LIBRARY University of California Irvine THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA IRVINE GUT OF South Pasadena Public Library PAWNS FOUR POETIC PLAYS BY JOHN DRINKWATER Author of "Abraham Lincoln: A Play " "Poems: 1908-1919," etc. WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY JACK R. CRAWFORD Assistant Professor of English in Yale University BOSTON AND NEW YORK \Y[ QA. *J " HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY (Cfte fitoerjjibe press Cambnbge 1920 COPYRIGHT, I9, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED It- i INTRODUCTION THESE four plays are characteristic of John Drinkwater's point of view. The sum of the world's beauty is a great majority of the total. If we choose deliberately to live with the minority of ugliness, we alone are to blame. Beauty, peace, and quiet may belong to our lives if we desire them as much as we seem to desire more ugly things. The so-called practi- cal man may object that Drinkwater's vision is a poet's vision. Life leaves us little time for beauty. We need poets to puncture the fallacy of so absurd an argument. All beauty asks of any one, poet or business man alike, is that it be not ignored. You will not see it if you turn your back; it is, however, always there to see whenever you desire to make the effort. Noth- ing can hide it from our eyes but our own neglect. As for peace and quiet, they are the natural concomitants of a mind loving beauty. If you carry the true vision about with you there is little danger that you will mar it with strife or unrest. Thus it follows that Drinkwater's iii INTRODUCTION point of view, like that of all real poets, is both sane and practical. It is sane because he is of those who urge us to live on decent, friendly terms with our neighbors; it is practical be- cause only by so living may we have any hope of happiness. The upholders of the theory that life is a competitive struggle are the un- practical men. It is they who are the bringers of war to the nations and the occasions of strife at home. They have turned their backs upon beauty and set up altars to the false gods of practical affairs. X => is the most deeply moving of these four plays, for it deals dramatically with the greatest of all evils war. We need only to remember war as death stealing out of the dark- ness to strike down youth, to whom the vision of beauty is a natural dream, to realize war's horror. We then know war as the negation of truth. This play, furthermore, touches our emotions deeply because it is itself wrought out of deep emotion. Through the drama we see the ugly fact as it is and we come to hate it for its ugliness. In like manner The God of Quiet reminds us that we often forego one essential of living. If men are to think and to do things and they can do things only if they think they must have the leisure that quiet brings. And, iv INTRODUCTION like beauty, quiet may be found within. The world's uproar need not disturb the contem- plative mind. It is straining too far, perhaps, to interpret King Cophetua as a treatise upon democracy. John Drinkwater is, after all, a poet showing us his image of life in terms of beauty. We must beware of criticism which seeks to turn poetry into propaganda. It is a typical Anglo- Saxon failing to look upon our artists as preachers in disguise. But like all writers who are sincere, Drinkwater's attitude toward life shows through his work. We are therefore justified in making note of King Cophetua's dislike of advice which has expediency for its motive. It is enough to observe that the king chooses the beggar maid because she embodies an ideal with which her position in the world's opinion has nothing to do. Neither readers nor audience need, however, to go searching beneath the surface of these plays. They are dramas expressed in poetry the utterance of simple truths which we know beforehand, for of such are the mate- rials of poetry and drama. We may read or see and take pleasure thereby. That is what the author would wish to have us do. JACK R. CRAWFORD CONTENTS THE STORM i THE GOD OF QUIET 23 X - 0: A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR 47 COPHETUA 67 APPENDIX THE STORM (I9IS) TO BARRY V. JACKSON THE CHARACTERS ARE ALICE JOAN, her young SisUr SARAH AN OLD MAN A YOUNG STRANGER THE STORM A mountain cottage, li is a midwinter night. Out' side a snowstorm rages. ALICE is looking out through the window. JOAN, her young sister, and SARAH, an old neigh- bour woman, are sitting over the fire. Alice: It is n't fair of God. Eyes are no good, Nor lanterns, in a blackness like to that. How can they find him out ? It is n't fair. Sarah: God is for prayers. You '11 anger Him speaking so. Alice: I have prayed these hours, and now I 'm tired of it. He is caught in some grip of the rocks, and cry- ing out, And crying and crying, and none can hear him cry, Because of this great beastliness of noise. Sarah: Past crying now, I think. Joan: There, take no heed Of what she says it's a rusty mind she has, Being old, and wizened with bad luck on the hills. Sarah: Rusty or no, I've a thought the man is dead. PAWNS No news has been growing apace from nightfall on Into bad news, and now it's as though one stood At the door and said, " We found him lying cold." Alice: Whist ! you old bitter woman. Will it never stay In its wicked fury? . . . and the snow's like a black rain Whipping the crying wind. If it would rest awhile I could think and mind me what were best to do To help my man. But a savagery like this Beats at the wits till they have no tidiness. Sarah: We '11 sit and wait till they come. Alice: And I a woman Would never let him ask for anything, Because of the daily thought I took for him, And against this spite now I 've no strength at all. Sarah: For all you would bake his bread to a proper turn And remember always the day for his clean shift, There was many a scolding word for him to bear. Joan: Hush Alice: Let her talk. What does she know at all, 6 THE STORM Thinking .crossed words between a man and a woman Have anything to do with the heart? We have, My man and I, more than a fretful mood Can thieve or touch. My man I must go my- self. Joan: There is nothing you could do. Sarah: 'T is men Should carry the dead man in. Alice: My man Is alive, I say surely my man's not dead Surely, I say old woman, your croaking talk Teases my brain like the pestilence out there Till I doubt the thing I know. There's not a crag Or cleft in the hills but is natural to him As the stairs beyond the door there surely, surely Yet nothing is sure. Sarah: Death has a way with him, A confident way. Alice: You know that he's not dead I know that too if only that dark rage Howling out there would leave tormenting me, And let me reason it out in peace a little, I could be quite, quite sure that he's not dead. Sarah: Age is a quiet place where you can watch The world bent with its pain and still be patient, 7 PAWNS And warm your hands by the fire because you know That the newest sorrow and the oldest sorrow are one. They will bring him and put him down upon the floor: Be ready for that, girl. There are times when hope is cruel As a fancy-man that goes without good-bye. Alice: I have a brain that is known in three shire-towns For a level bargain. It is strange that I should be Listening now to a cracked old woman's clatter When my own thoughts for him should be so clear That I should n't heed the words of another body. I want no hope only an easy space To remember the skill of my man among the hills And how he would surely match their cunning with his, Or else to count the hours that he's been gone And see that his chance is whittled quite away. To have a living thought against this fear Is all I want but those screaming devils there 8 THE STORM Beat in my mind like the drums in Carnarvon streets That they use when they want to cheat folk into thinking That death is a handsome trade. And so I let a woman with none but leaky wits Tell me the way I should be, when most I need To ride no borrowed sense. Sarah: It is not wind, For all it is louder than any flood on the hills, Nor the crazy snow that maddens you till your brain Is like three cats howling upon a wall, But the darkness that comes creeping on a woman When she knows of grief before it is spoken out, And the sooner grieved is grief the sooner gone. Be ready to make him decent for the grave. , Joan: If he should walk in now you will not forget The trouble you are putting in the house with your talk. Sarah: The trouble is here. Alice: If he should walk in now Yes, that's the way to think. I'll work it out, Slowly, his doings from when he left the door Until he conies again. You stood at the oven With cakes half-browned against his tea. And I PAWNS Stood here beside my man and strapped his coat Under his chin. He looked across your way He is fond of you, child he calls you Father Joan Because but that's not it I told him then To-morrow would be time to