds and the
incomparable beauty of her character is revealed.
It is the struggle of Joan's enthusiasm with the apathy and indolence of
Charles which gives rise to one of the finest scenes in the play. It
occurs in Act I, the whole of which is skilfully designed to set the
action moving, while indicating so much of the political situation as
ought to be known, and the weakness in Charles' character which is the
ultimate cause of Joan's downfall. A premonitory note is struck in the
opening dialogue. A little story is told by la Tremoille, who is Joan's
chief enemy, of how he had just whipped a ragged prophet in the street
and caused him to be stoned. It has a double purpose--to introduce Joan,
the prophetess of Domrémy, as a subject of conversation; and, by
reminding us of her own end, to awaken the sense of tragic irony through
which we shall view the subsequent action. The talk turns to Joan, who
is awaiting audience; and la Tremoille proposes the trick of the
disguise. Charles agrees to it, and goes out to put on the dress of a
courtier, while his absence is filled out by a lively dialogue which
glances lightly from point to point of court life. When Charles and his
train re-enter and Joan is brought in, the scene rises strongly to its
climax. Joan recognizes the Dauphin through his disguise and announces
her divine mission--
I do declare to you
That I, no other,--neither duke, nor prince,
Nor captain,--no, nor learned gentlemen,
But I alone, a girl of Domrémy,--
Am sent to save you.
By means of a flexible blank-verse, plain diction, and free and nervous
phrasing, dialogue runs with an easy vigour. It is fired by strong and
quickly changing emotion--the incredulity of Charles, the base hostility
of la Tremoille, the indignation of Joan's friends, or the amazement and
curiosity of the courtiers. But for the most part it remains strictly
dramatic poetry; that is to say, raised by several degrees above the
level of prose, yet closely fitted to personality. When, however, Joan
begins to tell about her life, her quiet country home, and the divine
command which bade her save her country, the note deepens. The verse
becomes lyrical, burning with the mystical passion which possesses
her--a flame, like the grand simplicity of her own nature, white and
intensely clear.
JOAN. Sire, it was in the spring; one afternoon
When I was in a meadow all alone,
Lying among the grasses (over head
The scurrying clouds were like a flock of sheep,
Chased by a sheep-dog); then, all suddenly,
I heard a voice--nay, heard I cannot say,
There _was_ a voice took hold upon my sense,
As if it swallowed up all other sounds
In all the world; the birds, the sheep, the bees,
The sound of children calling far away,
The rustling of the rushes in the stream,
Were only like the cloth, whereon appears
The gold embroidery, the voice of God.
ARCHBISHOP. Did you see aught?
JOAN. Yea, see! Our earthly words
Cannot express divinity, but like
Small vessels over-filled with generous wine,
They leave the surplus wasted. If I say,
I saw, or heard, that seems to leave untouched
The other senses; but indeed, my lords,
All of my body seemed transformed to soul.
So I should say I _saw_ the voice of God,
And _heard_ the light effulgent all around,
Nay, heard, and saw, and felt through all of me
The radiance of the message of the Lord.
Passages like that bring home to us the poetical character of this
drama. True, they may remind us that in such a form of the art action
is likely to lag: that its movement may be impeded, as toward the end of
_Joan of Arc_, by long speeches. On the other hand, they emphasize the
peculiar virtue of this kind of drama; the twofold nature of its appeal,
and the fact that the two elements are often found concentrated at their
highest degree in single scenes of great power. With genius of this type
(if genius may be classified in types!), when the dramatic imagination
is most vividly alight, it will inevitably kindle poetry of the finest
kind.
Thus, in the last act of _Marcus Aurelius_, we get the force of the
whole drama, and all the incidence of the directly preceding scene
moving behind and through the Emperor's speech from which I shall quote.
The play has shown the complicity of Faustina in the plot to depose her
husband: we know that she is a wanton and a traitress. But Marcus is
ignorant of the truth, and generously unsuspecting. After the death of
Cassius, the chief conspirator, Marcus orders an officer to bring all
the dead man's papers to him. It is necessary to examine them for the
names of accomplices. They are brought in while he is chatting with
Faustina; and she knows that they contain certain incriminating letters
that she had written. Exposure is imminent--disgrace and probable death
for her await the opening of the letters. She tries every ruse that a
bold and cunning mentality can suggest to prevent her husband from
reading them. She seems about to succeed, but her insistence faintly
warning Marcus, she fails after all. He takes up the package and goes
away to open it quietly in his tent, and Faustina, believing that in a
few minutes he will know all her treachery, drinks poison and dies.
Unconscious of this catastrophe, the Emperor is sitting alone in his
tent, with the package of letters on a table before him.
... Here, beneath my hand,
Are laid the hidden hearts of many men.
What shall I read therein? Ingratitude,
Lies, envy, spite, the barbed and venomous word
Of those that called me Emperor, I called friend;
... Break the seal, and read
Which of our subjects, of our intimates,
Our friends of many years, are netted here.
How thickly fall the shadows in the tent!
