Does ... it return and ... call?...
URSEL. Hush, 'tis Bet's voice....
_After a brief interval filled with slight sounds,_ BET _appears in the
neat-house doorway; she peeps before her until she sees the two women in
the hay._
BET, _in a low eager tone._
Ursel, Ursel....
URSEL _rises and goes toward her._
The cow has died ... in the dark....
When I returned but now by the yard door
I missed the boust and groped into her stall--
And did not know until I heaved and spread
Up a flat softness that went sick beneath me
With long stiff shakings, while her unearned wind
Broke far within, then slid against my cheek ...
I could have borne it if she had been cold;
But she was nearly cold, so that I felt
A thread-thin warmth I could not stay nor make ...
NAN, _approaching_ BET _swiftly from behind and
grasping her shoulder._
Is the cow dead?
BET, _shrinking from her touch._
Nannie, the cow is dead.
NAN.
I milked her last of all, and now my fetch
Has milked her too; will ... it ... take all from me
I own through love?
(_To_ BET.) Why did you shrink from me?
BET.
I did not shrink from you; what need is there?
NAN _holds out her arms to her; again she draws away from_ NAN.
Nannie, I cannot help it ... I cannot help it....
There's more than this world in you, and I know not
What you might do to me past your own will:
You have seen your fetch and are not one of us,
For we know not your being's dim half-conditions ...
And maybe if you touch ought that has life
You make it that your fetch can take it too--
So died the heifer.... Or maybe your least touch
Draws life from others to win you a few hours;
Or you are of the dead, and call folk to them
Through sympathy of the senses' understanding....
Poor Nannie ... O, poor Nannie ... O, poor Nannie....
_She sobs loudly, stooping to wipe her eyes with her petticoat-hem._
URSEL, _while seeking to still her._
Let us turn home to bed: we shall not sleep;
But once we're stripped we can relax our bodies,
Lying past thought for misery till insight
Returns again and brings us the proportion
Of all ... and us....
NAN. I shall bide here till dawn
To see if ... I return and go out ... out....
(_To_ BET.)
Have you left Lib and Maudlin hiding somewhere;
Or do they home by now?
BET, _overcoming her tears gradually._
We fled from here
When ... when ... and reached the neat-yard ere we knew;
We climbed the knoll and passed behind the barn;
Then through the corn land, dew-wet to our hearts,
We beat the thick rye down that choked our feet
Amid its shaggy sighing stilly weight,
Until the cottages at Damson-Closes
Hung o'er us like a dark broody-winged hen
We shunned the watcher's light where the old woman
Waits for her death, and dripped into the lane
Soft as cast shadows.... Ever all feared to speak:
Yet I went with the others through lost fields,
Straining to see the thing we prayed to miss,
Because I knew I dared not near the homestead;
Until I felt that neither should I dare
A more remote returning by myself--
When, loitering unnoticed by those trances,
I sought even you rather than be alone.
NAN, _rigidly, her head having been long averted to the barn's
doorway._
I hear my feet.
URSEL, _in alarm._ Nan, do not go....
NAN. I must.
BET, _wildly._
Again.... Wherever shall I go alone?...
_She tugs her cap-strings loose and her cap over her eyes; she breathes
so deeply that her trembling is heard by her breath as she fumbles her
way into the mistal. The quiet steps are heard again; as_ NAN
_approaches the threshold the woman reappears to the right and passes
down the lane to the left, always holding out her arms to_ NAN, _whose
arms hang tensely at her sides while her fingers twitch at her petticoat
as she holds back and back from meeting the embrace._ URSEL _tries to go
to_ NAN, _but she cannot trail her feet after her nor draw down her
hands that cover her face._
NAN.
How have I parted?... Where am I in deed?...
What of me is unseen?... Go....