bring the slates, And let him only mend the wire to-day He thought so too and said it is like a beast Greater than half the world and crushed in a trap, Shrieking against the pain what did he say ? I have forgotten, and I had begun To follow it all quite clearly what did he say? Joan: That an hour would bring him back, and hungry too. Alice: An hour would bring him back but that is nothing. I know it now: he went to the broken wire And mended it three-quarters of an hour And then he would think that after all the slates Were best bespoken now six miles to go; He would be about a mile when this began - This wrath that will surely last till the Judg- ment Day And that would make two hours till he reached the quarry IO THE STORM But he went on, and the neighbours up and down Were scared and went out searching with their lanterns, Like lighted gnats searching the mines of hell. Is n't it queer to see them out there dancing When all the time he has gone a twelve-mile journey And then this old woman came with her neigh- bour duty It's odd folk are Sarah: It's a poor thing, spinning tales When there's no faith in them. Alice: Hush, I have it all Quite clearly now, in spite of that monster baying, Two hours to the quarry, hindered by the night, Then half an hour to bargain, then two hours For beating back, his boots heavy with snow, Or a little longer five hours and more all told It is nine o'clock he went five hours ago, Or a little more, so that's just how it works He should be coming now along the road, Tired we must warm the cakes again. Sarah: Aye, warm them, A dead man's heavy bearing. The clock strikes nine. Alice: That's the time II PAWNS To bring him back, and we'll call the lanterns in He must be near by now A man is heard outside, kicking the snow off his boots. ALICE opens the door, and an OLD MAN comes in, carrying an unlit lantern. The Old Man: My candle is spent. JOAN takes the lantern and fits a new candle while they speak. Alice: And you are going out again ? They have not found him? The Old Man: No. It's not easy there. Alice: Then he did n't go to the quarry after all. Joan: Because they haven't found him? That's no sign. They could n't if he went. Alice: Ah, yes how is it? He went, and they've been looking on the hills But have not found him. Yes he must have gone. He should be back. You should have found him for me. Sarah: She is strange because of the trouble in the house. I am old, and that is something. Alice: It is not that 12 THE STORM I am caught away from myself by the scream- ing thing That scourges the hills. And yet in spite of that I had reckoned all his doings since he went Until his time for coming but you came You came instead. That is not right. The Old Man. {taking the lantern and lighting if): We '11 send Across to the quarry now Alice: It is no use He'll not have gone. The Old Man: The night is full of tricks, But another hour will have ferreted all the hill. He goes out. Sarah: Simon, who took his money down to market, And would n't change for a good sound fact of cattle, Fingered his earnings till a hole was worn And came to the house again with an empty bag. Leave making tales, my girl, poor tales they bring no profit, Keeping the truth outside, and breaking away To a thimbleful of ash themselves. He is dead. Think hard on that. When the old king of the world With the scourge and flail turns his strokes from the wheat 13 PAWNS On the goodman's floor and scars the goodman's back, It is no time to wince. Your man is dead. And a day and a day make Adam's fall a story. Alice: Not down to the quarry then my little Joan, Do you know at all what a man becomes to a woman ? How should you though ? If a man should take A patch of the barren hill and dig with his hands, And down and down till he came to marble and gold, !. And labouring then for a dozen years or twenty Should build a place finer than Solomon's hall Till strangers with money to travel came to praise it, And, when he had dug and hewn and spent his years To make it a wonder, should go, and be re- membered No more than an onion-pedlar in the street By the gaping travellers, yet he might be glad, If his heart was as big as a woman's, for the thing he'd made, The strong and lovely thing, knowing it risen Out of his thought into the talk of the world. That's how it is. A woman takes a mate; And like the patient builder governs him 14 THE STORM Into the goodman known through a country- side, Or the wise friend that the neighbours will seek out, And he, for all his love, may never know How she has nourished the dear fine mastery That bids him daily down the busy road And leaves her by the hearth. And when he is dead It comes to her that the strength she has given him To make him a gallant figure among them all Has been the thing that has filled her, and she lonely Or gossiping with the folk, or about the house. Sarah: When he is dead. Alice: Why should I think of that? I am crazed, I say, because of the madness loosed And beating against the panes. He is not dead You know it, woman Joan, it would be a lie To say my man was dead ? Joan: There, sister, wait It is all we can do there is nothing else to do. Sarah: When he is dead. Let the thought that comes unbidden Be welcome, for it's the best thought. When he is dead. 15 PAWNS Alice: There is treachery against us my man my dear My brave love they are trying to part us now! But we must be too strong when . . . when he is dead. . . . There is a knock at the door. She makes a half movement towards it. He would not knock. See who it is. JOAN opens the door and a YOUNG TRAVELLER, buffeted and breathless, conies in. The Stranger: By Thor! There's beauty trampling men like crumpled leaves. May I come in till it's gone? Joan: Surely. The Stranger: I set Every sinew taut against this power, This supple torrent of might that suddenly rose Out of the fallen dusk and sang and leapt Like an athlete of the gods frenzied with wine. It seemed to rear challenging against me, As though the master from Valhalla's tables, Grown heady in his revels, had cried out Behold me now crashing across the earth To shake the colonies of antic men Into a fear shall be a jest, my fellows! 16 THE STORM And I measured myself against this bragging pride, Climbing step by step through the blinding riot Of frozen flakes swung on the cataract wind, My veins praising the tyranny that was matched Against this poor ambitious body of mine. Alice: The storm is drenched with treachery and sin It is not good to praise it. The Stranger: You on the hills Grow dulled, maybe, to the royalty that finds In your crooked world a thousand splendid hours, And a storm to % you is but a hindered task Or a wall for mending or a gap in the flock. But I was strange among this gaiety Plying black looms in a black firmament, This joy that was spilt out of the iron heavens Where pity is not bidden to the hearts Of the immaculate gods. I was a dream, A cold monotony suddenly thrust Into a waking world of lusty change, A wizened death elected from the waste To strive and mate with eager lords of tumult. Beauty was winged about me, darkling speed Took pressure of earth and smote against my face; I rode upon the front of heroic hours, And once was on the crest of the world's tide, PAWNS Unseared as the elements. But he mastered me, That god striking a star for holiday, And filled himself with great barbaric laughter To see me slink away. Alice: It is no god, But a brainless anger, a gaunt and evil thing That blame can't reach. The Stranger: Not all have eyes to see. I'm harsh with my words, but I come from a harsh quarrel With larger thews than man's. Alice: Stranger, I 'Id give Comely words to any who knocks at the door. You are welcome but leave your praising of this blight. You safely gabbing of sly and cruel furies, Like a child laughing before a cage of tigers. You with your fancy talk of lords and gods And your hero-veins young man, do you know this night Is eating through my bones into the marrow, And creeping round my brain till thought is dead, And making my heart the oldest thing of any? Do you see those lights? The Stranger: They seemed odd moving there, In a storm like this. Alice: A man is lost on the hills. 