UC-NRLF B M QT7 S21 liiiiiiiiiiiiniS^ilnifiiiiiiitfiSiiiiii '^H^^^l m ' ' ' -' '^l^^^^^^l 1 '''^^%fa^ W"' J A SICILIAN IDYLL AND JUDITH BY THE SAME AUTHOR POETRY The Vinedresser and other Poems, 1899 Aphrodite against Artemis, 1901 Absalom, 1903 Danae, 1903 The Little School, 1905 Poems, 1906 Mariamne, 191 1 PROSE The Centaur and Bacchant, from the French by- Maurice de Guerin, 1899 Altdorfer, 1900 Dlirer, 1904 Correggio, 1906 Art and Life, 19 10 A-SICILIAN-IDYLL? ^^^'^^'^^^^ 1^ ^ AND -JUDITH ■ kAilM m.J^3 HB m^i ■■ I^Ih iv'iooRf-: I,. Imwmw iwjsi^4 PUBLISHED • B Y-DUCKWORTH- Eff • CO * LONDON • MCMXI All rights reserved pe fc025 AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED i^%t TO P. VVYNDHAM LEWIS ' . 274710 TABLE OF CONTENTS A Sicilian Idyll vii. Judith xli. A SICILIAN IDYLL '-.' /\].:i\' • DAMON I thank thee, no ; Already have I drunk a bowl of wine . . . Nay, nay, why wouldst thou rise ? There rolls thy ball of worsted ! Sit thee down ; Come, sit thee down, Cydilla, And let me fetch thy ball, rewind the wool. And tell thee all that happened yesterday. CYDILLA Thanks, Damon ; now, by Zeus, thou art so brisk. It shames me that to stoop should try my bones. DAMON We both are old, And if we may have peaceful days are blessed ; Few hours of buoyancy will come to break The sure withdrawal from us of life's flood. CYDILLA True, true, youth looks a great way off! To think It once was age did lie quite out of sight ! DAMON Not many days have been so beautiful As yesterday, Cydilla : yet one was ; And I with thee broke tranced on its fine spell ; Thou dost remember ? yes ? but not with tears, Ah, not with tears, Cydilla, pray, oh, pray ! CYDILLA Pardon me, Damon, 'Tis many years since thou hast touched thereon ; And something stirs about thee, — vu. Such air of eagerness as was thine when I was more foolish than in my life, I hope To ever have been at another time. DAMON Pooh ! foolish ? — thou wast then so very wise That, often having seen thee foolish since, Wonder has made me faint that thou shouldst err. CYDILLA Nay, then I erred, dear Damon : and remorse Was not so slow to find me as thou deemst. DAMON There, mop those dear wet eyes, or thou'lt ne'er hear What it was filled my heart full yesterday. CYDILLA Tell, Damon ; since I well know that regrets Hang like dull gossips round another's ear. DAMON First, thou must know that oftentimes I rise, — Not needing or not finding sleep, of watching Afraid no longer to be prodigal, — And gaze upon the beauty of the night. Quiet hours, while dawn absorbs the waning stars. Are like cold water sipped between our cups Washing the jaded palate till it taste The wine again. Ere the sun rose, I sat Within my garden porch ; my lamp was left Burning beside my bed, though it would be Broad day before I should return upstairs. I let it burn, willing to waste some oil Rather than to disturb my tranquil mood ; But, as the Fates determined, it was seen. — Suddenly, running round the dovecote, came A young man naked, breathless, through the dawn. Florid with haste and wine ; it was Hipparchus. Yes, there he stood before me panting, rubbing His heated flesh which felt the cold at once. When he had breath enough he begged me straight To put the lamp out ; and himself had done it Ere I was on the stair. Flung all along my bed, his gasping shook it When I at length could sit down by his side : "What cause, young sir, brings you here in this plight At such an hour ? " He shuddered, sighed and rolled My blanket round him ; then came a gush of words : "The first of causes, Damon, namely Love, Eldest and least resigned and most unblushingr Of all the turbulent impulsive gods. A quarter of an hour scarce has flown Since lovely arms clung round me, and my head Asleep lay nested in a woman's hair ; My cheek still bears print of its ample coils." Athwart its burning flush he drew my fingers And their tips felt it might be as he said. " Oh, I have had a nio^ht, a nicrht, a nig-ht ! Had Paris so much bliss ? And oh ! was Helen's kiss To be compared with those I tasted ? — Which but for me had all been wasted On a bald man, a fat man, a gross man, a beast To scare the best guest from the very best feast ! " Cydilla need not hear half that he said, For he was mad awhile. But having given rein to hot caprice, IX. And satyr jest, and the distempered male, At length, I heard his story. At sun-down certain miles without the town He'd chanced upon a light-wheeled litter-car, And in it there stood one Yet more a woman than her garb was rich, With more of youth and health than elegance. " The mules," he said, " were beauties : she was one, And cried directions to the neighbour field : ' O catch that big bough ! Fool, not that, the next ! Clumsy, you've let it go ! O stop it swaying. The eggs will jolt out! ' From the road," said he, " I could not see who thus was rated ; so Sprang up beside her and beheld her husband, Lover or keeper, what you like to call him ; — A middle-aged stout man upon whose shoulders Kneeled up a scraggy mule-boy slave, who was The fool that could not reach a thrush's nest Which they, while plucking almond, had revealed. Before she knew who it could be, I said ' Why, yes, he is a fool, but we, fair friend, Were we not foolish waiting for such fools ? Let us be off!' I stooped, took, shook the reins With one hand, while the other clasped her waist. ' Ah, who ? ' she turned ; I smiled like amorous Zeus ; A certain vagueness clouded her wild eyes As though she saw a swan, a bull, a shower Of hurried flames, and felt divinely pleased. I cracked the whip and we were jolted down ; A kiss was snatched getting the ribbons straight ; We hardly heard them first begin to bawl So great our expedition towards the town : We flew. I pulled up at an inn, then bid them Stable my mules and chariot and prepare A meal for Dives ; meanwhile we would stroll Down to the market. Took her arm in mine, And, out of sight, hurried her through cross-lanes, Bade her choose, now at a fruit, now pastry booth. Until we gained my lodging she spoke little But often laughed, tittering from time to time, " O Bacchus, what a prank! — Just think of Cymon, So stout as he is, at least five miles to walk Without a carriage! — Well, you take things coolly." — Or such appreciation nice of gifts I need not boast of, since I had them gratis. When my stiff door creaked open grudgingly Her face first fell ; the room looked bare enough. Still we brought with us fruit and cakes ; I owned A little cellar of delicious wine ; An unasked neighbour's garden furnished flowers ; Jests helped me nimbly, I surpassed myself ; So we were friends and, having laughed, we drank, Ate, sang, danced, grew wild. Soon both had one Desire, effort, goal, One bed, one sleep, one dream. . . . O Damon, Damon, both had one alarm, When woken by the door forced rudely open, Lit from the stair, bedazzled, glowered at, hated ! She clung to me : her master, husband, uncle (I know not which or what he was) stood there ; It crossed my mind he might have been her father. Naked, unarmed, I rose, and did assume What dignity is not derived from clothes, Bid them to quit my room, my private dwelling. xi. It was no use, for that gross beast was rich ; Had his been neither legfal ri^jht nor moral, My natural right was nought, for his she was In eyes of those bribed catchpolls. Brute revenge Seethed in his pimpled face : " To gaol with him ! " He shouted huskily. I wrapped some clothes About my shuddering bed-fellow, a sheet Flung round myself; ere she was led away, Had whispered to her " Shriek, faint on the stairs !" Then I was seized by two dog officers. That girl was worth her keep, for, going down, She suddenly writhed, gasped, and had a fit. My chance occurred, and I whipped through the casement; All they could do was catch away the sheet ; I dropped a dozen feet into a bush. Soon found my heels and plied them ; here I am. CYDILLA A strange tale, Damon, this to tell to me And introduce as thou at first began. DAMON Thy life, Cydilla, has at all times been A ceremony : this young man's Discovered by free impulse, not couched in forms Worn and made smooth by prudent folk long dead. I love Hipparchus for his wave-like brightness ; He wastes himself, but till his flash is gone I shall be ever elad to hear him lauofh : Nor could one make a Spartan of him even Were one the Spartan with a will to do it. Yet had there been no more than what is told, Thou wouldst not now be lendincr ear to me. CYIilLLA Hearing such things, I think of my poor son, Which makes me far too sad to smile at folly. DAMON There, let me tell thee all just as it happened, And of thy son I shall be speaking soon. CYDILLA Delphis ! Alas, are his companions still No better than such ne'er-do-wells ? I thouofht His life was sager now, though he has killed My hopes of seeing him a councillor. DAMON How thou art quick to lay claim to a sorrow ! Should I have come so eagerly to thee If all there was to tell were such poor news } CYDILLA Forgive me ; well know I there is no end To Damon's kindness ; my poor boy has proved it ; Could but his father so have understood him ! DAMON Let lie the sad contents of vanished years ; Why with complaints reproach the helpless dead ? Thy husband ne'er will cross thy hopes again. Come, think of what a sky made yesterday The worthy dream of thrice divine Apollo ! Hipparchus' plan was, we should take the road (As, when such mornings tempt me, is my wont), And cross the hills, along the coast, toward Mylae. He in disguise, a younger handier Chloe, Would lead my mule ; must brown his face and arms : And thereon straight to wake her he was gone. xiii. Their voices from her cabin crossed the yard : He swears those parts of her are still well made Which she keeps too well hidden when about ; — And she, no little pleased, that interlards, Between her exclamations at his