_The woman having disappeared to the left, still opening her arms to_
NAN, NAN _turns and totters to the door's edge on that side; thence she
feels her way supportedly along the door, but when she comes to its end
she slides to her knees; after moving a little farther so, she sinks
forward on her face and crawls blindly toward_ URSEL'S _feet. At the
fall_ URSEL'S _hands drop; she reaches to_ NAN, _kneels by her, feels
her heart and hands, holds her own hand before_ NAN'S _mouth and
nostrils; then with one swift movement she loosens her own raiment
nearly to her waist, and, lying against_ NAN, _clasps her in her arms
and gathers her into her bosom._
URSEL. Nan.... O, Nan....
_The two lie quite still; the stirred dust settles on them slowly and
greyly in the moonlight._
CURTAIN.
LAODICE AND DANAE
_"And, O, perchance it is the fairest lot
At once to be a queen and be forgot;
For queens are oft remembered by the weighed
Wild dusky peacock-flashing sins they played,
But queens clean-hearted leave us and grow less,
Lost in the common light of righteousness."_
From KING RENE'S HONEYMOON: A MASQUE, Scene vii.
_TO B. J. FLETCHER_
_O RARE Ben Fletcher, oft I bless
Your rotund Jacobean name;
If the great crew could still express
Their hearts in their dim place of Fame,
As once at Globe or Mermaid-ales,
With love your liking they would greet
For country things and queens' mad tales
And lines with sounding feet._
_But in this troublous newer time
Such fellows have not filled your days,
So it is left for me to chime
These quieter verses of your praise:
For a fair theme I need not strive
While manhood knows as boyhood knew
The joys of art, the joys of life,
I have received from you._
_What days could ever be so long
As those our pristine Summers poised
O'er a charmed valley isled among
Their bright slow-breaking tides unnoised?
Then _Dials_ were new and came to stir
A passionate thirst within the eyes;
Each dawn was a discoverer
Of poets unearthly wise._
_First-comer of my friends, the years
Behold much friendship fade and set;
The shrunken world imparts its fears,
Most men their early power forget.
But art stays true for us, and we
In it are steadfast: for a sign
Its wonder joins us changelessly
Your name stands here with mine._
March 8th, 1909.
ARGUMENT
Antiochus Theos, one of the Hellenic Kings of the East
of the line of Seleucus, reigned in Antioch. He had
espoused Laodice his kinswoman, according to the usage
of his race; but after many years he put her from him,
and took to wife Berenice, daughter and sister of
Ptolemys of Egypt, for reasons of state.
Laodice withdrew to Ephesus and kept court there: long
affection, resurgent, sent Antiochus thither to join
her. Shortly afterward he died at Ephesus in Laodice's
care.
Berenice and Laodice then warred, each to gain the
kingdom for her child: the infant son of Berenice
disappeared, and eventually Seleucus II., the son of
Laodice, held the throne of Antiochus.
In the course of their wars Laodice retired from
Ephesus on finding that Sophron, the governor of the
city, secretly trafficked with the party of Berenice.
While she sat in some adjacent city Sophron
unsuspiciously rejoined her counsels; she immediately
devised his death, but he, being warned by his old
love Danae, the queen's favourite, saved himself by
flight.
PERSONS:
LAODICE, a Queen of the Seleucid House in Asia.
DANAE, MYSTA, RHODOGUNE, BARSINE, and other Waiting-Women.
Three Women-Musicians.
SOPHRON, Seleucid Governor of Ephesus.
_In Smyrna._ B.C. 246.
LAODICE AND DANAE
_Behind the curtain a woman sings to the accompaniment of a harp and a
bell._
I WILL sing of the women who have borne rule,
The severe, the swift, the beautiful;
I will praise their loftiness of mind
That made them too wise to be true or kind;
I will sing of their calm injustice loved
For the pride it fed and the power it proved.
Once in Egypt a girl was queen
Ashamed that her womanhood should be seen;
She wore a beard, she called herself king,
She was uneasy with governing;
She believed a king was greater than she,
So she found a king and his mastery.
In Smyrna sits a queen to-night
Who does not shine by another's light;
She has laid her husband on time's dust-heap,
But for that she holds not her title cheap;
New radiance comes on woman by her,
New force in woman is seen to stir.