18 THE STORM The Stranger: That's bad. But who? Alice: My man is lost on the hills. Sarah: She has it now; her man is dead on the hills. The Stranger: I talked amiss, not knowing of trouble here. But why should he be dead ? Alice: The woman is worn, Her mind is worn, and she lives out of the world. You ask at once as any wise man would. I have told her and told and told that he's not dead, And my young sister, too, though but a girl, Says it, and she has a head beyond her years. He is lost for an hour, or maybe for a night, But never dead. That is the way you think? It is waiting that steals your proper sense away; And then, although you know, you let in fear Blaspheming the thing you know it is wait- ing to-night In the midst of an idiot wrath drumming and drumming Like a plague of bees in swarm above your eyes. I do not know I have not any strength To fathom it now, and there is none to tell me. Sarah: She knows it all, though the thing is hard to say. Alice: Have done ! Young stranger, you have travelled the world, 19 PAWNS; I think, or have grown learned in great cities, And can tell the way things go is it not wrong To say that a man because of an ugly night Should perish on his home-ground? He would find a road Out of a danger such as that, because That is the way things happen tell me now? The Stranger: It is likely that he would. Alice: You hear that, Joan A traveller who has been in foreign dangers And comes a scholar from a hundred cities Says it is well, and that we must be patient. The Stranger: No, I've not travelled, and I only say a man Knowing the hills would likely weather a storm. Alice: There, there you must not take it back again, Because you know, and you have said it is well. Sarah: They cut a stone that is like a small church window, And they carve a name and a line out of the book, And when that's done there is nothing then to doubt. The storm has suddenly cleared. The silence falls upon them strangely, and there is a pause. 20 THE STORM Alice: It is spent at last. He will come from his shelter now. My dear come soon. Set the kettle again. JOAN does so. There is another pause. I have my thought again. It is an end. I am broken. There is no pity anywhere. The Stranger: The lights are coming. Sarah: The anger never bates, But scourges us till time betrays the limbs, And strikes the tongue, and puts pence on the eyes, And leaves the latch for stranger hands to lift. The blackness beyond the window has given place to clear starlight on the hills. A number of men with lanterns pass by. There is a knock: ALICE opens the door, and the OLD MAN stands there with his lighted lantern. She looks at him, and neither speaks. She turns away to the table. Alice: Why have we waited ... all this time ... to know . . . Her sorrow breaks over her THE GOD OF QUIET (1916) TO MY FATHER THE CHARACTERS ARE A YOUNG BEGGAR AN OLD BEGGAR A CITIZEN A SOLDIER FIRST KING A HERALD SECOND KING THE GOD THE GOD OF QUIET A road at the summit of a hill outside a be- leaguered city. It is the evening of a hot sum- mer day. On the far side of the road is a bank, from the top of which the city could be seen. On a great stone cube, halfway up the bank, is the life- sized figure of a god. Not unlike the Buddha in presence, it is the GOD OF QUIET. Two BEGGARS, a young man and an old, come in, moving towards the city. They stop. Young Beggar: Nor coin nor crust. Three leagues of dust We've trodden. Blast Them let them fast And try the flavour Old Beggar: Hold, man, hold J T was like enough that our tale were told For ever before the sun went down, With the devils of war let loose to frown On a poor man's cry for alms. We live, And that is something Young Beggar: The Lord forgive Your weakling heart Old Beggar: Nay, ask him, you, 27 PAWNS To pardon the stubborn thing you do In cursing when Young Beggar: Stop your babbling tongue, Your belly's old but mine is young Old Beggar: Nay, nay, my son; not angry now Not angry there. I Ve seen the plough Break stouter stones the times will mend. Young Beggar: Old man, I spoke in haste Old Beggar: Come, lend Your arm there so; now, let us sit And rest us here. The OLD MAN sits down on the bank; the YOUNG MAN goes to the top and looks out. While he speaks the OLD MAN watches the GOD. Young Beggar: The slings have hit That city hard. Well, let them fight And finish. Broken walls are gates Not warded well, and men in flight Pay toll to beggars. Old Beggar: God creates Good holy times of peace for us Young Beggar: Peace holy times old chatter-pie Old Beggar: Rich seasons after ruinous Young Beggar: Dream-daft old man, put fancies by. Wits, wits, old man, are what we need. 28 THE GOD OF QUIET There's a city learning its last of good And the time is come to drink and feed, And there's pence for wits Old Beggar: One day I stood At dusk in the golden harvest lands, And watched the sickles rise and fall, And the following women with patient hands Gleaning all, gleaning all. And the pigeons slept in the pines, and the sound Of leaves and waters grew strange and clear, And trouble had died, and I had found Peace, O Lord, as here. He has risen, bows to the GOD, and sits below the figure, untroubled. Young Beggar: It is dying, dying, that city. He turns to the other. How Can a man keep sharp in the mind, and spring On chance when it comes, with a patchy cow For mate, a soft and humble thing? Nimble fingers, a hand to strike, Then money, money . . . blast you, speak, You, mild as a bee old butcher shrike Has pegged on a thorn . . . what do you seek In the eyes of a copper image, made By some juggling fellow with fancy brains? He stares at the GOD. All right, old image, I'm not afraid . . . 29 PAWNS I 'm not for your flock . . . the belly's pains Are masters may not be served by sleep . . , Old drowsy god ... I must fight, and plan, And lie, and be cunning, and peer, and creep For starving 's a dirty death for a man. Old Beggar: There 's many a man with a 'buzz- ing hive Of thoughts in his brain that are nothing at all. Young Beggar: Damn you, be still! . . . You dead-alive Old grinning god, I'm what you'd call A fellow with gift of argument, And I tell you he should be hurrying now, Ransacking the world, not a mere consent, A space unpeopled, a rusty plough . . . Life is a matter of shouting and haste, You quiet, old seducing thing . . . Why won't you shout? . . . You muddy-faced Old silence . . . silence . . . beggar-man, king . . . Victuals and void . . . sharp stones and boots . . . A coat and nakedness . . . rain and sun . . . A thistle that's blown and a thistle with roots . . . All right, old god . . . all's one, all's one. He sits beside his fellow, composed. An exhausted SOLDIER, who has been out from the city, reconnoitring, comes in, watching the distances. 30 THE GOD OF QUIET Soldier: Have you seen a king in golden gear And a great host moving to bring us aid? A -pause. Are you drunk, or daft, or won't you hear? He moves up the bank, and looks down to the city; then, fixedly, at the GOD; a pause. Old god of quiet, you've lost your trade. An OLD MAN from the city comes in hurriedly. The SOLDIER comes down. Soldier: News what news from the city walls ? Citizen: An arm-thrust more and the city falls. Is there sound or sign of the swords of the king ? Soldier: No sound, nor sign. Citizen: That life should bring Her comely days to so bad a close; Have you sought them far? Soldier: There are watchful foes About us I dare not set my feet Beyond this place. Citizen: And life was sweet, A good adventure and now an end Of pleasant ways between friend and friend. He moves up the bank. O city whose red roofs look to the sea, Never again your stones shall be 31 PAWNS Glad of your children who smite the waves With oars well swung, Coming down and bonded slaves Shall live to grudge their dead of death. Soldier: I have fought, and hoped, and spoken well In the midst of fears, and I'll spend no breath Nor courage more to dispute with hell. We're a broken city, and ill's the day; My dear was hungry, my dear is dead And old god Quiet may whistle away Till the furies are quiet that throng my head. He sits below the GOD. Citizen: Nay, let your sword be busy down below. Soldier: My limbs are all bemused. I cannot go. Citizen: One sword may strike the balance in this doubt. Soldier: The scales are turned; the city's term is out. Citizen: And will you choose in this extrem- ity To creep aside from fate? Soldier: I only see, Beyond disaster that I understand Darkly as men the process of a hand Obscure in heaven and hell, a little space 32 THE GOD OF QUIET For rest, and the remembrance of a face, And falling sleep, then covering death, obscure Even as life, unfathomable, sure As fugitive thoughts that pass and turn again; Aye, death is dark as is the madness of men, But life distract is savage in the throat, A blind uncaptained vigour, and remote From reason's airy palaces, a way Teased by a million purposes, till day Rattles on day in black bewilderment . . . But death, I think, is quiet, and a spent Sorrow at least, when every friend is kind, And fretting worms no more can plague the mind. Citizen: You yet are young for death. Soldier: What cause have I To covet dribbling age who am now put by Bereaved and broken in my middle years From life's assembly? Citizen: Thus is it one hears From men who are light with weariness. Soldier: It is so I am tired, tired, tired; old god, you know . . . And much disputing is but foolishness A ploughing of sown fields. Citizen: And in distress You are afraid. Soldier: Who tries another's heart Speaks as a god, and cannot bear his part. 33 PAWNS Citizen: Down there for winning is a hero's name. Soldier: I have endured, and hold it now no shame 1*0 pass forgotten. There is no weight at all Now in this arm, and where the heroes fall Should I too join a sorry sword, 't would be But boasting in my pale infirmity Of such immortal courage as shall lose No virtue being secret. My blood and thews I have not spared; my mind is easy so; And, though my friend is death, I will not go Courting a vain death for my renown. For every hero compassing his crown, Darkly in indistinguishable sleep A hundred lie, and the quick world shall keep No word of how their hearts were bright, how spent At last. I am of these, and am content. Citizen: Aye it is just a weariness of brain. Soldier: O lord of quiet, I am yours again, After confusion, after vanity. He turns away to the GOD. Citizen (looking down to the city) : All now is done . . . How long shall succour be ... He will come too late, this king who was our friend. 