figure. Reproof of gallantries half-laughed at hers. Anon she titters as he dons her dress Doubtless with pantomime — Head-carriage and hip-swagger. A wench, more conscious of her sex than grace, He then rejoined me, changed beyond belief. Roguish as vintage makes them ; bustling helps Or hinders Chloe harness to the mule ; — In fine bewitching both her age and mine. The life that in such fellows runs to waste Is like a gust that pulls about spring trees And spoils your hope of fruit, while it delights The sense with bloom and odour scattered, mingled With salt spume savours from a crested offing. The sun was not long up when we set forth And, coming to the deeply shadowed gate, Found catchpolls lurked there, true to his surmise. Them he, his beard disguised like face-ache, sauced ; (Too gaily for that bandaged cheek, thought I) ; But they, whose business was to think. Were quite contented, let the hussy pass, Returned her kisses blown back down the road, And crowned the mirth of their outwitter's heart. As the steep road wound clear above the town, Fewer became those little comedies To which encounters roused him : till, at last. He scarcely knew we passed some vine-dressers : xiv. And I could see the sun's heat, lack of sleep, And his late orgy would defeat his powers. So, where the road grows level and must soon Descend, I bade him climb into the car ; On which the mule went slower still and slower. This creature who, upon occasions, shows Taste very like her master's, left the highway And took a grass-grown wheel-track that led down Zigzag athwart the broad curved banks of lawn Coating a valley between rounded hills Which faced the sea abruptly in huge crags. Each slope grew steeper till I left my seat And led the mule ; for now Hipparchus' snore Tuned with the crooning waves heard from below. We passed two narrow belts of wood and then The sea, that first showed blue above their tops, Was spread before us chequered with white waves - Breaking beneath on boulders which choked up The narrowed issue seawards of the glen. The steep path would no more admit of wheels : I took the beast and tethered her to graze Within the shade of a stunt ilex clump, — Returned to find a vacant car ; Hipparchus, Uneasy on my tilting down the shafts, And heated with strange clothes, had roused himself And lay asleep upon his late disguise, Naked 'neath the cool eaves of one huge rock That stood alone, much higher up than those Over, and through, and under which, the waves Made music or forced milk-white floods of foam. There I reclined, while vision, sound and scent Won on my willing soul like sleep on joy. Till all accustomed thoughts were far away As from a happy child the cares of men. The hour was sacred to those earlier gods Who are not active, but divinely wait The consummation of their first great deeds, Unfolding still and blessing hours serene. Presently I was gazing on a boy, (Though whence he came my mind had not perceived). Twelve or thirteen he seemed, with clinging feet Poised on a boulder, and against the sea Set off. His wide-brimmed hat of straw was arched Over his massed black and abundant curls By orange ribbon tied beneath his chin ; Around his arms and shoulders his sole dress, A cloak, was all bunched up. He leapt, and lighted Upon the boulder just beneath ; there swayed, Re-poised, And perked his head like an inquisitive bird. As gravely happy ; of all unconscious save His body's aptness for its then employment ; His eyes intent on shells in some clear pool Or choosing where he next will plant his feet. Again he leaps, his curls against his hat Bounce up behind. The daintiest thing alive. He rocks awhile, turned from me towards the sea ; Unseen I might devour him with my eyes. At last he stood upon a ledge each wave Spread with a sheet of foam four inches deep ; From minute to minute, while it bathed his feet, He gazing at them saw them disappear And reappear all shining and refreshed ; Then raised his head, beheld the ocean stretched xvi. Alive before him in its magnitude. None but a child could have been so absorbed As to escape its spell till then, none else Could so have voiced glad wonder in a song : — " All the waves of the sea are there ! In at my eyes they crush, Till my head holds as fair a sea : Though I shut my eyes, they are there ! Now towards my lids they rush, Mad to burst forth from me Back to the open air ! — To follow them my heart needs, O white-maned steeds, to ride you ; Lithe-shouldered steeds, To the western isles astride you Amyntas speeds ! " " Damon ! " said a voice quite close to me And looking up ... as might have stood Apollo In one vast garment such as shepherds wear And leaning on such tall staff stood. . . . Thou guessest, Whose majesty as vainly was disguised As must have been Apollo's minding sheep. CYDILLA. Delphis ! I know, dear Damon, it was Delphis ! Healthy life in the country having chased His haggard looks ; his speech is not wild now. Nor wicked with exceptions to things honest : Thy face a kindlier way than speech tells this. DAMON Yea, dear Cydilla, he was altogether What mountaineers might dream of for a king. B xvii. CYDILLA But tell me, is he tutor to that boy ? DAMON He is an elder brother to the lad. CYDILLA Nay, nay, hide nothing, speak the worst at once. DAMON I meant no hint of ill ; A god in love with young Amyntas might Look as he did ; fathers alone feel like him : Could I convey his calm and happy speech Thy last suspicion would be laid to rest. CYDILLA Damon, see, my glad tears have drowned all fear : Think'st thou he may come back and win renown, And fill his father's place ? — Not as his father filled it. But with an inward spirit correspondent To that contained and high imposing mien Which made his father honoured before men Of greater wisdom, more integrity. DAMON And loved before men of more kindliness ! CYDILLA O Damon, far too happy am I now To grace thy naughtiness by showing pain. My Delphis " owns the brains and presence too That make a Pericles ! " . . . (the words are thine) Had he but had the will ; and has he now ? Good Damon, tell me, quick ? DAMON He dreams not of the court, and city life Is what he rails at. CYDILLA Well, if he now be wise and sober-souled And loved for goodness, I can rest content. DAMON My brain lights up to see thee happy ! wait, It may be I can give some notion how Our poet spoke : " Damon, the best of life is in thine eyes, — Worship of promise-laden beauty. Seems he not The orod of this fair scene ? Those waves claim such a master as that boy ; And these green slopes have waited till his feet Should wander them, to prove they were not spread In wantonness. What were this flower's prayer Had it a voice ? The place behind his ear Would brim its cup with bliss and overbrim : Oh, to be worn and fade beside his cheek ! " — " In love and happy, Delphis ; and the boy ?" — " Loves and is happy." — " You hale from ? " — " JEtna : We have been out two days and crossed this ridge, West of Mount Mycon's head. I serve his father, A farmer well-to-do and full of sense. Who owns a grass-farm cleared among the pines North-west the cone, where even at noon in summer, The slope it falls on lengthens a tree's shade. To play the lyre, read and write and dance I teach this lad ; in all their country toil xix. Join, nor ask better fare than cheese, black bread, Butter or curds, and milk, nor better bed Than litter of dried fern or lentisk yields, Such as they all sleep soundly on and dream, (If e'er they dream) of places where it grew, — Where they have gathered mushrooms, eaten berries. Or found the sheep they lost, or killed a fox. Or snared the kestrel, or so played their pipes Some maid showed pleasure, sighed, nay even wept. There to be poet need involve no strain. For though enough of coarseness, dung, — nay, nay. And suffering too, be mingled with the life, 'Tis wedded to such air, Such water and sound health ! What else might jar or fret chimes in attuned Like satyr's cloven hoof or lorn nymph's grief In a choice ode. Though lust, disease and death. As everywhere, are cruel tyrants, yet They all wear flowers, and each sings a song Such as the hilly echo loves to learn." " At last then even Delphis knows content.'* " " Damon, not so : This life has brought me health but not content. That boy, whose shouts ring round us while he flings Intent each stone toward yon shining object Afloat inshore ... I eat my heart to think How all which makes him worthy of more love Must train his ear to catch the siren croon That never else had reached his upland home ! And he who failed in proof, how should he arm Another against perils .