She has taken the land and the sea from men;
She has shewn men the power of their source again....
_The curtain rises._
_A lofty chamber of mingled Hellenic and Asiatic architecture is seen.
The walls are of black stone: on the right a portal toward the front of
the stage is concealed by a curtain embroidered with parrots and
Babylonian branch-work; high and toward the back is a double window,
with open cedar lattices, of an inner room: high in the opposed wall is
a short arcade with a projecting gallery. An open colonnade extends
across the rear wall at two-thirds of its height; its pillars support
the roof: the platform of this colonnade is accessible by an open stair
recessed in the wall._
_QUEEN LAODICE reclines on a great divan set toward the left centre of
the chamber. The musicians whose singing and playing have just ceased
kneel on a Persian carpet before her: between them and the portal stands
a tall brazier whence a wavering heat rises. A golden evening sky is
visible through the colonnade, where DANAE leans against a pillar._
LAODICE.
BE silent now; I let you sing too much.
I am awaiting now too many things
To bear this fret of waiting till you end
And I can think again. Be quietly gone.
_The women go out._
DANAE.
You bade them sing to make one moment brief.
LAODICE.
What are you watching like a larger cat,
Sweetheart, little heart, noiseless and alert?
You shall not watch me like a prim wise cat.
DANAE.
I watch a girl sway slightly, near the tide,
As if rehearsing dance-steps in her heart;
She hangs lit snakes of sea-weed down her bosom;
She takes a letter from her bunchy hair....
_She laughs and leans over, holding the pillar._
LAODICE.
Find me a ship, ships; dark ones, strange ones.
I must have ships, so find them, little heart;
And, more than all, a ship of Antioch.
DANAE.
How tiny a girl looks under these deep rocks....
LAODICE _yawns._
Madam, I have searched well; yet until now
No deep-sea ship has passed the promontory;
Now a great ship with tawny sails comes on,
An ocean-threatening centaur for its prow.
LAODICE.
That is from Ephesus, not Antioch....
I purge one thought thereby and make repayment.
I am taken with an inward shivering:
Perhaps I am cold with night--come down and warm me.
_DANAE descends and reclines by LAODICE._
Haughty and passive and obedient,
May not my queen's bosom receive your head?
When I worked empery in Ephesus
That Sophron, governor--did he not love you?
DANAE.
He said he did.
LAODICE. And you?
DANAE. I said he did.
Thereon he made too sure of me too soon:
It is unwise to let men be too sure,
And for that reason I hung up my silks
On a swart Nabataean, having smeared her
With my rare private unguent, and concealed her
In his choice corner--where she bit his lip,
Then let her laughing teeth take light of moon.
There was no more of Sophron afterward....
Although I looked at him almost penitently....
LAODICE.
No more? Was there no more, my little one?
DANAE.
Ah, yes.... When he would never look at me
I felt I could not live outside his arms.
I went to him at night in a slave's skirt,
And by humiliating actions soothed
His wincing mind, until he stooped to me.
I had him soon. And then I tired of him.
LAODICE.
And then, indeed, there was no more at all?
DANAE.
I have not seen him since. We left that city.
You have my faith. You know I am all yours.
LAODICE.
That is quite well. He has no years for you;
He is found treasonous, and must be undone.
O, he goes out.... Dear, I am very cold.
Is it because my heart is cold? Men say it.
DANAE.
Your heart is warm to me.
LAODICE. What do men say?
DANAE.
They say you fled to Sardis and to Smyrna
Because you poisoned him at Ephesus
And heard his feet when a room echoed.
LAODICE. Him?
DANAE.
Antiochus the God, your king and spouse.
LAODICE.
Why do they so consider me the cause?
DANAE.
You hold the physician Smerdis in more favour.
LAODICE.
And did I poison him, my Danae?
DANAE.
Dear lady, surely.
LAODICE. Surely.... It is sure.
Was I not made the Sister, natural wife?
Did he not change me for a daughter of Egypt
Robed with a satrapy, crowned by an isle?