34 There is a pause; then in the distance victorious cries from the besiegers: Voices: It is ours. The wall is breaking. Stricken: send One thunder more. It falls ... It falls ... It falls! Citizen: The time is come. And bloody burials Shall take their lamentable toll of days, And men shall know the sorrow that betrays Beauty and resolution and the high Conduct of heart proposing patiently Desirable shapes wrought out of shapeless dust, Not scattering of created things. And lust Of vengeance shall make black the people's mind, So heavy is their trial, and so blind Has queer omnipotence set us from his hand. So death shall have his season in the land, Distracted death, till life shall come again As water to the maddened tongues of men Burnt on the sand of sterile leagues of waste; And all the words, the tumult, and the haste That prosper now to feed some curious pride Shall pass. O quiet god, be satisfied : The battles fail: your healing eyes endure; Kingdoms are ghosts : your kingdom is secure. THE KING, a great captain, moving to the city's relief, enters. King: What on the walls ? 35 , .PAWNS Citizen: An end is made. King (as to his lieutenants) : Stay you. Looking down to the city. Aye, twenty thousand spear, Which is my measure, might be laid Threefold in vain against their gear. (To his men.) Let all be still. What men are these ? Citizen: Though strange, devout; they wor- ship. King: Whom ? Citizen: The God of Quiet. King (he looks at the GOD; a pause): A god who sees. World-weary city at your doom, Strong king in your victorious hour, You have endured, and slain, and died, Poor clay that would excel in power, Made frantic by some silly pride. Could you not learn that while we grow As men, maybe from less to more While aeons over aeons flow, Yet holiest man may move before His fellows but a single pace, One flight of thought, and from his tongue Hardly shall fall a word of grace More than from any clod among Sad naturals or runagates? No. You must still with narrow eyes 36 THE GOD OF QUIET Consider how to top your mates And write your name across the skies; Nor great for honour your desire, Nor vision, nor creating song, But merely for consuming fire, Sorry possessions, and a strong Sword that shall rule you know not how, Judgment, you know not whom to bind . . . The fruit was full upon the bough, spendthrift wind, O spendthrift wind, Mad hearts, mad world, mad blood of men, Mad counsels and mad reckoning . . . You quiet god, I leave again Their tumult, and to you I bring Humility, and thought that burns To shape itself and fetter none . . . We wake, a generation turns, We learn to love, and we have done . . . And shall we spend these little days Disputing till our veins are cold? He sits before the GOD. Citizen: The victor comes. King: Or comes or stays It is no matter. Citizen: I am old A spent arm, a mere messenger Whose errands now are done. At last 1 too may rest He sits by the others. 37 PAWNS King: I wasted where Shrill madness was; those moods are cast. A moments pause. Old Beggar: It is the quiet mind that keeps The tumults of the world in poise. Soldier: It is the angry soul that sleeps Where the world's folly is and noise; King: For anger blunts us and destroys. Citizen: We are little men to be so proud. Young Beggar: We are fools: what was so long to build We break. King: Our praise is for the loud Tongue and the glib. Old Beggar: The gentle-willed We starve, and the prophet's lips are stilled. King: It is the quiet mind that wakes. Citizen: The angry soul ever is blind. Young Beggar: Love is the bowl that folly breaks. Soldier: Who rules the world the world shall find. Old Beggar: All wisdom is the quiet mind. A -pause again. A HERALD comes in. Herald: Are you the king who with his arms was sworn In succour to this city now forlorn? King: I am that king. 38 THE. GOD OF QUIET Herald: And will you yet oppose My lord of so sure aim? King: Which of us knows What is our aim, much less if it be true? Herald: Will you set for battle? King: What have I to do With battles now? I have thought a strange new thing This day. Herald: Though some few score may call you king, My master is a king would make your crown A twisted slip of brass. Had you gone down In battle to the city walls, your end Had been to swell his triumph; nor shall mend Your case if now you bring your ranks to dare The fury of his captaincy. King: I care For nothing bitter now that men may say. Quarrels are done. Herald: My king shall choose a way Chastising this infirmity of will, Surely as had his hand been strong to fill Your armies with disaster had you stood With your king's name in a king's hardihood. King: You god of quiet, some day shall men have spent All the wild humorous blood of argument? THE VICTORIOUS KING comes in. 39 PAWNS Second King: What of the lord who thought to stride across My way? Herald: His valour will bring little loss To your victorious arms. He has put by The sceptre and the warrior sword, to lie With beggars mumbling at some idol's feet That is the man Second King (to FIRST KING) : Fellow, I came to meet A king in arms one worthy of my might, One strong to bear the intolerable sight Of all my spears a moment ere he fell, And should no other story be to tell Save that he too was broken at my heel. Now, though you slink aside, you yet shall feel My majesty, the anger of my name . . . Captive and stripped, you shall be a jest, a shame, A laughter to my kingdoms and your own, You faint and thin deserter of a throne, You spiritless who feared the naked blades . . . Why did you fear, and cheat me? First King: Falsehood fades, And consciousness is full and the world swings true, And happy vision rides unclouded through The ordered ranks of circumstance alone When man of man is patient, and the sown 40 THE GOD OF QUIET Harvests of one are gathered to his gate Uncoveted of any. And the hate Of blood for blood and bone for bone can find No habitation in the quiet mind . . . Why should the lust of man be ever set To bring his neighbours to the cunning net, Or drive him headlong howling through his days, Mad with much labour in disastrous ways, Till kind oblivion folds him, and he can Never again be folly's mark? Second King: Not man, But life it is that frets us till we die, Great life that urges, bidding us defy All who would stand against us, and to spare Nothing of pain and sacrifice, but dare Very calamity to let our name Thrive in the lists of honour. First King: Though the flame Of life, of the multitudinous world, is keen To drive the blood thrilling about us, clean For all adventure and great knowledge, still It is man who snares the spirit of man to spill His fortunate treasure in dispute and vain Adding of barren gain to barren gain. And honour that is your hope is but a word Distract and void to hearts that have never heard Kindness and contemplation call. 41 PAWNS Second King {to the GOD) : What bane Of madness have you planted in his brain? How have you slacked the heat that should have passed Defeated to my glory, and how cast That valour down that should have been my spoils? Not even a god shall lightly set his toils Against my triumphs . . . First King: Why do you rail? Is it always so in your restless mind, That ever your words must rattle as hail On gods and men? Can you never find That centre of thought where life is thrilled As a world of wings plying the air, A million pulses that beat, and build, Of the flowing arcs that are weaving there, A perfect balance a motion due As ever the tides of the sea have known, True as the flight of a god is true, Yet sweet and still as the carven stone . . . Second King: Will you fight? First King: Your word brings back to me Swords, and blood . . . and forgotten^things, As sometimes, out of a scent maybe Of moss on a wall in April, springs To a moment of life, that is born and sped In a curious flavour of the mind, 42 THE GOD OF QUIET Some buried hour from the years long dead So much is your word, but this. Second King: . They find Who speak me so that they speak not well. First King: O quiet god, I will speak no more. Second King (to the GOD): O quiet god! And the day shall tell Of a god no less than a man who bore His will against mine and repented it You have thought to subdue with your quiet eyes The prey of my sword, you have thought to sit And govern by peace, while I must rise And stride through the world and sweat and bleed To gather my gains, and the man shall take, Who should measure his might against mine, a creed That tricks my glory, my will for the sake Of a sleepy vision ! A god may rule As he will in some heaven with gods to hear; But a god who comes between men is a fool, And a fool is little enough to fear. He drives his dagger to the GOD'S heart. The GOD rises, and speaks, swaying. The God (crying out) : Not one of you in all the world to know me. The GOD falls headlong. All rise. There is silence for a moment. 