-* Ah, false hope And credulous enjoyment! How should I, Life's fool, while wakening ready wit in him, Teach how to shun applause and those bright eyes Of women who pour in the lap of spring Their whole year's substance ? They can offer To fill the day much fuller than I could, And yet teach night surpass it Can my means Prevent the ruin of the thing I cherish ? What cares Zeus for him ? Fate despises love. Why, lads more exquisite, brimming with promise, A thousand times have been lost for the lack Of just the help a watchful god might give ; But which the best of fathers, best of mothers, Of friends, of lovers cannot quite supply. Powers, who swathe man's virtue up in weakness Then plunge his delicate mind in hot desire, Preparing pleasure first and after shame To bandage round his eyes, — these gods are not The friends of men." The Delphis of old days before me stood, Passionate, stormy, teeming with black thought. His back turned on that sparkling summer sea, His back turned on his love ; and wilder words And less coherent thought poured from him now. Hipparchus waking took stock of the scene. I watched him wend down, rubbing sleepy lids. To where the boy was busy throwing stones. He joined the work, but even his stronger arm And heavier flints he hurled would not suffice To drive that floating object nearer shore : And, ere the rebel Delphis had expressed Enough of anger and contempt for gods, (Who, he asserted, were the dreams of men), I saw the stone-throwers both take the water And swimming easily attain their end. The way they held their noses proved the thing A tunny, belly floating upward, dead ; Both towed it till the current caught and swept it Out far from that sweet cove ; they laughing watched Then, suddenly, Amyntas screamed and Delphis Turned to see him sink Locked in Hipparchus' arms. The god Apollo never Burst through a cloud with more ease than thy son Poured from his homespun garb The rapid glory of his naked limbs, And like a streak of lio-htninor reached the waves : — Wherein his thwarted speed appeared more awful As, brought within the scope of comprehension. Its progress and its purpose could be gauged. Spluttering Amyntas rose, Hipparchus near him Who cried " Why coy of kisses, lovely lad ? I ne'er would harm thee ; art thou not ashamed To treat thy conquest thus ? " He shouted partly to drown the sea's noise, chiefly The nearing Delphis to disarm. His voice lost its assurance while he spoke, And, as he finished, quick to escape he turned ; Thy son's eyes and that steady coming on. As he might see them over ruffled crests, Far better helped him swim Than ever in his life he swam before. Delphis passed by Amyntas ; Hipparchus was o'ertaken, Cuffed, ducked and shaken ; In vain he clung about his angry foe ; Held under he perforce let go : I, fearing for his life, set up a whoop To bring cause and effect to thy son's mind, And in dire rao-e's room his sense returned. He towed Hipparchus back like one he'd saved From drowning, laid him out upon that ledge Where late Amyntas stood, where now he kneeled Shivering, alarmed and mute. Delphis next set the drowned man's mouth to drain ; We worked his arms, for I had joined them ; soon His breathing- recommenced : we laid him higher On sun-warmed turf to come back to himself; Then we climbed to the cart without a word. The sun had dried their limbs ; they, putting on Their clothes, sat down ; at length, I asked the lad What made him keen to pelt a stinking fish. Blushing, he said, " I wondered what it was. But that man, when he came to help, declared 'Twould prove a dead sea-nymph, and we might see. By swimming out, how finely she was made. I did not half believe, yet when we found That foul stale fish, it made us laugh." He smiled And watched Hipparchus spit and cough and groan. I moved to the car and unpacked bread and meat, A cheese, some fruit, a skin of wine, two bowls. Amyntas was all joy to see such things ; Ran off" and pulled acanthus for our plates ; Chattering, he helped me set all forth, — was keen To choose rock basin where the wine might cool ; Approved, was full as happy as I to praise : And most he pleased me, when he set a place For poor Hipparchus. Thus our eager work, While Delphis, in his thoughts retired, sat frowning, Grew like a home-conspiracy to trap The one who bears the brunt of outside cares Into the glow of cheerfulness that bathes The children and the mother, — happy not To foresee winter, short-commons or long debts. Since they are busied for the present meal, — Too young, too weak, too kind, to peer ahead, Or probe the dark horizon bleak with storms. Oh ! I have sometimes thought there is a o^od Who helps with lucky accidents when folk Join with the little ones to chase such gloom. That chance which left Hipparchus with no clothes. Surely divinity was ambushed in it? When he must put on Chloe's, Amyntas rocked With laughter, and Hipparchus, quick to use A favourable gust, pretends confusion Such as a farmer's daughter red-faced shows If in the dance her dress has come unpinned. She suddenly grows grave ; yet, seeing there Friends only, stoops behind a sister-skirt. Then, having set to rights the small mishap. Holding her screener's elbows, round her shoulder Peeps, to bob back meeting a young man's eye. All, grateful for such laughs, give Hermes thanks. And even Delphis at Hipparchus smiled When, from behind me, he peeped bashful forth ; Amyntas called him Baucis every time, Laughing because he was or was not like Some wench. . . . Why, Delphis, in the name of Zeus xxiv. How come you here? CYDILLA What can have happened, Delphis ? Be brief for pity ! DELPHIS Nothing, mother, nothing That has not happened time on time before To thee, to Damon, when the Hfe ye thought With pride and pleasure yours, has proved a dream. They strike down on us from the top of heaven, Bear us up in their talons, up and up. Drop us : we fall, are crippled, maimed for life. " Our dreams " ? nay, we are theirs for sport, for prey, And life is the King Eagle, The strongest, highest flyer, from whose clutch The fall is fatal always. CYDILLA Delphis, Delphis, Good Damon had been making me so happy By telling. . . . DELPHIS How he watched me near the zenith? Three years back That dream pounced on me and began to soar ; Having been sick, my heart had found new lies ; The only thoughts I then had ears for were Healthy, virtuous, sweet : Jaded town-wastrel, A country setting was the sole could take me Three years back. Damon might have guessed XXV. From such a dizzy height What fall was coming. CYDILLA Ah, my boy, my boy ! DAMON Sit down, be patient, let us hear and aid, — Has aught befallen Amyntas ? DELPHIS Would he were dead ! Would that I had been brute enough to slay him Great Zeus, Hipparchus had so turned his head, His every smile and word As we sat by our fire, stung my fool's heart. — " How we laughed to see him curtsey, Fidget strings about his waist, — Giggle, his beard caught in the chlamys' hem Drawing it tight about his neck, just like Our Baucis." Could not sleep For thinking of the life they lead in towns ; He said so : when, at last, He sighed from dreamland, thoughts I had been day-long brooding Broke into vision. A child, a girl. Beautiful, nay more than others beautiful, Not meant for marriage, not for one man meant, You know what she will be ; At six years old or seven her life is round her ; A company all ages, old men, young men. Whose vices she must prey on. And the bent crone she will be is there too, Patting her head and chuckling prophecies. — O cherry lips, O wild bird eyes, gay invulnerable setter-at-nought Of will, of virtue, — Thou art as constant a cause as is the sea, As is the sun, as are the winds, as night, Of opportunities not only but events ; — The unalterable past Is full of thy contrivance. Aphrodite, Goddess of ruin ! No girl ; nay, nay, Amyntas is young. Is gay, Has beauty and health, — and yet In his sleep I have seen him smile And known that his dream was vile ; Those eyes which brimmed over with glee Till my life flowed as fresh as the sea — Those eyes, gloved each in a warm live lid, May be glad that their visions are hid. 1 taught myself to rhyme ; the trick will cling. Ah, Damon, day-lit vision is more dread Than those which suddenly replace the dark ! When the dawn filtered through our tent of boughs I saw him closely wrapped in his grey cloak. His head upon a pile of caked thin leaves Whose life had dried up full two years ago. Their flakes shook in the breath from those moist lips ; The vow his kiss would seal must prove, I knew As friable as that pale ashen fritter ; It had more body than reason dare expect From that so beautiful creature's best intent. He waking found me no more there ; so wanders Through ^Etna's woods to-day Calling at times, or questioning charcoal burners, Till he shall strike a road shall lead him home : Yet all his life must be spent as he spends This day in whistling, wondering, singing, chatting, In the great wood, vacant and amiable. DAMON Can it be possible that thou desertest Thy love, thy ward, the work of three long years, Because chance, on an April holiday Has filled this boy's talk with another man, And wonder at another way of life ? Worse than a woman's is such jealousy ; The lad must live ! DELPHIS Live, live ! to be sure, he must live ! I have lived, am a fool for my pains ! And yet, and yet. This heart has ached to play the god for him : — Mine eye for his had sifted visible things ; Speech had been filtered ere it reached his ear ; Not in the world should he have lived, but breathed Humanity's distilled quintessences ; The indiscriminate multitude sorted should yield him Acquaintance and friend discerned, chosen by me : — xxviii. By me, who failed, wrecked my youth's prime, and dragged More wonderful than his gifts in the mire ! DAMON Yet if experience could not teach and save Others from ignorance, why, towns would be Ruins, and civil men like outlaws thieve. Stab, riot, ere two generations passed. DELPHIS Where is the Athens that Pericles loved ? Where are the youths that were Socrates' friends ? There was a town where all learnt What the wisest had taught ! Why had crude Sparta such treasonous force ? Could Philip of Macedon Breed a true Greek of his son ? What honour to conquer a world Where Alcibiades failed. Lead half-drilled highland hordes Whose lust would inherit the wise ? There is nothing art's industry shaped But their idleness praising it mocked. Thus Fate re-assumed her command And laughed at experienced law. What ails man to love with such pains ? Why toil to create in the mind Of those who shall close in his grave The best that he is and has hoped ? The longer permission he has, The nobler the structure so raised, The greater its downfall. Fools, fools, Where is a town such as Pericles ruled ? Where youths to replace those whom Socrates loved ? Wise Damon, thou art silent ; — Mother, thou Hast only arms to cling about thy son. — Who can descry the purpose of a god With eyes wide-open ? shut them, every fool Can conjure up a world arriving somewhere, Resulting