She laved her body daily in Nile water,
Which can make fruitful even stones and virgins;
It soon brought forth the mud's accustomed spawn,
A valuable heir of all the lands.
How could she keep him? Needing me he turned:
Was it not best for him to die still needing me
And leave the amount of kingdoms to my boy,
The climbing vine of gold up Shushan's front,
The cedar palaces of Ecbatana,
Though Berenice sits in Antioch
Safe with her suckling, in her suckling's name?
Winds, bring to me a ship from Antioch.
Since that dread night when Mysta stept not down
With all you speechless ones to disarray me,
Have you not dreamed that I did poison her?
Her love is more than yours, for she had crept
To Antioch to sell herself in bondage
Where Berenice buys, that she may nurse
The child for Berenice--and for me,
While uncle Egypt plucks my crown for it.
DANAE.
Which fingers mixed the poison? See, I kiss them,
Trust them ever to do their will with me.
There is no poison in a poppy-seed;
The seedling draws its venom from the earth--
'Tis the earth's natural need for such event.
LAODICE.
Ay, but the disposition is in the seed;
I poison by a motion of the heart.
_RHODOGUNE, a Parthian waiting-woman, enters._
RHODOGUNE.
Madam, the governor of Ephesus
Comes newly from the harbour to your will.
DANAE.
Sophron!
LAODICE. Lie still. _A silence._
RHODOGUNE. Madam, must I go down?
LAODICE.
Bid this Ephesian governor to me.
RHODOGUNE _goes out._ LAODICE _lays a hand on_ DANAE'S _heart._
_It is now twilight._ SOPHRON _enters._
SOPHRON.
Queen, am I swift enough to your commanding?
LAODICE.
I am ever rich in your discerning service.
Why came you by the sea?
_She sees that_ SOPHRON'S _gaze is fixed on_ DANAE, _who does not look
at him._
Girl, stand behind me.
DANAE _obeys._
Why came you by the sea?
SOPHRON. Lady ... the sea?...
LAODICE.
Does not the way by land still fit mine urgence?
SOPHRON.
Your safety's urgence made it seem most good
To search the straits for masts of Ptolemy.
LAODICE.
Ha.... Yes.... And did you speak with any such?
_DANAE looks at SOPHRON and shakes her head._
SOPHRON.
The seas were void of alien keels to-night.
LAODICE.
Are there Egyptians seen in Ephesus?
SOPHRON.
None since the aged men who mummied the king.
LAODICE.
Tell me the common talk of Egypt's plan;
And what device to handle Ptolemy
Is in your friendly mind.
SOPHRON.
There's but a common fear of Egypt's secret.
We cannot meet him yet unless the cities,
Yes, all these cities of men, take hands with us.
LAODICE.
Must I keep house in Smyrna still, my man?
Play queen in a corner harmlessly?
SOPHRON. Madam,
The coast is safer here than at Ephesus,
Retreat on Sardis safer and more ready.
LAODICE.
I more withdrawn apart from my main kingdom,
Baffled from drainage of the unended East.
I have required you here because a word,
Perhaps a word malicious, has crept here:
It has been said that some Ephesian men
Have bartered for my town with Ptolemy--
Do you know any of these? Do they live?
SOPHRON.
There are none known: such could not sell past me.
LAODICE.
They use my palace: examine those about you.
SOPHRON.
There is no need: I know them to be clean.
_DANAE again shakes her head, but more eagerly._
LAODICE, _turning her head and looking up at
DANAE suddenly._
Why do you tremble, girl? There's nought to fear.
_As she begins to speak_ DANAE'S _hair is shaken loose; a rose falls
from it and breaks on_ LAODICE'S _shoulder._ LAODICE _laughs and plays
with the petals, continuing without pause._
LAODICE.
Do you drop me a sleepy kiss, maiden, my rare one?
But, O, you have so tumbled your hair to cull it--
Come hither, kneel, and I will bind it up.
DANAE, _obeying._
Lady, I coiled it carelessly.... Indeed
Such ministration is my precious pardon.
LAODICE.