43 PAWNS First King (fiercely}: Why did you do it? Second King: He was a bad god - A sly god and slothful an evil liver First King: Why did you do it? He was a friendly god, Smiling upon our faults, a great forgiver . . . He gave us quietness Second King: I say that he *s well dead First King: And I curse you for the killing, He draws his sword. and here I swear To requite the honour of this god ill bestead By a braggart king. Second King (drawing his sword): So ho! at last you dare To stand again as a man my coney, come You shall die well, being slain by me. Young Beggar (to OLD BEGGAR) : Can he do As he said and avenge the god? They talk together. Second King (to HERALD) : Trumpet and drum Bid all to arms! THE HERALD gives the signal, and they sound to arms. First King (to soldier): And bid my armies, you THE SOLDIER does so. THE OLD BEGGAR raises the head of the fallen 44 THE GOD OF QUIET GOD in his arm, the KINGS fac- ing each other with drawn swords, trumpets and drums sounding from both armies. ALL go off, the KINGS fighting, and for a moment nothing is heard save the clashing of their swords. Old Beggar (looking into the face of the fallen GOD) : Not one of us in all the world to know you. Cries and the noise of arms break out again as the curtain falls. x=o A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR TO GILBERT CANNAN THE CHARACTERS ARE PRONAX ) _ > Greeks SALVIUS j . _, > Trojans CAPYS j A GREEK SENTINEL A GREEK SERVANT The action passes between a Greek tent and the Trojan walls, and is continuous. x=o A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR SCENE I A Grecian tent on the Plain before Troy, towards the end of the ten years' war. It is a starry summer night. PRONAX and SALVIUS, two young Greek soldiers, are in the tent, SAL- VIUS reading by a lighted torch, PRONAX watching the night. During the scene a SENTINEL passes at intervals to and fro be- hind the tent. Pronax: So is the night often at home. I have seen White orchards brighten under a summer moon, As now these tents under the stars. This hour My father's coppices are full of song, While sleep is on the comfortable house Unless one dear one wakes to think of me And count my chances when the Trojan death Goes on its nightly errand. The SENTINEL passes. It's a dear home, And fragrant, and there's blessed fruit and corn, 51 PAWNS And thoughts that make me older than my youth Come even from the nettles at the gate. To-day, perhaps, the harvesters are out, And on the night is the ripe pollen blown . . . And this is the third harvest that has gone While we have wasted on a barren plain To avenge some wrong done in our babyhood On beauty that we have not seen. Three years . . . But so it is, and so it must be done, Till the Greek oath is proven. Salvius, Why is all lovely thought a pain ? Salvius: We know Even upon the flood of adoration, That beauty passes. That's the tragic tale That is our world. Pronax: Is it not very strange That, prisoned in this quarrel so long and long, Until to remember a little Argive street Is torture to the bone, yet there is now Nothing of hatred in the blood for them Whose death is all our daily use, but merely Consent in death, knowing that death may strike Across our tongues as lightly as those that lie For ever dumb because we might not spare. Salvius: Not strange; who goes in company with death, 52 A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR Watching his daily desolation, thinking, On every stroke, of all the agony That from that stroke goes throbbing, throb- bing, throbbing, Forgets all hate. How should we hate the dead ? And, where death ranges as among us now, You, Pronax, I, and our antagonists And friends alike are all but as dead men The SENTINEL passes. Moving together in a ghostly world, With life a luckless beggar at the door. It is not ours to hate, who have all put by That safety where men think eternity Immeasurably far, and leisured passions have Their sorry breeding place. Great kings may hate, And priests may thunder hate, and grey-beard prophets May cry again to those who cry their hate In pride of their new-found authority, Fearing lest love should mark them as they are, And send them barren from their brutal thrift. But not for us this envy. It is ours Merely to die, or give the death that these Out of their hatred or indifference will. Pronax: It's not that a man grows tardy in his duty . . . It's still a glad thing to do as the motherland bids, 53 PAWNS Though the blind soul forgets how sprang the cause. I shall die in my hour, though it should come to-day, Not grudging. Yet it is bitterness for youth, When nothing should be but scrutiny of life, Mating, and building towards a durable fame, And setting the hearthstone trim for a lover's cares, To let all knowledge of these things go, and learn Only of death, that should be hidden from youth, A great thing biding upon the fulness of age, And not made common gossip among these tides Of daily beastliness. And still I must remember, For all I have renounced my thronging life, My orchards, and my rivers, and the bells Of twilight cattle moving in the mist. Salvius: I know; the mind grows faint with thinking of them Those little, lovely things of home. My bed Looks to the west on the Ionian sea A sweet, fresh-smelling room it is. I wrote My rightest poems there. I cannot see A sail now coming Troyward but my brain Is sick for that small room, above the quay Where sailors laugh at dawn and all day long, 54 A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR Until the silent sunset ships go out Into Sicilian waters. Pronax: There your poems Were made, in Pylos; and in Athens I Too dreamed, although I caught no lyric song I envy you your song; I was to build A cleaner state; I dreamed a policy Purer than states have known; I was to bring Princedom to every hearth, to every man Knowledge that he was master of his fate. The dream is dulled. Three years of Trojan dust Have taught me but to pray at night for sleep, And an arm stronger in cunning than my foe's, A quicker eye to parry death. And, Salvius, What of your songs ? Salvius: Asleep these many days, Biding their happy time if that should be. Pronax: And death is watching, The SENTINEL passes. and your song, that grew In the womb of generations for the use And joy of men, may perish ere it takes Its larger music, that the tale may go That Greece drove bloodier war than Ilium; That's a poor bargain. . . . But these thoughts that stir Like ghosts out of a life that should have been Neglect my duty. It is past the hour 55 PAWNS I should be nosing along the Trojan wall To catch what prey may be. I have scarred the wall At the bend there where I told you, in the breaking stone, These many nights, until at last I've made A foothold to the top. It's a queer game, This tripping of life suddenly in the dark, This blasting of flesh that is wholesome yet in the blood, And those who weep, I think, are as those would weep If I should fall. I loathe it; but, good-night; You should sleep; it is late, and it is your guard at dawn. He is arming himself, and wrapping himself in his cloak. Good-night. What are you reading? Salvius: Songs that one Made in my province. The sails are in his song, And seabirds, and our level pasturelands, And the bronzed fishers on the flowing tides. His name was Creon. I will make such songs If the years will. Pronax (who has poured himself out and drunk a cup of wine) : I know. Put out the torch If you're abed before I come. Good-night. Salvius: Good-night: good luck. 56 A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR Pronax: And will you bid them fill The trough; this business may make bloody hands. He looks out into the night, and goes. The SENTINEL passes. Salvius (reading) : Upon the dark Sicilian waves, The casting fishers go ... The curtain falls SCENE II On Troy wall. CAPYS, a young Trojan soldier, is on guard, looking out over the plain where the Greeks are encamped. ILUS, another young soldier, his friend, wearing a bear- skin, comes to him. Ilus: When does your watch end ? Capys: In two hours; at midnight. Ilus: They're beautiful, those tents, under the stars. It is my night to go like a shadow among them, And, snatching a Greek life, come like a shadow again. It's an odd skill to have won in the rose of your youth Two years, and once in seven days a hun- dred, More than a hundred, and only once a fault. 