in what he may call perfection. Evil must soon or late succeed to grood. There well may once have been a golden age : Why should we treat it as a poet's tale ? Yet, in those hills that hung o'er Arcady, Some roving inebriate Daimon Begat him fair children On nymphs of the vineyard, On nymphs of the rock : — And in the heart of the forest Lay bound in white arms, In action creative a father Without a thought for his child ; — A purposeless god, The forebear of men To corrupt, ape, inherit, and spoil That fine race beforehand with doom ! No, Damon, what's an answer worth to one Whose mind has been flung open ? Only last night, The gates of my spirit gave entrance Unto the great light ; And I saw how virtue seduceth, XXX. Not ended to-day or to-morrow Like the passion for love, Like the passion for Hfe — But perennial pain And age-long effort. Dead deeds are the teeth that shine In the mouth that repeateth praise, That spurs men to do high things Since their fathers did higrher before — To give more than they hope to receive, To slave and to die in a secular cause ! The mouth that smiles over-praise Eats out the heart of each fool To feed the great dream of a race. Yet wearied peoples each in turn awake From virtue, as a man from his brief love, And, roughly shaken, face the useless truth : No answer to brute fact has ere been found. Slaves of your slaves, caged in your furnished rooms, Ushered to meals when reft of appetite, — Though hungry, bound to wait a stated hour, — Your dearest contemplation broken off By the appointed summons to your bath ; Racked with more thought for those whom you may flog Than for those dear ; obsessed by your possessions With a dull round of stale anxieties ; — Soon maintenance grows the extreme reach of hope For those held in respect, as in a vice. By citizens of whom they are the pick. Of men the least bond is the roving- seaman Who hires himself to merchantman or pirate xxxi. For single voyages, stays where he may please, Lives his purse empty in a dozen ports, And ne'er obeys the ghost of what once was ! His laugh chimes readily ; his kiss, no symbol Of aught to come, but cordial, eager, hot, Leaves his to-morrow free. With him for comrade Each day shall be enough, and what is good Enjoyed, and what is evil borne or cursed. I go, because I will not have a home, Or here prefer to there, or near to far. I go, because I will not have a friend Lay claim upon my leisure this day week. I will be melted by each smile that takes me ; What though a hundred lips should meet with mine A vagabond I shall be as the moon is. The sun, the waves, the winds, all birds, all beasts, Are ever on the move, and take what comes : They are not parasites like plants and men Rooted in that which fed them yesterday. Not even memory shall follow Delphis, For I will yield to all impulse save hers. Therein alone subject to prescient rigour ; Lest she should lure me back among the dying — Pilfer the present for the beggar past. Free minds must bargain with each greedy moment And seize the most that lies to hand at once. Ye are too old to understand my words ; I yet have youth enough, and can escape From that which sucks each individual man Into the common dream. CYDILLA Stay, Delphis, hear what Damon has to say ! xxxii. He is mad ! DAMON Mad — yes — mad as cruelty ! Poor, poor Cydilla ! was it then to this That all my tale was prologue ? Think of Amyntas, think of that poor boy, Bereaved as we are both bereaved ! Come, come, Find him, and say that Love himself has sent us To offer our poor service in his stead. CYDILLA Good Damon, help me find my wool ; my eyes Are blind with tears ; then I will come at once ! We must be doing something, for I feel We both shall drown our hearts with time to spare. XXXIU. TEN YEARS LATER CYDILLA Through the vine trellis we should see the stars, Were fewer lamps alight. Amyntas thinks It time we women bade Kyniska come And in the bedroom be prepared for him. Old, I lose teeth and mumble, yet men loved To hear me once. — Amyntas dear, thou art Mine by adoption, brother and heir to Delphis ; So I may claim thy patience even though Thy bride must wait. Gnatho the halt ship-master Three years since now, averred his eyes had seen Lank, fever-racked, and stretched on filthy straw My poor lost son, despaired of and untended In a dark tavern on the Corinth quays. And, though we later heard he had become A ragged follower of Pythagoras, We could not find the man had met with him. But ever this one thought some other said. . . . While, should he yet be living, laws assert Forfeit his every right, unmarried still At forty-six, without a son, without The piety to feed his friends with news, His mother's heart with hope. Wicked or mad He must be, there's an end. But thou art staid, Pious and seemly more than most young men ; And thou didst love my Delphis and dost owe To him thy first of training, taste for wisdom ; And, grateful, thou hast vowed before our hearth xxxiv. To tend it ever — food and drink and prayer For Delphis and his sires to offer daily Where it yet never wanted. We have raised His cenotaph hard by the other tombs ; If, dead, he wanders in some foreign port — Terror to sailors and low inn-keepers — We cannot take the blame. Thy father's hale : Ere he shall die thou well may'st have a son Could feed the mountain hearth he keeps alive. That thou, his heir, be my son's, he consents. With sweet Kyniska thou receiv'st moreover A fitting portion. Enjoy thy wealth, be happy Nor deem me weak when yet once more I plead, If Delphis, not as known and loved, but — ah ! — If worse than dead he should come back, I gone. Let him have healing welcome, bounteous comfort And freedom though he waste it in mere shame. DAMON Dear heart, dear heart, these tears are out of place. AMYNTAS I swear, by those dread rites to-day performed A first time at this hearth, to always be Thy son, and love my brother, if he live. DAMON Why, there he is ! AMYNTAS Where ? Where ? DAMON Dead or alive He stood between those pillars staring hard. CYDILLA Quick, Damon, fetch him in. AMYNTAS I too will plead. KYNISKA Affront not a dead man, thou wilt take harm. O stay, Amyntas, take me with thee ! Wait ! — Help me safeguard him from the dead man's glance. CYDILLA Ah, my poor son, must he come home while 1 Am giving all his substance to another. . . . I'll after them to add my prayers to theirs. f f f f ^ f f ^ f f DAMON Who art thou ? DELPHIS Hush, we are not out of ear-shot. Amyntas, say, what kind of fool is he ? DAMON But Delphis, hast thou heard thy mother's words ? DELPHIS Yes, first and last ; but answer me, this bridegroom ? What kind of fool may he be ? Lose no time. DAMON Nay, come thou in. — Fill thou Cydilla's arms ; Her heart will flood its brim: Amyntas longs To show thee to his bride, his bride to thee. DELPHIS Less loud ! less loud, I would not spoil their feast. xxxvi. DAMON Delphis is here ! Amyntas, here ; this way ! DELPHIS The old fool's drunk. DAMON Hold him, stop him, help ! KYNISKA How dark it is — I fear to fall ! AMYNTAS Stand still, sweet love, till I return to thee. KYNISKA Ai, ai, my foot is hurt ! AMYNTAS Good Damon, help her ; I must follow him. KYNISKA Amyntas, I'm in pain ! CYDILLA Where is my son ? Amyntas, run ! O turn not back to us ! Haste ! he will get away ! DAMON Come, let us aid our pretty bride to rise. CYDILLA I'll help thee lead her in, — Courage, take heart ! t=^ '^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^^ ^ ^ CYDILLA Well, that's no great hurt — there's no wound at all. DAMON How now, Amyntas, art thou back alone? XXXVll. AMYNTAS It is too dark to run. Not a leaf stirred And not a foot-fall sounded from the lanes. I called : none answered. KYNISKA Ah, it was a shade. CYDILLA All we have done appease and yield him rest ! Yet if he live, I'm thankful he heard all. AMYNTAS Art hurt, sweet love ? KYNISKA 'Tis better now. CYDILLA Pooh, pooh, A very little bruise to squeal about ! Girls like to have an ache or see their blood ; Cut fingers breed them friends : but we in age Thank Zeus if pain will sometimes let us smile Or can be borne in silence. — Come in, child. We must confide thee to thy husband's bed ; He'll give thee better cause for screams belike Which thou wilt doubtless smother better ; come ! AMYNTAS Think'st thou it was his double, not himself.'^ DAMON A shade? Nonsense ! He seized my wrist, his gripe Was like a vice, and proved him sound of flesh. AMYNTAS Had he his perfect mind ? xxxviii. DAMON He spoke in scorn ; But terse and clear. AMYNTAS Would I had followed him DAMON Thank Zeus that they can think it was his ghost. AMYNTAS I wonder how he lives ? DAMON I thought him poorly clad. AMYNTAS Stranofe that he would not enter his own home ! JUDITH THE CHARACTERS HOLOFERNES, general of Nebuchadnezzar's army. TWO CAPTAINS in the same. BAGOAS, an eunuch, chief of Holofernes' servants. ADONIKAM, boy slave to Holofernes. JUDITH, a lady-patriot from Bethulia. MIRA, her maid. Black torch-bearers. JUDITH [Before HOLOFERNES' tent : after sundown. Canvas tent-skirts block the whole stage : a curtained porch occupies its centre. Thence to the right wing all is in a glare as though many torches were congregated at some distance, on the other side all is lost in shadow. BAGOAS and a BOY enter from the right] BAGOAS Last week I hired thee with pippins ; two days since A comb of honey we agreed upon ; This time here is a melon, BOY Give it me. BAGOAS Nay, first, thou little glutton, sweat for it : I buy an hour's work. BOY No ! not so long ! BAGOAS It may take less ; for even a pulpy child Shall not need sweat. BOY When I fan him an hour My arms will ache, — in half an hour they ache. 