Silk, silky silk so delicious to finger....
Rose I held; ruby-glows; then dark hair in my hands....
Nay, I am hot; I burn; stay there and fan me....
Dear, do not cease at all.
_To_ SOPHRON.
Well, my captain?
SOPHRON.
You shall have men's minds searched in Ephesus.
LAODICE.
I like your mind. Also, I have considered
You must shut up your port, let out no ship;
Then Ptolemy shall be more sure each night
That he has wiped the seas ... till you slip out.
SOPHRON, _in stupefaction._
Slip ... out?
LAODICE.
Ay, Sophron, fall on him.
SOPHRON, _eagerly._ Yes, yes:
These things shall be, and you shall not complain.
LAODICE.
Nay, go not now; be my great guest this night.
The tide will take you not until more day,
And in the dawn, white hour of clearest thought,
I need more counsel from you for my deeds.
_She claps her hands:_ BARSINE, _a Persian, enters._
Let this strong captain be well feasted now
In winy webs of my embroidering--
Or--no--a purple suits his temper best;
And send a slave to him for him to rule.
SOPHRON.
Graciousness, yours: let me but stay my seamen.
LAODICE.
Haretas the Pisidian shall go down
Into the place of ships, but not my guest:
Entrust your ring to this, and she will bear it.
_BARSINE and SOPHRON go out. LAODICE nods to herself._
I saw his ring: it was a new green scarab.
_DANAE ceases fanning without LAODICE heeding._
RHODOGUNE, _outside._
She-dog, come back and you shall have but whips.
_A dirty woman runs in, bearing a bundle within her ragged robe;_
RHODOGUNE _follows her._
LAODICE, _slowly._
I have not need of rinds and lees to-night;
Come, take these out and burn them.
THE WOMAN. Ay, come.
LAODICE, _starting up._
Mysta, Mysta, my joy! What have you there?
The thing a mother called Antiochus?
_To RHODOGUNE._
Do you not know your fellow and my hand?
_RHODOGUNE retires._
MYSTA.
I was the handmaid of a displaced queen;
I am dry nurse to the undoubted queen,
Come back merely to boast and make display
How lusty a baby grows in careful hands,
How noble I to carry a living king.
LAODICE, _leaping to her._
Unwind, dishevel, give it up to me.
_Clapping her hands._
Let there be lights above: I must see closely.
If I embrace you I shall touch it too.
_A woman hangs a lamp from long chains over the gallery on the left,
then withdraws. After a moment she passes along the colonnade from left
to right and disappears. A moment later she leans from the latticed
windows on the right to light two lamps suspended from the roof to a
point immediately below her. The lights are such that, when the twilight
has gone, the figures of the persons are more definite than their
features, and the upper part of the chamber is almost unlit. In the
meantime_ Mysta _has continued._
MYSTA.
Nay, we are but harbour-drift from Antioch:
Come, take us out and burn us.
LAODICE. Aha, Mysta.
MYSTA.
Touch not my hair; 'tis foul from many ships.
LAODICE.
I have ached by watching ships that were not yours.
Were you in Sophron's vessel? Did he know?
MYSTA.
She did not trust me soon to tend her child,
Returning oft like the uneasy cat:
When I had slipt these rags on it and me
I herded with night-women by the shore.
Ere there, I passed a rift in palaces,
Moment of empty street and Berenice
Marching with hunger in her bright fixed eyes,
Champing her golden chain--one hand on it
Tugged her mouth downward--one hand smote a spear
Upon the stones as she stepped on and on
Toward the house of Caeneus your known friend.
They spied the harbour; I must leave by land;
Then was some tale of fishers, trading sloops:
Sophron knows not the thief like a fierce mother
Whose hard feet last left ship at Ephesus--
Where Ptolemy is looked for eagerly.
_As she speaks LAODICE has drawn a scarf from her shoulders, twisted it
and strained it in her hands; it tears and she throws it down._
_MYSTA holds out the child to her._
'Twas warm and quiet so long. Let it live.