57 PAWNS A hundred Greek boys, Capys, like myself Loving, and quick in honour, and clean of fear Spoiled in their beauty by me whose desire is beauty Since first I walked the April hedgerows. Would time But work upon this Helen's face, maybe This nine-year quarrel would be done, and Troy Grow sane, and her confounding councillors Be given carts to clean and drive to market. What of your sea-girl ? Has she grown ? Capys: You ask Always the question, friend. The chisels rust, The moths are in my linen coats, my mallets Are broken. Ilus, in my brain were limbs Supple and mighty; the beauty of women moved To miraculous birth in my imagining; I had conceived the body of man, to make Divine articulation of the joy That flows uncounted in every happy step Of health; the folk faring about Troy streets Should have flowered upon my marble marvel- lously: I would have given my land a revelation Sweet as the making of it had been to me. And still it shall be, if ever from my mind 58 A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR Falls this obscure monotony, that makes The world an echo, its vivid gesture gone. Troy peaceful shall be Troy magnificent, For I will make her so. Ilus: It would be grand If Troy would use us as we might be used, To build and sing and make her market-places Honest, and show her people that all evil Is the lethargic mind. I have seen this Troy Bloom in my thought into a simple state Where jealousy was dead because no man spoke Out of his vanity of the thing he knew not. Capys, it is so little that is needed For righteousness; we are all so truly made, If only to our making we were true. Why should we fight these Greeks? There was some anger, Some generous heat of the blood those years ago, When Paris brought his Helen into Troy With Menelaus screaming at his heels; But that's forgotten now, and none can stay This thing that none would have endure. I have thought Often, upon those nights when I have gone Fatally through the Grecian tents, how well Might he whose life I stole and I have thriven Together conspiring this or that of good For all men, and I have sickened, and gone on 59 PAWNS To strike again as Troy has bidden me, For an oath is a queer weevil in the brain. Capys: Who's there? A Voice: Troy and the Trojan death. Capys: Pass Troy. It is still upon the plains to-night, and the stars Are a lantern light against you you must go Warily, Ilus. The loss of many friends Has sharpened my love, not dulled me against loss. I am careful for you to-night in all this beauty Of glowing summer disaster might choose this night So brutally, and so disaster likes. Go warily. Ilus: I know the tented squares And every lane among the Greeks, as I know The walls of Troy; and I can pass at night Within an handshot of a watching eye, And be but a shadow of cloud or a windy bush. A hundred times, remember. Capys: Yet would I could come To take your danger or share it. Ilus: No; there's a use That's more than courage in this. And, Capys, yet Those chisels must win your vision into form For the world's light and ease. It's an ill day 60 A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR Among ill days that smites the seer's lips. Your work's to do. Capys: And yours that dream of Troy Regenerate, with the heart of the people shown In the people's life, not lamentably hurt By men who, mazed with authority, put by Authority's proper use, and so are evil, While still the folk under their tyranny keep Their kindness, waiting upon deliverance. So may we come together to our work, In prophecy you of life, creation I. How long to-night? Ilus: Before your watch is done I shall be back. Here at this point, before The night is full; throw me the rope upon The signal, thus He whistles. He is climbing over the parapet, to which he has hooked a rope. Peace with you till I come. Capys: And luck with you. Go warily. Fare- well. ILUS drops down to the plain below. CAPYS draws the rope up. There is silence for a moment. Capys (moving to and fro along the wall) : Or Greek or Trojan, all is one When snow falls on our summertime, 61 PAWNS" And when the happy noonday rhyme Because of death is left undone. The bud that breaks must surely pass, Yet is the bud more sure of May Than youth of age, when every day Death is youth's shadow in the glass. ' A hand is seen groping on the parapet. PRONAX, looking cautiously along the wall, draws himself up silently, unseen by CAPYS, who continues: Beside us ever moves a hand, Unseen, of deadly stroke, and when It falls on youth He hears the movement behind him, and turns swiftly. Who's there? Pronax (rushing upon him) : A Greek unlucky to Trojan arms A sworn Greek, terrible in obedience. His onslaught has overwhelmed CAPYS, who falls without a cry, the Greek's dagger in his breast. PRONAX draws it out, looks at his dead antagonist, shudders, peers out over the wall, and very carefully climbs down at the point where he came. The curtain falls 62 A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR SCENE III The Greek tent again. SALVIUS is still reading, and the torch burning. A SERVANT brings a large jar of water which he pours into the trough outside the tent. He goes with the jar, and a moment later the SENTINEL passes behind the tent. There is silence for a few moments, SALVIUS turning the pages of his book. Then, from the shadow in front of the tent, ILUS in his bearskin is seen stealthily approaching. He reaches the tent opening without a sound, and in the same unbroken silence his dagger is in the Greek's heart. ILUS catches the dead 1 man as he falls, and lets his body sink on to one of the couches inside the tent. The SENTINEL passes. ILUS, breathless, waits till the steps have gone, and then, stealthily as he came, disappears. There is a pause. PRONAX comes out of the dark- ness, and, throwing his cloak on the ground, goes straight to the trough, and begins to wash his hands. Pronax: What, still awake, and reading? Those are rare songs, To keep a soldier out of his bed at night. Ugh Salvius, sometimes it's horrible He had no time for a word he walked those walls PAWNS Under the stars as a lover might walk a garden Among the moonlit roses this cleansing 's good He was saying some verses, I think, till death broke in. Cold water's good after this pitiful doing, And freshens the mind for comfortable sleep. Well, there, it's done, and sleep's a mighty curer For all vexations. The SENTINEL passes. It's time that torch was out I do not need it, and you should be abed . . . Salvius . . . He looks into the tent for the first time. What, sleeping, and still dressed? That's careless, friend, and the torch alight still . . . Salvius . . . Salvius, I say . . . gods! . . . what, friend . . . Salvius, Salvius . . . Dead ... it is done ... it is done . . . there is judgment made . . . Beauty is broken . . . and there on the Trojan wall One too shall come . . . one too shall come . . . The SENTINEL passes. The curtain falls 64 A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR SCENE IV The Trojan wall. The body of CAPYS lies in the starlight and silence. After a few moments the signal comes from ILUS below. There is a pause. The signal is repeated. There is a pause. The curtain falls COPHETUA (1911) TO JOHN GALSWORTHY THE PEOPLE OF THE PLAY KING COPHETUA A CAPTAIN FIVE WISE MEN THE KING'S MOTH THE MAID BEGGARS COPHETUA The Scene is the Hall of the King's Palace. On the left are two thrones^ one above the other, with chairs below them. At the back of the stage is a tall doorway, open, showing a path to a broad flight of steps which leads up to the Temple. Two or three BEGGARS are sitting on the steps. There is an open corridor to the right of the stage. The KING'S MOTHER is seated on the lower throne. On the chairs below are five WISE MEN and a CAPTAIN. Captain: T is noon, and with echoing wing The days of a month have sped, And we stay to know if the king Will take a queen to his bed. The King's Mother: You have the oath of a king That, be it for weal or woe, In the space of a month he would speak of this thing, He will come, he will come you shall know. First Wise Man (very old): He will hear. Not in vain, not in vain Shall his people beseech him of this, He will hear us, nor count of the pain 71 PAWNS Which may bloom peradventure to bliss. I have stood at the gates of the kings, His fathers, by year and by year, They failed not to grant us the things That were shaped in our prayers. He will hear. Second Wise Man: He is haughty and fiery proud, A spirit not easy to tame, He will face us unbroken, unbowed, And scorn us and put us to shame. Third Wise Man: He is King, and howbeit he turns To the right or the left it is well, If he hearkens our crying or spurns, He is King. It is well, it is well. Fourth Wise Man (blind}: Since the day when God shattered my sight I fear whatso things may befall, Who shall know if he answer aright? Who shall say if of wisdom our call? Fifth Wise Man: I wait for his word unafraid. The ways of the world are set out By God's will; shall we tremble dismayed However this thing come about? Captain: By the might of the spear, he shall speak As we bid him to speak, or his crown Shall be broken what, are we so meek That we bow if a king should but frown ? 