'Tis harder work than wave the peacock fan. BAGOAS 'Tis far more varied, therefore wearies less. BOY If it does tire me as much wilt thou xliii. Give me besides the melon something else ? BAGOAS It will not ; so go in and make all clean. He did eat dates and spat the stones about. And there are stalks of grapes Perchance not all stripped bare ; About it, sharp ; go in ! [The child draws a tinder box from just within the tent on the left of the entrance, and prepares to strike flint and light a torch, while BAGOAS squats on the right of the entrance, laying the melon down beside him.] BAGOAS Mind, I shall search thee ere thou leave the tent. BOY I never steal jewels and may take the grapes. BAGOAS Thou mayst ; but I shall search thee ! BOY You want to tickle me and slap and pinch me. BAGOAS What if I do, what if I do ? thou'rt fat ! BOY [rising with the lighted torch and bobbing it at BAGOAS] Ha, ha! I'll see thee called a fool, Bagoas. I'll slip from out my shirt and run away. Then will Hol'fernes question thee and say " Adonikam steals nothing from m&, fool\ " BAGOAS Begone, thou monkey ; win thy wage with work. [The BOY enters the tent] xliv. BAGOAS [sits silent gazing out at the glare and then speaks] Mine eyes are dim ; if they were all on fire 'Twould look as now they feasting look to me. The thing we wot not of is ever near. [He dozes off. A great shout within on the left] BAGOAS [waking and stumbling to his feet] Ha ! how ? it is ! the awning is on fire ! 'Twill fall upon . . . Boy, come hither ; boy ! [Enter the BOY from the tent] BAGOAS Is the great awning there on fire ? BOY [laughing roguishly] No. Canst thou not see ? BAGOAS Mine eyes are dim : I dozed. What is that light which has shot up so high ? BOY Torches they hold into the air ; the woman That came down from Bethulia means to dance. BAGOAS The Hebrew sorceress? BOY Yes. BAGOAS Canst see how she is dressed ? BOY Of course, I am not blind. BAGOAS How ? my eyes are much too dim to see so far, xlv. BOY Like when she came, in all her things. BAGOAS Art sure ? Has she not laid aside a single veil ? BOY She has no veil on now. BAGOAS Doth she dance fast ? BOY No, she just walks and bows and bows and walks And holds her hands about. BAGOAS Her bosom, is it bare? BOY No, but her arms are bare. BAGOAS She is both wise and beautiful ; a fool Had been half naked by this time to dance. BOY She's nice. BAGOAS She feels hers is too sweet a body to starve. BOY She gave me half a yellow fig. BAGOAS Oh ! When ? BOY While she was talking to Hol'fernes once, xlvi. BAGOAS What were they speaking of ? BOY About how all her people in the hills Would make their god so angry he'ld be sure To help us take their towns away from them. BAGOAS She thouoht she would do better for herself By coming here to tell her prophecies Before they were fulfilled and the towns taken. Hol'fernes' eye devours her inch by inch ; She's hooked him like a fish ; he'll make her rich. BOY What for? BAGOAS They're very silent suddenly. BOY Because she sings. BAGOAS What doth she sing ? BOY Soft words. BAGOAS I think we hear them. BOY Of course we do. BAGOAS And they sound low and sweet. BOY [picking up the melon while BAGOAS gazes, absorbed in listening, out towards the glare] xlvii. Yes. BAGOAS My lord is a great fool. BOY [slinking off round the tent to the left] Yes. [JUDITH'S voice afar off ' A time shall come When peace shall reign And each wide plain With gladness hum.'] BAGOAS It minds me of the time when I was young And thought to wed our pleasant neighbour's child. She sang such songs. [JUDITH'S voice as before ' A man shall hear His children sing Till drowned the sting Of long-lost fear : '] BAGOAS I pleased the eye as this plump child will do ; They'll make an eunuch of him very like. [JUDITH'S voice as before ' Wife loveth man ; Man loveth wife ; Each adds to life The best they can.'] BAGOAS 'Tis in the hills she means ; 'tis in the hills : My home was in the hills ; the folk are good — They're kindlier-natured creatures in the hills. xlviii. / She sings no more. — Boy, boy ! Adonikam ! The dance will end soon, so make haste, make haste ; Hast thou smoothed all the rucks out of the bed ? [He totters towards the door of the tent] Hast finished, boy ? Thou hast not set that straight . . . [He enters the tent.] I told thee last time that it should be straight. The pillow should be straight and beaten up. Where art thou ? — The limb's gone ; he's slipped away ! [He comes out from the tent.] What! what! The melon ? Devilled imp ! The paunched child hath sneaked away with it. What, want to fight and steal his wage half-earned ! — Thou make a soldier, pulp without a pod ! — Ah, I must work ! and if some jewel's gone, They'll torture me : I had but slapped his hams. He's nicer than a kitten pulled about Because he laughs, and laughing shakes his fat. Now I must stoop and bend my dreadful back : How I shall ache ! but he likes to be slapped, — There's where it is ; youth likes so many things : How little comforts when a man is old I He's pleased to think he filched it ; grins at me ; The melon tastes the better, I'll be bound. His cunning tickles him ; but at my age If one may not sit still 'tis best to die. — Alack, they come ! the lights are moving here ; And nothing done ! [He hurries into the tent.] [Two BLACK SLAVES enter from the right, bearing silver lamps, and take up positions on either side of D xlix. the entrance to the tent. Then HOLOFERNES enters leading by the hand JUDITH, who is followed by her maid MIRA ; four more BLACK SLAVES walking behind.] JUDITH Receive thine handmaid's thanks, O mighty captain. HOLOFERNES Dear prophet-dancer, whom my soul doth cherish . . . JUDITH [interrupting] Thou right arm of that Nebuchadnezzar, who Out of his mouth concluded the afflicting Of the whole earth ; giving command which thou Accomplishest, my life is magnified By praises wherewith thou hast honoured me. So now I bless thee, taking leave of thee. HOLOFERNES Nay, quit me not ; by the great king, I deem That every stalwart man will have his mock If we part so. Thy tent is small and poor, But mine is vast and filled with light and ease. JUDITH Thou hold'st thine handmaid vow-bound, deeply pledged to Rise and q-q forth before the stars shall wane And wash herself in the cold valley spring. That purified she may plead with her God, Who with his enemies conversed all day. HOLOFERNES Trust hunger, dame, to cow thy fellow-townsmen, And let me free thee from a troublous vow 1. JUDITH Let not men say, Judith, Merari's daughter, Weakened thee with her beauty, braided hair And garments of gladness. HOLOFERNES Tut ! learn we to-night All our warm hearts can teach us. JUDITH What ! mighty Captain ! — Pendant gold ornaments and loose lawn sleeves, — Have these sufficed to warp thy seasoned purpose, And dim with fondness those determined eyes ? HOLOFERNES Each day hast thou urged this ; but leisure me And opportunity distract with gibes That men will whisper if I let thee go. JUDITH As Nebuchadnezzar, who to thee is god. Lives, and hath sent thee that no thing draw breath. Beast, fowl, or man, save by his pleasure, — let Thine handmaid fail to rise, bathe, pray ; — God will refuse sure knowledge to her heart Of whether the starved townsmen on yon bluff Have tasted food unclean and earned the doom Which thou, then as his rod, must wreak on them. HOLOFERNES Nay, thou must pray the god of yonder hills, For they are rude and difficult and barren : Waste men and time I shall if he help not. JUDITH Wise is thy stern heart, Holofernes, now li. As ever when thine handmaiden hath spoken Of what concerns the will of thy great king. HOLOFERNES Call me not stern, who am thy beauty's host And gentle and abounding to thy needs. JUDITH " Stern ; " for thy great king bade thee to be stern And with his hosts afflict the wide-spread earth. HOLOFERNES " Stern," yes, on his behalf; on mine, on thine, Gracious, free-handed. Thy beauty hates our prudence ; Thine amorous eyes are wittier than thy counsels : There ! come thou in and give me company From this till midnight, when thou shalt be called, Go forth and wash and, being clean, shalt pray. JUDITH Now till my last day, it shall be my joy To think I pleased so wonderful a man. But let me send my maid to fetch some wine : For thou hast drunk and art aglow with it. But I have fasted and have danced, and now I feel a chill and sinking of the heart. Nor may I taste thy wine, for my vow's sake ; But thou mayst taste of mine ; and I do think, When thou hast touched it once, thou'lt drink again. — Go, Mira, haste thee, fetch our wine-skin hither. Some of those yellow figs, and half a loaf [Exit MIRA left.] HOLOFERNES Yea, I will drink with thee, since thou art cold, Though I have drunk enough for both already. lii. Thy vows are strict, since they forbid our wine, — I doubt if thine's as good. JUDITH It is not lawful For any of our tribes to taste of aught Or drink from vessel, or eat, which hath not been First purified according to our law. But thou wilt own my countrymen good vintners. HOLOFERNES The country that affordeth such a woman May well produce a wine unrivalled : enter. [The first two BLACK SLAVES enter the tent, and holding back the porch-curtain discover couches round a table served with fruit flagons and cups. From the four corners of the chief couch wands of silver lift a canopy of jewelled needlework.] JUDITH I'll follow thee, my lord, I'll follow thee, HOLOFERNES Precede me, dear dame, skilled in dance and wisdom ! My heart invites thee with a gleefulness That fills me with assurance of long life. JUDITH [half chanting] My wisdom readeth prophecies in joy ; All great joys shout to my fore-knowing heart And wake its power divine : Thy full glee speaks plain speech And speech it loves to hear To my fore-knowing heart. HOLOFERNES Enter, and sing to me who dote on songs. liii. JUDITH When I have rested, eaten, tasted wine, Light-hearted will thine handmaid serve her lord. [The curtain closes on JUDITH, HOLOFERNES,and the FOUR remaining BLACK SLAVES, then BAGOAS comes forth from the tent and forward. The glare from the right has by now dispersed, and the darkness is faint and blue with eastern starlight.] BAGOAS He is a fool : no, he is very wise ; I think of all my life and envy him : Yet my heart loves to hear him called a fool, And so I call him fool : wasting his time ! Last week it was to-day that we should march. But now it is when next this woman's prayer Is answered : well, who knows but what her prayer Will be to him, and him beguile to spare Her tribes ? he disobeys the great king thus ! Yet, if the great king's angered, he is dead : — But will have had the woman even so . . . [The moon rises in the left wing and casts level rays along in front of the tent. BAGOAS peers under his hand at it.] This orb blinds, but beauty salves my sight. Who comes here ? [Enter MIRA left, carrying the skin bottle and a bag.] Come, damsel, give that me. MIRA Nay, I must serve my mistress. BAGOAS They'll send thee forth at once. liv. MIRA When I have given them wine. BAGOAS Nay, let me serve them, damsel ! These poor old eyes are dim ; Thy mistress' beauty is their cure ; each glance I take at her doth seem to bathe my sight — Puts off the time when I shall be quite blind Some hour. Thou dost not credit it .