LAODICE, _taking the child and scanning it._
Let me read here:
This is the mould, wrongly retouched and spent--
It is his child and yet I have not known it....
_Clasping it closely to her._
I am the changeless mother of this race,
And this a younger seed. By the opened womb
I have decided being: and I decide.
Much Asia has been spanned to leave it here,
More Asia will be narrowed by her searchers;
Mysta might die next time. It must die.
I reached my hand and took it to make sure
My order and number of children still were true.
I have looked on it--its purport is completed.
MYSTA.
It could be hid for ever: let it live.
LAODICE.
Mysta shall need my ritual bath and wardrobe;
Serve me by delicate sleep. Mysta must go.
_She kisses_ MYSTA _and leads her to the portal._ MYSTA _goes out
passively._
LAODICE.
Danae, pile me cushions and hollow them--
There in the shadowed seat beyond the breeze.
No; larger cushions with no rough gold in stitchings.
One softer for his head--now hold it there
Till I can kneel and lay him in the dimmest,
For he may sleep a little yet. Ay, so....
I had well-nigh forgotten to appoint
Sophron a chamber.
DANAE. Madam, I will go.
LAODICE.
You speak too loudly. Madam, you will remain:
I need you to cast gums upon the censer
To make me drowsy--I must sleep some moments.
DANAE.
Storax alone, or juniper?
LAODICE. O, storax.
_DANAE goes to a recess in the wall near the portal, and takes out a
painted bowl. She pours grains from it slowly upon the brazier; brief
cloudy flames illumine her face._
Did the Silk-People shape that bowl?
DANAE. Maybe....
I could burn up the world like this to-night,
To make an end of conflicts and of burdens.
_As_ LAODICE _claps her hands_ BARSINE _hurries in breathlessly._
BARSINE.
Queen, Queen....
LAODICE, _watching_ DANAE.
Make ready fragrantly and freshly
Chamber for Sophron next to that of Smerdis.
Then send Smerdis with knives and drugs to me.
_DANAE opens her mouth as if to speak--the flames fall as she holds the
bowl poised motionlessly._
BARSINE.
Sophron--none can find him; he has gone.
_DANAE lets the contents of the bowl slide into the brazier; a shaft of
flame flares high, she averts her face._
LAODICE.
Ho, are we dropping roses all the time?
Men; bring me men and torches and sharp spears--
A boat to cut the Centaur's rudder-ropes--
I will go down and take him back.... Hui....
_She sweeps out followed by_ BARSINE.
DANAE.
O, Sophron, out by the land! Nay, he knows more--
And she, and she; watch-towers divide this earth,
Horses go here; and he may save a ship.
_She draws aside the curtain to look beyond._
May women's skirts impede you, ravening queen.
_She ascends swiftly to the colonnade: a
starry night shows her form dimly._
Fishers' small lights, be drenched--you show too much
At height of settling gulls above the water....
Ah ... h, nothing, nothing. Something will not happen,
And let this life go on again. Nothing.
Yet ... yet ... the air is beating on my temples
As though a rabble murmured beyond hearing.
_RHODOGUNE enters._
RHODOGUNE.
Danae, are you here?
DANAE. I am here.
RHODOGUNE.
Where is the Queen?
DANAE. Nearing the shore by now.
RHODOGUNE.
I have a drunken woman with nine snakes
That follow her as freshets a drowned body,
Then lift wise sibilant heads in guardian swaying;
Her lair could well be traced by emptied streets.
She is too drunk to speak, but sings the better
A praise of poisonous snakes and the fools of wine,
While in the night they circle and streak for answer
Like wine-cups' lines of light, black rubies' gleams.
Shall I not bring her for the Queen to use,
Who loves delights like dangers come too near?
DANAE.
Put her away in a safe place till morning--
The Queen is smouldering again to-night,
And, if she sees your epileptic mummer,
Will make us tie her up with her own serpents....
Babble no more to me--I must be watching.
RHODOGUNE.
You are not the Queen, although the Queen's plaything;
Deign not your high commandments unto us.
_She goes out._