72 COPHETUA King's Mother: I fear him. My son, should you be Too stubborn, how then should I set Any peace in my heart or go free Of a fear that I might not forget ? How then, with a sword set between Your crown and the men of the land, Should the pride in my heart keep clean For a son who held hate by the hand ? Enter, from the corridor, KING CO- PHETUA. They all rise as he goes up to his throne. As he takes his place he motions them to sit. Cophetua: I have come. As a slave ye have called me. As a dog to his masters I come. With the sting of your tongues ye have galled me Do you bid me to speak or be dumb? O my masters, your King is before you, A plaything, a chattel, a fool, Cry shame on the mothers who bore you If you bend not his will to your rule. Shall a king in his folly be daring To speak as he would, to be wise As he knows in his heart, and set flaring His insolent flame to the skies ? Shall a king give a thought to his vision When his masters forbid him, and frown? 73 PAWNS Throw your dust in his teeth, and derision Pluck out all the gems of his crown! Second Wise Man: He is haughty and fiery proud, A spirit not easy to tame. Fourth Wise Man: There is fear in my heart, and a cloud On my soul. First Wise Man: O my King, when they came, The people, to speak with the kings Long ago they were heard. Third Wise Man: Let him speak, He is King, and a holiness clings To the words of a king. Fifth Wise Man: We are weak, We are creatures of God, an4 His will Is over us all; He alone Is mighty to save and to spill. King's Mother: A sword on the steps of the throne Is lying, and blood on the blade. Captain: Enough! Shall we chaffer with speech As men in a market dismayed, Shall we take not the thing we may reach With little of toil? For a year Has the voice of the men of the land 74 COPHETUA Cried out for a king to hear Of his grace. For an answer we stand. It is little enough that we pray, But here, in the name of the dead, I swear you shall hearken to-day Will you take a queen to your bed ? Cophetua: It is well. I am bidden to speak, You are gracious to grant me this thing. You are strong and you bear with the weak, You will loosen the tongue of a king. Second Wise Man: He is haughty and fiery proud. Captain: No more. There are rumours that go In the streets Cophetua: Unbroken, unbowed, I give you your answer I know Of the rumours and threatening spears, I know of the sword in the night, But nothing of pitiful fears. I will answer, and hear me aright, I will not take a queen to my bed, Though the world should clamour and cry, Till my will is so shaped. It is said. You may go I have spoken it, I. For a moment there is silence. Then mere assertion gives place to reason- ing. First Wise Man: Who shall be king in the end? When you are fallen to sleep, 75 PAWNS To whom shall our children look to keep Peace between friend and friend ? Cophetua: Your children shall carve a way To peace with the might of their hands. Shall they bear to their doors the fruit of the lands Because, on a far-off day, A king of their fathers fell And sold the gates of his soul To the rabble ranks for a pitiful dole, And married his love to hell? Second Wise Man: You are haughty and fiery proud. Cophetua: The meanest man of you all May mate where he would. Shall a king then fall And tremble before you, cowed, And be humbled and shorn of fame, Be called a braggart, a knave, That he dares no less than a thrall to save The shrine of his heart from shame? Third Wise Man: You are King, and I dare not cross My will with a crowned king's, But your will so set to your people brings Peril of branded loss. There are kingdoms over the seas, ^ And kingdoms near to your gates, Whose daughters are moulded for comely mates, 76 COPHETUA And will you not choose of these, And gather about your throne A safety fashioned of might? Cophetua: I will break my body to dust in fight, I am careless of blood and bone, I will forfeit my latest breath, I will harry the stranger lords, I will face unfriended the outland hordes, I will kiss the lips of death, I will keep no secret store Of peace in my house, I will spare No strength in what things a man may dare Or men have dared before; But the doors of my love shall be Guarded and unbetrayed, And reckoning there shall be surely made 'Twixt none but my God and me. Fourth Wise Man: I fear the striving of men And the challenge of boasting lips. Cophetua: Old man, you are nigh to your day's eclipse. Would you have in your fancy, when You pass away to the night, The strands of a troubled tale Of a high king setting his love for sale ? Fourth Wise Man (bewildered merely): The Lord hath shattered my sight. Fifth Wise Man: Be it as you have said. 77 PAWNS, God watches. Cophetua: He watches well. I have strayed too near to the gates of hell, But He watched me, and His hand led. Captain: You blacken His name. We are proud, We people, aye, proud as a king; You shall rue the day when you chose to fling Your scorn as pence to the crowd. We will that a queen should sit On the king's right hand, and still We stand as men for the fruits of our will, Nor abate one word of it. King's Mother: My son, O my son, be not Too stubborn I fear the end, I fear the day that no days may mend, And the happening unforgot. Is it little, my son, you lose? There are women with faces fair, And maddening limbs and shining hair, And goodly women to choose; Women whose kisses would fire Your lips and quicken your blood, And set a tumult, a golden flood In your soul, and a new desire In the season of scents and stars, And a sweeter song in the day Cophetua: My mother, you have no word to say 78 COPHETUA Of worth. Would you set in bars The sacred spirit of me? No, mother, you know I speak As a man should speak, but your will is weak For fear of the things to be. You are true, my mother, you bring A deep wise love to the child, Let your love be stainless, and undefiled By craven fears for the king. Captain: She is wise of her fear Cophetua: Be still You are rude, sir, sharpen your tongue On the steps of a throne whose king is sung For a poor unkingly will. I have given my answer; to each As he spake I have answered again. Do you hold me a gibbering clod among men, To waver and juggle with speech? He moves from the throne to the open doorway at the back. For my people, I know them aright, They will hear me, they hold not in scorn A man whose flame without fear is borne, With the wings of the wind in flight. I will tell them. I wait the call Of my soul and none else beside; I will bring to the hall of their kings a bride When my choice unbidden fall. 79 PAWNS During the foregoing speeches other BEGGARS have joined those sitting on the steps. Among them is a MAID. As the KING now goes out of the Hall and up the steps to the Temple, the BEGGARS hold out their hands for alms. The KING gives. The MAID, who is seated on an upper step alone, by the door of the Temple, asks noth- ing. The KING pauses for a moment to look at her; she touches his cloak with her hand, and lifts it to her lips. He passes into the Temple. Second Wise Man: He has gone. He is fiery proud. Third Wise Man: He is King. It is well, it is well. fourth Wise Man: There is fear on my heart, and a cloud. King's Mother: There is building a story to tell First Wise Man: He leaves the clear ways that are worn. Fifth Wise Man: 'T is the purpose of God we must bend. Captain: Not in vain shall he mock us and scorn. King's Mother: A story who knows of the end? 80 COPHETUA Second Wise Man: This day is fulfilled my foretelling. Third Wise Man: The stars are in counsel with kings. Fourth Wise Man: There is gloom in the house of our dwelling. Fifth Wise Man: To God be the shaping of things. First Wise Man: The thread of the years now is broken. Captain: To the edge of his sword be the shame. King's Mother: What word of this day will be spoken? What song will be sung of our fame? The KING comes through the Temple doors. The BEGGARS, as before, hold out their hands; the MAID alone asks nothing. COPHETUA offers her a bag of gold, which she takes; she rises and stands with the KING at the top of the steps; she pours the gold from the bag down the steps, and the BEGGARS col- lect the scattered coins. She kisses the bag, and ties it in her girdle. The KING stands looking at her for a moment, then comes down