-* alack I MIRA My lord has smiled himself. BAGOAS Thou dost not know what I shall give thee yet. MIRA No, what ? BAGOAS I said thou didst not know, nor canst thou till Thou let me serve. MIRA Thou pour my mistress' wine ? Not unclean as thou art! Then she \vill have A thing to say to me. BAGOAS These are the best of reasons To let me enter first ; For both will have their wish ; I mine, thou thine. MIRA Thou sayest thou wilt give me something, eh ? BAGOAS I swear it, damsel ; let mine eyes drink light ! Iv. MIRA 'Tis true I call her oft the light of mine. Go in : I shall be called for, I am sure. [He goes in : she, left alone, speaks to herself.] May God preserve us from these wicked men ! We do such brave things, I have quaked these days More than in all my life before ; to live Among the heathen, and they, soldiers, thus ! — It is the thing no woman else would do. BAGOAS [returning from the tent] Woman, thy mistress hath a word for thee. [He holds the curtain while MIRA enters the tent.] Having now laved these old eyes in that vision [He turns left from the tent, having closed its curtain.] I look to dream as young men when the moon Shines on Astarte's garden. There they smile Sleeping among the flowers ; for through their lids [He gazes up at the moon.] That bright blank face seems womanly, loving and near. [Exit left.] [JUDITH'S voice from within ' Come for me on the midnight without fail : Be very heedful lest thou oversleep.' MIRA'S voice from within * Thine handmaid hears.'] JUDITH [comes with MIRA to the curtain, which she draws back and stands in the entrance] At midnight then. MIRA [turning towards the left] By Jacob's God, at midnight. [Exit left.] Ivi. JUDITH [looking in at HOLOFERNES] Send forth thy slaves. HOLOFERNES Why? JUDITH I am not as thy nation's women are. HOLOFERNES How so ? JUDITH I cannot feel at ease while these stand by. HOLOFERNES Tut ! black men have no souls, they are as dogs ! JUDITH Not even a dog's eyes shall o'erlook my pleasures : Nor can I empty my heart before cropped ears. HOLOFERNES Well, well. — Begone, ye rascals ! JUDITH Bid them Put out the lamps. The night is light enough. HOLOFERNES Put out the lamps. [The six BLACK SLAVES obey, then file out right] JUDITH [pours a cup of wine from the skin which lies just within the tent, then bearing it inwards to HOLOFERNES, says] Empty this cup, my lord. HOLOFERNES [sipping] Rare wine it is. Ivii. I know not what beneath the flavour lurks Like foreign women's thoughts behind thy smile. JUDITH [returning to the door of the tent begins to sing] It goes down smoothly when one sips, Doth the best juice of the best vine ; We sleep, and, lo, It brings speech from our mouths asleep : And even so. When drained from off beloved lips, Kisses act like the best of wine . . . HOLOFERNES [interrupting] Call a slave to me ! JUDITH What dost thou lack ? HOLOFERNES Just the boy, Adonikam : call him. JUDITH Art thou afraid ? HOLOFERNES [rises and staggers to the door] It is a child. He'll lie beneath a mat And neither see, nor think, nor understand. JUDITH [meeting him] Thou fearest me ? HOLOFERNES I am drunk and not myself. JUDITH Look in my eyes. HOLOFERNES O, those soft eyes ! those tantalizing eyes ! Iviii. Forgive a queer chill thought that from the moon Entered the tent despite of thy sweet singing. JUDITH A lover's thoughts should be red as dark wine. [She leads him back to the couch, then comes and refills his cup, and, making a few rhythmic steps as though she would dance, bears it back to him while she croons] Drink, drink, and drink again ! There is no other end of pain. HOLOFERNES Now, thou art beautiful ! Thou fillest my heart with joy ! I think 'tis true, I've drunk more wine to-day Than I have drunk in any single day Since I was born : yet I will drink again. For thou art beautiful. And fillest my heart with joy. JUDITH [returns half-dancing to the door of the tent and takes up her song] Drink, drink, and drink again ! There is no other end of pain, No other rest for care. No solace anywhere For all that in our life we miss. Save in this juice ; none save in this ; None save in this ! HOLOFERNES [very thickly] Thou art witty in thy words and in thy songs : It is a god's doing when a woman is wise. Lie down by my side ; I care not to get up And I would kiss thee. lix. [JUDITH closes the curtain. HOLOFERNES' voice is heard continuing as before from within ' By my soul's soul, Here hath a great desire grown to kiss thee : I'm very, very heavy and must sleep, But when, when I have slept a while, wake me And I will kiss thee ; lie thou close here. And in a short time wake me, and I will kiss thee. Yes, when thou wake me I Will kiss thee ; truth, I will' A pause while HOLOFERNES makes certain indistinct snore-like attempts at speech ; then a full silence, after which JUDITH appears at the tent door and looks right and left ; then looking upward she speaks] Thou moon and O ye stars, ye hosts of light ! Terrible is your beauty unto me. What am I ? [She steps forward in front of the curtain.] And what am I to do ? Now is the time to help me ; Thou hast seen me, O Lord God ; He did not touch me to defile me, and he sleeps : Thou puttedst this deed in my heart to do. For all up at Bethulia did prepare — Being starved and thirsty — did prepare their hearts To anger thee and eat forbidden things ; And they had opened the town gates ere long. And given all thy land unto thy foe. Unto this drunken beast. — Alas, I am alone, Alone, in this huge night. Ah, what am I to do ? Ix. The most that can be done, the best, is Hke A single point of light, a lonely star ; Yea, this deed which so cries on me to do it Will be for clearness but one fevered lamp ; And all my life obscure and all the lives Of those I live among, quite lustreless ; Darkness in which this throbbing act of blood Demands to shine. — O God, it is thy will. That didst create the evil and the good. Pour thou thy strength into my weakness now ; Pierce thou my life's obscurity at once ! Now is the time to help me, now at once, — For all around me sleep thine enemies. [She returns to the tent. HOLOFERNES moans and turns, and she takes up her crooning again, standing in the door.] With limbs that ache Full many lie awake ; With pangs as they were breaking The jealous hearts lie waking : Deep is the dream of mutual sleep And kind as deep. [She fetches HOLOFERNES' faulchion from the interior and, carrying it in its sheath, comes forward out of the tent.] Oh, I have never killed a man before ! No, never even slaughtered goat or sheep. , ^^ ^^■ I have taken down his faulchion. And now must make it bare. ""' [She prepares to draw the blade.] To have stripped off my clothes before that man. Whom wine had heated and whose god is vile, Ixi. Could not have caused more terror to my soul Than now, before my hard unshrinking purpose, To bare this blade. [She draws the faulchion.] cruelty, Ravish not thou my heart ! [She lowers it and holds it behind her.] 1 have been praised for loving tenderness : It was like sunshine to me when a child Or a poor beggar knew my heart was kind, Although before he had no knowledge of me . . . Oh, this is vain as girls are vain for beauty ! It must be done. [She raises the blade and looks at it.] His hair must be put by and his thick beard ; Swords will not cut them through, I've heard it said. Shall I have strength to carve right through his bone ? [She holds it up in her hands and prays.] Be present with me now ! For the exaltation of thy people aid me now. Approver of the righteous will that livest Even in a woman's heart ! [She returns into the tent and draws the curtain. Silence ; then the sound of the faulchion clinkino- aafainst something, a pause, then — HOLOFERNES' VOICE sleepily ' I will kiss thee, when I can ; 'deed I will.' Soon after he gives a sharp groan, on which JUDITH'S VOICE utters a little cry. A dead silence. Then a noise of approaching voices from the right wing. FIRST VOICE * Come nearer ! ' Ixii. SECOND VOICE, as though struggling, ' You're drunk.'] [Enter two captains, one dragging the other, who resists.] FIRST CAPTAIN His own affairs absorb the man in there. SECOND CAPTAIN [recoiHng from the tent into the proscenium] Speak lower. FIRST CAPTAIN [following and still holding him by the wrist] He is well occupied, deliciously engaged. SECOND CAPTAIN For my part, I would as soon sleep in a tomb As lie with a witch ! FIRST CAPTAIN Fie, think what eyes she has ! SECOND CAPTAIN Who could feel certain he alone was with her ? FIRST CAPTAIN Her eyes keep to themselves more than they give, Yet every man has from them