Almost I fancied, with my tired eyes,
I saw Faustina there ... Faustina, you!
.....
If I should find
_Her_ name among the friends of Cassius?
Ah no, Faustina, not such perfidy!
The gods must blush at it! Am I grown grey
And learnt no wisdom? Though it should be so--
Though yet it cannot be--what's that to me?
Am _I_ wronged by it? Yet it cannot be,
With that frank brow. I've loved you faithfully;
It could not be so....
... I will not know
More than I must of unprofitable things,
Lest they should, in the garden of my soul,
Nourish rank weeds of hate and bitterness;
I will not hate that which I cannot change.
(_He drops the papers into a tripod._)
Burn! Go into oblivion! The gods
Permit themselves to pity good and bad,
Giving to each the sunshine and sweet rain,
And hiding all things in the mist of years.
May I not do as gods do? Burn away,
Consume all hate and evil into smoke!
I will not know of them; assuredly
For me such ills exist not----
(_The body of Faustina is brought in._)
The same combination of dramatic elements will be found in the crucial
scenes of _Manin_ and _Belisarius_. In _Manin_ it is especially notable,
because of the curious nature of the crisis. This would seem, on the
face of it, almost calculated to inhibit the dramatic impulse: to tend
to negative the dynamic properties of character and circumstance. Manin,
the defender of Venice, has held his city against the Austrian enemy by
sheer force of character. His courage and confidence and determination
have heartened the Venetians to continue their resistance; and his
statesmanship has been diligent in trying to secure the intervention of
France or England, or military aid from Kossuth. But help is refused
from every quarter; the garrison is small and weak; the people are
starving, and ravaged by disease. Nevertheless, inspired by their
leader, they are willing and eager to resist to the end, although they
know that this must bring on them the hideous penalties with which the
Austrians notoriously punished that kind of patriotism.
The crux of the drama lies in the problem thus presented to Manin. It is
essentially a spiritual struggle: between wisdom on the one hand and
patriotic ardour on the other; between foresight and courage; between
the long, weary, unattractive processes that make for life and the blind
impetuosity that makes for death; between, in his personal career, a
prospect of humiliation in exile and the glory of a hero's end. Given
the character of Manin, victory in the conflict was bound to lie with
reason against passion, with sagacity against recklessness; but the
victory in this case meant defeat--physical and apparently moral. It
would mean to the world, and even to his own people, that, with the
surrender of the town, he yielded up the very principles for which he
stood. Therein, of course, lies the unusual nature of this crisis. The
dramatic instinct has somehow to vitalize a dead weight of failure. To
see how that is done--and it _is_ done, finely--one must turn to the
scene in Act III, which is the core of the play. There the poet creates
an external conflict between Manin and the people which embodies, as it
were, the spiritual struggle; and, translating it into action, visibly
reveals Manin as a conqueror. Quotations hardly do justice to the poet
here, but there are two speeches, one before and one after Manin has won
the people to the proposed surrender, which indicate the skill of the
art at this point.
The first expresses the agony of failure in Manin's mind, resulting from
his decision to yield to the enemy. It is in answer to his faithful
friend and secretary, Pezzato, who has been trying to comfort him with a
prediction that the freedom of their city and their land is only
deferred, that it must ultimately come. Manin replies:
I shall not see it.
I shall be blind beneath my coffin lid
There in a foreign land; I shall not see
The glory and the splendour of St. Mark's
When our Italian flag salutes the sun;
I shall be deaf, and never hear the peal
Of our triumphant bells, and volleying guns;
I shall be dumb, I shall be dumb that day,
And never say "My people, for this hour
I saved you when I sacrificed you most."
The second passage burns with the fire of triumph, tragical but
prophetic, which has been kindled in Manin by his struggle with the
opposing will of the people and his victory over it:
Of this one thing be sure. A little time,
A little hour, in the span of years
That history devours, we submit
To bow before the flail of tyranny;
Ay, it may strike us down, and we may die
With Europe passive round our Calvary;
Yet that for which we stand, for liberty,
For equal justice, and the right of laws
Purely administered, can never die,
Being of the nature of eternity;
Nor all the blood that Austria has shed
Mar the indelibility of truth;
Nor all the graves that Austria has dug
Bury it deep enough; nor all the lies
That coward hearts have bandied to and fro,
And coward hearts received to trick themselves,
Smother the face of it.
There remains to be particularly noted the poet's gift of realizing
character. It is seen at its best in _Mary Queen of Scots_, where the
unfortunate Queen is very strikingly recreated. Out of the diverse and
stormy elements of her nature she is made to live again with a clear
unity and completeness which are amazing. That is largely the reason why
this play is the most powerful of the five, from the point of view of
pure drama. Its theme is unerringly chosen, for drama inheres in Mary's
being. The seeds of tragedy lurk in her contrasted weakness and
strength, excess and defect, nobility and baseness. And, because she has
been so brilliantly studied, this play moves at every step to the
majestic truth that character is destiny.