to the Hall; he stands by the open doors. Cophetua: I knelt before God's altar rail, And something leapt within my brain; 8l PAWNS God's mother smiled; her beauty pale Was over me; and then again I heard my people crying out, And woven in the cries of them I heard a kiss that clung about The colours of my raiment's hem. My prayers went up with feathered speed, But still I saw the face of one Who said no word of all her need Among the beggars in the sun, Of one who sought no little dole But gave great tribute to her King, And something fiery in my soul Stirred with the passion of the spring. And still I heard my people cry, "A queen! a queen! we seek a queen!" No pride was on my lips, and I Told God what thing I then had seen, What rumour through my blood was sent As I passed through His holy gate, And surely up to God they went My little secret words of fate. Out of God's house I came. She stood Before me. She had nought to bring Of land or warrant counted good To fire the temper of a king, 82 COPHETUA Only a treasure in her eyes Of pure and consecrated days, And presage that her soul was wise Of travel in the starry ways. You counselled me. I heard your words, Your threats I heard, your cunning speech, Your clamouring of sheathless swords, But citadelled beyond the reach Of all these things my heart was free; Yet then a secret word was said In the blue air. This thing shall be A queen is coming to my bed. Captain: The child of a beggar! Second Wise Man: You dare Lift up this shame in your land ? First Wise Man: You speak not in wisdom beware. Fourth Wise Man: God give me to under- stand. King's Mother: My son, O my son, but wait A little how should this be A son of proud old kings to mate With a girl base-born? Fourth Wise Man: Ah, me! Cophetua: How? Would ye drive me to and fro As straw beneath the goodman's flail? 83 God's angels laugh, I think, to know How much a king's word may avail. I stand, road-girt, before a sweet New land of holy joys to-day, And she alone has led my feet, And she alone shall say me nay. "Base-born," you cry "a beggar's child." So be it. Yet there haply ran Some strain of passion undefiled When in the twilight some tall man Bore homeward to his bridal bed Of curling leaves beneath the sky A clear-limbed girl whose beauty led Love laughing in captivity. You bid me mate. And shall it be To make adultery a thing Honoured from sea to shining sea For that the sinner is a king? My blood is kingly? It shall take A strain of vagrant wind and sun. I, born a king, henceforth will make The people and the sceptre one. He walks up the steps to the MAID; he stands speaking to her, and then leads her down into the Hall. The Maid: It seemed a very little thing That you should come and lead me down 84 COPHETUA Here to your throne. You are a king, There is a splendour on your crown, Yet you were born of changing dust Even as I, and when you spoke That word to me, the great God thrust His arm out and the^barrier broke, And I was maid and you were man, Built of one flesh; it was as though No word had been since time began Of kings and beggars. Cophetua: And a low Sweet sound of music fell about My senses, as of beating wings Of loves that sway the world without A thought of beggars or of kings. The Maid: You are king, and kings are great, Yet, though I 'Id kneel before a throne, My heart would be inviolate No king should claim it for his own; I worship kingly men, I bow Before the king's ancestral might, Yet all these things are nought, and now No king is standing in my sight. I see a man who spoke to me As a man should speak, loving well. Cophetua: I see a queen whose lips might be Fashioned great histories to tell. The Maid: I see a man who set aflame My womanhood and made it whole. 85 PAWNS Cophetua: I see a holy queen who came As a great song into my soul. The Maid: I saw an eagle in the air Cophetua: The eagle clove the cloudy ways The Maid: Strong-winged he was, and proud and fair Cophetua: And there he met the golden rays Hidden to earth The Maid: And far and far He sped with swift and level flight, Cophetua: And wrung the glory of a star Out of the garners of the night. First Wise Man: Great queens might take her by the hand, Third Wise Man: Great kings might kiss her on the lips, Fifth Wise Man: God V laughter now is on the land, Fourth Wise Man: Light trembles through my day's eclipse, Second Wise Man: The king establishes his pride, Captain: I kneel to her, no threat is now Upon my tongue, she is a bride To whom a king's folk well may bow. King's Mother: My child, what way the King may choose Is well; the soul of you is wise, ' 86 COPHETUA And a queen's crown will no way lose Its splendour set above your eyes; The word is spoken, and aloud Along the day as fire it runs, And you shall bear your King a proud And comely line of kingly sons. The Maid: Not dowered as a queen might be Who sold herself you see me here, Yet something do I bring for fee, Good counsel, comfortable cheer, A body undefiled, a soul Not alien before the Lord, A will unbent, a purpose whole, A passion shining as a sword. To you in humble-wise, my King, With nought of fear or servile greed, My sacred love unsoiled I bring, My service, and my woman's need. A story of some careful days Spent in a cloister no man knows, Some peace of silent lilied ways, Some beauty of the curling rose. The KING leads her up to the throne. They stand one on each side of it. Cophetua (to the people) : Am I the less a king that here I choose as might a man uncrowned, Or should you hold a queen more dear 8? PAWNS For armed men or tribute ground ? If so it be, the word be said, And we will pass from out your land, And sleep upon a stranger bed And prosper by a stranger hand. First Wise Man: She too shall pass where queens have trod, Third Wise Man: You, being King, have chosen well, Fifth Wise Man: Not niggard is the hand of God, Fourth Wise Man: No veiled fear is now to tell, Second Wise Man: Now beautiful is all your pride, Captain: My sword shall bring you peace alone, King's Mother: My trouble now is purified, And love is laughing from a throne. Cophetua: In the years far away, far away, Our love shall be told as a song. The Maid: Many men shall remember, and say They kept their love guarded from wrong. Cophetua: Your beauty shall be as a tale For the firing of hearts to the end. The Maid: And never the story shall fail Of a king who was mighty to lend A glory to love in his land. 88 COPHETUA Cophetua: And the children of men unbegot Shall listen, and understand The tale of a love unforgot. Our kiss shall be set on the crest Of the travelling years, and be borne As a torch from the east to the west, Till the sinews of love be outworn. CURTAIN APPENDIX APPENDIX THE STORM was first produced at the Birmingham Reper- tory Theatre, on Saturday, May 8th, 1915, under the direction of the author, with the fol- lowing cast: Alice .... Cecily Byrne Joan .... Betty Pinchard Sarah . . . Margaret Chatwin An Old Man . . W. Ribton Haines A Young Stranger . E. Ion Swinley At the Stratford-upon-Avon Memorial Theatre, on August 26th, 1915, Alice was played by Mary Merrall, and on the play's re- vival at the Birmingham Repertory Theatre, on March i8th, 1916, the cast was: Alice .... Mona Limerick Joan .... Betty Pinchard Sarah . . . Margaret Chatwin An Old Man . . William J. Rea A Young Stranger . Scott Sunderland THE GOD OF QUIET was first produced at the Birmingham Reper- tory Theatre, on Saturday, October 7th, 1916, 93 APPENDIX under the direction of the author, with the following cast: A Young Beggar 1 . Joseph A. Dodd An Old Beggar . . W. Brunton A Citizen . . . William J. Rea A Soldier . . . William Armstrong First King . . . Felix Aylmer A Herald . . . Frank Moore Second King . . Frank D. Clewlow The God . . . Noel Shammon The stage setting and the costumes were de- signed by Arthur J. Gaskin. X = 0; A NIGHT OF THE TROJAN WAR was first produced at the Birmingham Reper- tory Theatre, on Saturday, April I4th, 1917, under the direction of the author, with the following cast: Pronax . . . Felix Aylmer Salvius . . . Nicholas Bly Ilus .... Joseph A. Dodd Capys . . . William J. Rea A Greek Sentinel . Alfred J. Brooks A Greek Servant . Richard Wayne The setting was devised by Frank D. Clew- low. 94 COPHETUA was first performed by The Pilgrim Players, in Birmingham, on November i8th, 1911, the actors being unnamed, and then at the Bir- mingham Repertory Theatre on October 27th, 1917, under the direction of the author, with the following cast: Cophetua . . . William J. Rea Captain . . . Frank Moore First Wise Man . . Noel Shammon Second Wise Man . Frank D. Clewlow Third Wise Man . Alfred J. Brooks Fourth Wise Man . William Bache Fifth Wise Man . . Joseph A. Dodd King's Mother . . Margaret Chatwin The Maid . . . Dorothy Green The setting was devised by Frank D. Clewlow. press CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS U . S . A DATE DUE PRINTED IN U.S.A.