all he wants. SECOND CAPTAIN Man most wants to be alone with woman . . . FIRST CAPTAIN You infer that the invisible demons attend On witches . . . SECOND CAPTAIN Hush ! hour and place forbid. Ixiii. [drags his fellow back from the tent which he is again approaching.] FIRST CAPTAIN Why were things female stoned forth from our camp ? SECOND CAPTAIN Faint in attack is he who knows one waits Within his tent to welcome, feed him, spoil him. FIRST CAPTAIN [approaching the tent and gesticu- lating with his free arm] Yet this jimp damsel, large-eyed and small-handed, Holds back these troops of men deprived of women. SECOND CAPTAIN [hanging back] Hush ! how you shout ! FIRST CAPTAIN [as before] Its singularity magnifies the pleasure He only in this army tastes to-night. SECOND CAPTAIN You're drunk, you're mad ! [wrenching free] Good night ! save your own neck ! [Exit right] FIRST CAPTAIN [throwing up his arms, in amused disparagement of the coward] Thy loins contain no boy-seed ripe for planting ! [musingly] The unborn are our lords : they govern us : It is the sons mewed up within a man That egg him on to hazardous attempts. [addressing the tent] Part with thy teasing progeny and sleep ; Ixiv. Parcel thy soul, but force me husband mine : Thus shalt thou work thy fall and my promotion. [Exit, stumbling among the tent pins on the right.] [Silence ; into which suddenly rises the sound of an agony of weeping from within the tent, and as briefly subsides ; after which JUDITH, her face streaming with tears, looks out, glances right and left and then retires. There follows the noise of a heavy weight tumbled down and some hasty moving of furniture. MIRA enters from the right and standing outside cries :] Lady, awake ; thou hast slept long enough. [A silence.] Hast thou heard? Hast thou heard? Oh, answer me! Oh, I am greatly afraid, I know not why ! [JUDITH'S VOICE, with a strangely altered accent from the tent ' All that there was to do, is done, is done ; It is accomplished now, the cruel deed That like this world went on with lies and mirth.'] MIRA It is an angel's voice ; save me, O God! [JUDITH'S VOICE as before ' Chans^e not the heart because the hand is soiled ! ' More passionately ' Change not the heart that loves thy righteousness ! '] MIRA [in terror] Oh, what has happened ? should they both be dead Slain by an angel, and I find them, oh ! [JUDITH'S VOICE, still more passionately ' Change not my heart ! '] E Ixv. MIRA [stuffing her hands into her ears] The angel speaks again : I will not listen, For fear his words should strike my hearing dead, Since those are blind who have once looked on angels. [JUDITH'S VOICE as before ' Change not my heart ; though now my tears have dried, Assure me that I shall weep ere I die ! '] MIRA [gradually releasing her ears] I dreamed I saw my mistress bathing naked ; She dipped, then rose up black ; which black was red The darkness made look black : I screamed and called it blood and woke . . . Hark, someone moves ! JUDITH [throws open the curtain ; all is dark within the tent] There is the canopy ; give me the bag, Fold it up quickly lest the gems be seen. MIRA What, has he given thee his fair cloth broidered With peacocks' tails in emeralds and sapphires ? JUDITH It shall be dedicated to our God. [While MIRA is busied wrapping up the canopy JUDITH comes forward with the bag in her hand and looking up speaks] Oh, thou didst widow me unto this end ! No maid had known all this, and no wife could Have left her husband for a work like mine. But I, I knew the ways of men in drink, Ixvi. The ways of drunken men in love ; O God, My weak estate proved strength — that I grieved for, With that thou didst begird Manasses' widow ; She grieved to think her husband such a man As this bland easy-going Holofernes ; She orrieved to lose so kind and fond a husband : Yea, both these griefs did long time suck my heart, My childless heart, my widowed childless heart. They were thy preparation for this deed ; I am that woman whom thou didst prepare, And what should my life henceforth be, O Lord ? [MIR A, who has wrapped up the canopy, approaches her mistress, and looks at her, trying to understand her soliloquy.] Pride 'tis and joy ! to have done a thing so needed ! I vow to live in a booth beside thy temple : No more to pine for children, having conceived, Ay, and with what shrewd throes brought forth, this deed. She who brings forth a son, compared with mine, Tastes common glee, is proud for trivial cause ! This memory, breast-fed, shall be my daughter. Live at my side, become a nobler woman Than she who thought God had allotted her A life already spoiled . . . [MIRA, unable to understand, now touches her mistress's sleeve.] JUDITH [starting] Eh? MIRA I've packed it up and wrapped it in my shawl. Ixvii. JUDITH Here, take the bag again and hold it open. [She returns into the tent, and immediately comes back with the head and drops it into the bag held open by MIRA, then says] Ah ! Pull the strings tight ! [She rubs her hands together, then wipes them on the curtain of the tent.] MIRA [holding the bag still at arms'-length] What ! was that his head ? The captain's head ? [Attempting to kneel before JUDITH] Thou wonderful woman. Thou daughter of God ! JUDITH [arresting her] Now shall these heathen scud before our tribes, Suspicious and amazed, in tumult captainless ! MIRA [as before] By the lips of our elders should thy feet be kissed . . Thou wilt not have me kneel ? JUDITH No, stand up. MIRA In the clothes of a woman hast thou lived thy life, And known the troubles of a maiden's bed. I may not worship thee ? JUDITH No, not now. MIRA A lady's jewels have not made thee vain, Ixviii. Nor weakness taught thee fear of a drawn sword ! JUDITH Enough ! MIRA [desisting from her attempts to kneel at her mistress's feet] We have lived here for this ! [She moves gravely away from her mistress towards the canopy, then suddenly recollecting what she carries] How heavy a head is ! JUDITH Put it across thy shoulder. Would that my knees felt stronger ! Bethulia's gate is full a league uphill. Oh ! to be safe with friends ! MIRA [as she hoists the bag on to her shoulder] So lordly, so good-humoured ; would I had Made the bag clean . . . Look ! who is it comes ? JUDITH It does not know its way : it wanders, wanders ! MIRA ''Its way " .•* It is Bagoas ; can he have heard ? JUDITH Bagoas } Art thou sure ? MIRA Yes, yes, 'tis he. JUDITH Where is the canopy ? didst fold it up MIRA Yea, there it is. Ixix JUDITH [starting again] Is the tent curtain drawn ? [Enter BAGOAS from the left.] God [—[recovering herself] Bagoas, hast had ill-dreams ? BAGOAS [wearily] My dreams are rarely good, but waking's worse : — The plague of pains that tease until you move, And then begin elsewhere, lie how you may. JUDITH [goes up to the tent and draws the curtain across its entrance] He sleeps, and we might wake him. BAGOAS [with sudden vivacity] Ah ! he sleeps ? 1 think he sleeps as he has rarely slept ! [chuckles.] JUDITH What mean those words ? BAGOAS [startled at her tone] Why ! what they mean, of course, [chuckling once more.] Thou know'st how he procured so sound a sleep. JUDITH O God! BAGOAS O God ! indeed, O God ! [chuckles again.] JUDITH What must 1 do ? BAGOAS What must thou do ? [alarmed] Art ill ? art ill ? faint, eh ? Ixx. JUDITH [faintly] We must be gone. BAGOAS He sleeps ! But thou, poor tired soul, must bathe and pray. JUDITH [strangely, shaking herself] Eunuch. I need to bathe ; I need to pray, [to MIRA, recovering herself] And we lose time. BAGOAS [to MIRA] I said rid give thee something. Nay, do not start so ! 'Tis the best advice. Ne'er trust an Eunuch, [chuckles,] 'Tis a rare gift. The advice of one who knows so well as I How true he speaks, [chuckles.] JUDITH [in a whisper to MIRA] What can he mean ? MIRA [mazedly] ** Mean ? " ah ! . . . BAGOAS [insinuatingly touching the bag on M IRA'S shoulder] Is it cosmetics.'* ointments, unguents, oils? So many little pots, boxes with lids. Sponges and pumice stones . . . [breaking off, surprised at their terror] Forgive, forgive ! My tongue appals you, yet would never blame you For tending beauty with elaborate care ! JUDITH [picking up the canopy] We must be gone at once. Ixxi. BAGOAS [with a shiver, wrapping his cloak tighter] And I take cold. Farewell. MIRA [as she follows JUDITH out left] Farewell ! [Exeunt] BAGOAS [turning appreciatively towards the tent] What ease health hath ! contentment how it sleeps ! [He shuffles out on the left as the CURTAIN descends.] Ixxii. OPINIONS ON MR STURGE MOORE'S POETRY I. Mr Sturge Moore's volume of poems, "THE VINEDRESSER," dis- closed a more remarkable gift than any first book of verse of recent years. It has puzzled the critics, who have contradicted each other more than usual about it. . . . Fertility and resourcefulness are excellent gifts, but they do not of themselves imply high poetry, and I think Mr Moore has higher claims than these. He has the creative imagination. . . . "The Vinedresser" has? by its poetic accent, reminded Mr Quiller-Couch of Matthew Arnold . . . but I think it recalls the author of the " Scholar Gipsy " in another quality also — in the felicity of its invention, in the discovery of a subject which, simple of itself as a summer's day, is coloured with the ripe complexion of life, and yields vistas into large and grave horizons. This is perhaps the most perfect thing in the book, but Mr Moore's loftiest strain is in the poem on Jacob wrestling with the Angel. Nothing could be more original or happy than the conception of the two Angels conversing together on the heights above the valley where Esau's and Jacob's tents are pitched. . . . But the whole poem should be read ; it is woven of one tissue, not merely patched with beauties . . . the verse has the high integrity of a style " relying for effect on the weight of that which with entire fidelity it utters." Very few poems of recent years approach this in its combined originality, dignity and strength. It was, I think, scarcely mentioned by any reviewers. — Mr Laurence Binyon in the "Literary Year Book," 1899. II. ON "POEMS," 1906 There are many pleasant poets of our time who might never have written verse at all but for Keats or Shelley or Mr Swinburne. If anything could have prevented I\Ir Moore from writing verse it would have been the over- shadowing eminence of great men such as these. He is so determined not to get any advantage from the facility which they have taught to the world, and he would certainly rather write prose or not write at all than risk losing the identity of his own thought in their borrowed glories. . . . Mr Moore is not only a poet but a philosopher. The experience of life moves him to meditation as well as to delight and to sorrow. . . . The bribe of inspiration is too great for most poets to hesitate about accepting it on any terms. When an ecstasy comes to them they will exploit it for all that it is worth. They are apt, indeed, to cultivate an ecstatic habit of mind as one of the conditions of their art. Mr Moore refuses to do this. He wants to find the poetry in the nature of things, to experience life impartially, and not as one who has an interest in being moved to tears or delight by it. His search for the poetry in the nature of things is always worth following. We can trust him not to cry poetry before he has found it, and when he has found it our own trust in life is fortified by his success. " The Speaker." DUCKWORTH & CO., PUBLISHERS, 3 Henrietta St., Covent Garden F III. ON "THE ROUT OF THE AMAZONS" [In the volume of Poems, 1906, and also issued separately] But the most magical passage in the whole poem, relating how the nymphs of Artemis after the laattle sought out and buried the dead Amazons, is unfortunately too long to quote as a whole ; and to extract from it would be to destroy that fine organic beauty of movement which is its singular distinction. However, I would venture the assertion that, at least since the "Artemis Prologizes" of Browning, there has been no passage of sustained poetical harmony at all to be compared with this ; and, indeed, Browning's poem is much its inferior in the most essential qualities of beauty and inspiration. — R. C. Trevelyan in "The Independent Review." IV. In the beginning his verse strikes one as abnormally harsh and awk- ward, like Donne's, redundant with consonants. Yet as the ear becomes accustomed to his curious movement this impression wholly wears away, and we become aware of a strongly marked beat that falls as insistently upon the ear as the march of the staves in "Beowulf." This alone gives Mr Moore's work a masculine distinction in our day of suave cadences ; yet the colour of the imagination that furnishes the content of the verses is even more remarkable. . . . This startling subtlety of thought and image runs through all three of Mr Moore's books ; it often gleams into a flash of natural humour, and at the end it seems to have put before us something very like an original view of modern life. — "The Nation." V. ON "THE GAZELLES" [In the volume of Poems, 1906, and also issued separately] Now here is the opening of a rather long poem. And it is essentially the right opening — the wording not too close, the frame of the picture, the land- scape, put in with simple words, the phrasing not intricate, the rhythm running easily. And, at the right moment, the heroes — the gazelles — appear. It reminds me, in fact, of the opening of the best of Maupassant's long contes— "The Field of Olives." And in all these respects the poem maintains its level to the end. — Ford Madox Hueffer in "The Academy." VI. ON "PAN'S PROPHECY" [In the volume of Poems, 1906, and also issued separately] The paradise which Mr Moore creates for the home of his thoughts in 'Pan's Prophecy" reminds one of the world painted in Piero di Cosimo's death of Procris. It has the same quaint and intense detail. It conveys the same sense of the stories of one age relished and retold by the very different mind of another age far remote from it ; and it is filled with the same fantastically real tenderness. Mr Moore's figures, like Piero di Cosimo's, are accordant with his landscapes. They talk in a freakish and delicate language of their own far removed from real speech. . . . Yet they talk about realities and say things worth saying about life. ... His ideas are not manufactured to serve as a pretext for his descriptions. Rather they give life to what he describes, and their primitive simplicity seems to be new born with the strange world in which he sets them, as all truisms are new born into truths by the shock of real experience. — Glutton Brock in " The Speaker." VII. ON "THESEUS" AND "MEDEA" [In the volume of Poems, 1906, and also issued separately] His figures are drawn as clearly as if no one had ever heard of them before ; and, indeed, they come so strangely from his brain that they are truly new. Tennyson relies continually upon Homer and Virgil in his " Ulysses," and had we never read of the Ithacan before, he would be but a ghost, a type, an allegory. Nothing could be more different than Mr Sturge Moore's method. We will illustrate it first by a quotation from his "Theseus" which incidentally shows his unique picturesqueness, a picturesqueness which is far clearer and more effective than Rossetti's, of which some may be reminded. — " Daily Chronicle." VIII. ON AN ODE [See Poems, 1906, and the volume "To Leda, and other Odes," published separately] For Dark Days" is a beautiful poem, one of the most beautiful, in its total movement, that Mr Moore has written, and at the same time more personally passionate than he is wont to be. It is a cry from the heart inspired by the head ; and it suggests that possibly he will find his way to a perfect expression of himself just by the completer emotional realization of his thoughts. There is no fear that he will scold or pose ; he is at once too choice and too strong ; but in this ode, which rises from sadness to defiance, and ends in comfortable words of strength, we seem to catch the fusing passion that hides the process and removes all trace of the effort. — "The Times Literary Supplement." IX. ON "THE CENTAUR'S BOOTY" [In the volume of Poems, 1906, and also issued separately] Mr Moore's best work is drenched in beauty — he can take these old themes and stories, and tell them over again, in a manner that is full of the great tradition and carries its echoes of the past, recalling the Greek way of telling them, and the romantic way too ; yet which is no mere copy of either, but his own manner, and one that has the right touch of our day about it. Sometimes he reminds one of such work as that wonderful drawing of Edward Calvert's, "Arcadian Shepherds moving their Flocks by Night," sometimes of Mr C. H. Shannon's beautiful lithographs ; but while as intensely Greek and intensely romantic as either Calvert or Mr Shannon, he is more modern than either in the handling of these ancient things. — " The Times Literary Supplement." X. POEMS, 1906 This is a poet who has put into his art that "fundamental brainwork" of which Rossetti spoke. His pictures are beautiful and new, but there is more in them than the impression, caught and perpetuated, of that which has met, or might have met, the eye. There is "that which must have been," the full logical content of the subject, not half divided by the flashlight of inspired ignorance, but patiently and joyfully tracked in the daylight of reason under a golden sun. We shall not wake to-morrow feeling that we have been perhaps a little morbid overnight ; we shall take this insight and this humour with us all day and be the stronger for it. The thought itself will wear ; it is neither new nor old ; it was not new in the days of Nimrod, it is not out of date in the generation of Nietzsche. — Henry Newbolt in the " Monthly Review." XL ON "MARIAMNE" He takes nothing for granted, and never for a moment leans upon convention or tradition. The result is that his play is complete in itself, all " carved out of the carver's brain," and to understand and admire it no historic knowledge is necessary. ... It is a study of psychology richly coloured by a study of manners and costume, and this second element, though always subsidiary and relevant, is itself good enough to make a good book if not a good play. That it is a good play we have little doubt, though it is meant for the stage, which alone can fully approve it. . . . The trial scene is a piece of painting and character study which would save a poor play, but does not stand out unduly in the admirable whole. Mr Moore's great triumph is to appeal directly at every point of the play to the eye and the mind together. — Edward Thomas in " The Bookman." POEMS. By T. Sturge Moore. Square 8vo. is. net a volume. The Centaur's Booty. The Rout of the Amazons. The Gazelles, and Other Poems. Pan's Prophecy. To Leda, and Other Odes. Theseus, and Other Odes. Or in one volume, bound in art linen. 6s. net. MARIAMNE. A Conflict. Stiff boards with woodcut design. 2s.net. A SICILIAN IDYLL and JUDITH. Cloth. Demy 8vo. 2s. net. ALBERT DURER. With four copper-plates and fifty engravings, ss.net. CORREGGIO. With fifty-five Illustrations. 5s. net. DUCKWORTH & CO., PUBLISHERS 3 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, LONDON UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY BERKELEY Return to desk from which borrowed. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. FEB 10 tS4 27Mov'53Fnt NOV 10 196537 HECu L-D 0C127*65-2PM ^ 1S82 5 8 K^i» FEBl 1982 A M ^ 1QB6 .J HIM ^■' UNIV. OF CALIF.. BEPK LD 21-100to-9,'47(A5702s1 GENERAL LIBRARY - U.C. BERKELEY BDOmElODS UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY