Transcriber's Note:
The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
The Splendid Wayfaring
The Song of Three Friends
The Song of Hugh Glass
The Quest
TWO MOTHERS
BY
JOHN G. NEIHARDT
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1921
All rights reserved
Copyright
, 1913
By
POETRY: A MAGAZINE OF VERSE
Copyright
, 1915
By
THE FORUM
Copyright
, 1921,
By
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published, January, 1921
CONTENTS
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PAGE
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Eight Hundred Rubles
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3
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Agrippina
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27
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EIGHT HUNDRED RUBLES
GIRL’S SONG
Noble Kreider
The heart’s an open inn,
And from the four winds fare....
Vagrants blind with care,
Waifs that limp with sin;
Ghosts of what has been,...
Wraiths of what may be:...
But One shall bring the sacred gift
And which ... is He?
And with their wounds of care
And with their scars of sin....
All these shall en-ter in
To find a welcome there;
And he who gives with prayer
Shall be the richer host:...
For surely unto him shall come
The Holy Ghost.
The last stanza same as second except in second “‘Tis
he” at close of stanza take “he” on C for end.
3
The combined living room and kitchen of a peasant
house. Before an open fire, where supper is in
preparation, stoops a girl of about sixteen. It is
evening and dusk is growing. Vines hang outside
and the light of a rising moon comes through the
window.
(
Singing.
)
The heart’s an open inn,
And from the four winds fare
Vagrants blind with care,
Waifs that limp with sin;
Ghosts of what has been,
Wraiths of what may be:
4
But one shall bring the sacred gift—
And which is he?
And with their wounds of care
And with their scars of sin,
All these shall enter in
To find a welcome there;
And he who gives with prayer
Shall be the richer host;
For surely unto him shall come
The Holy Ghost.
(
Ceases singing and stares into the fire.
)
What if he’d vanish like a dream one keeps
No more than starshine when the morning breaks!
I’ll look again.
(
Arises, goes softly to the open window and looks
out into the garden.
)
How peacefully he sleeps!
The red rose shields him from the moon that makes
5
The garden like a witch-tale whispered low.
He came a stranger, yet he is not strange;
For O, how often I have dreamed it so,
Until a sudden, shivering gust of change
Went over things, making the cow-sheds flare
On fire with splendor while one might count three,
And riding swiftly down the populous air,
Prince-like he came for me.
There were no banners when he really came,
No clatter of brave steel chafing in the sheath,
No trumpets blown to hoarseness with his fame.
Silently trudging over the dusky heath,
Clad in a weave of twilight, shod with dew,
Weary he came and hungry to the door.
The lifting latch made music, and I knew
My prince was dream no more.
(
Sings low.
)
O weary heart and sore,
6
O yearning eyes that blur,
A hand that drips with myrrh
Is knocking at the door!
The waiting time is o’er,
Be glad, look up and see
How splendid is a dream come true—
‘Tis he! ‘Tis he!
(
During the latter part of the song, the back door
opens and the father and mother enter, stooped
beneath heavy packs.
)
What’s this, eh? Howling like a dog in heat,
Snout to the moon! And not a bite to eat,
And the pot scorching like the devil’s pit!
Bestir yourself there, will you! Here you sit
Tra-la-ing while the supper goes to rack,
And your old father like to break his back,
Tramping from market!
Tut, tut! Girls must sing,
And one burned supper is a little thing
In seventy creeping years.
Ah, there it goes!
My hunger makes no difference, I suppose!
Tra-la, tut tut, and I can slave and slave
Until my nose seems sniffing for a grave,
I’m bent so—and it’s little that you care!
(
Who has arisen from window and regards her
mother as in a dream.
)
Hush, Mother dear, you’ll wake him!
Wake him? Where?
Who sleeps that should not wake? Are you bewitched?
Hush me again, and you’ll be soundly switched!
8
As though I were a work brute to be dumb!
I’ll talk my fill!
(
Her body straightening slightly from its habitual
stoop
)
Eh? Who might come that I would care to know
Since Ivan left?—He’s dead.
Aye, years ago,
And stubborn grieving is a foolish sin.
(
With the old weary voice.
)
One’s head runs empty and the ghosts get in
When one is old and stooped.
(
Peevishly to the girl.
)
Bestir yourself!
Lay plates and light the candles on the shelf.
No corpse lies here that it should be so dark.
9
(Girl, moving as in a trance, lights candles with
a brand from the fireplace. Often she glances
expectantly at the window. The place is fully
illumined.
)
‘Tis a crazy lark
Sings in her head all day. Don’t be too rough.
Come twenty winters, ‘twill be still enough,
God knows!
(
At the fireplace.
)
I heard no larks sing at her age.
They put me in the field to earn a wage
And be some use in the world.
(
To girl.
)
What! Dawdling yet?
I’ll lark you in a way you won’t forget,
Come forty winters! Speak! What do you mean?
(
Still staring at the window and speaking dreamily
as to herself.
)
Up from the valley creeps the loving green
Until the loneliest hill-top is a bride.
‘Tis vapors. Let her bide.
She’s weaving bride-veils with a woof of the moon,
And every wind’s a husband. All too soon
She’ll stitch at grave-clothes in a stuff more stern.
(
Arousing suddenly.
)
I’m sorry that I let the supper burn—
‘Tis all so sweet, I scarce know what I do—
He came——
A stranger that I knew;
And he was weary, so I took him in
And gave him supper, thinking ‘twere a sin
That anyone should want and be denied.
And while he ate, the place seemed glorified,
As though it were the Saviour sitting there!
It could not be the sunset bound his hair
Briefly with golden haloes—made his eyes
Such depths to gaze in with a dumb surprise
While one blinked thrice!—Then suddenly it passed,
And he was some old friend returned at last
After long years.
A pretty tale, indeed!
And so it was our supper went to feed
A sneaking ne’er-do-well, a shiftless scamp!
O Mother, wasn’t Jesus Christ a tramp?
Hush, will you! hush! ‘Tis plain the Devil’s here!
To think my only child should live to jeer
At holy things!
Come, don’t abuse the maid.
They say He was a carpenter by trade,
Yet no one ever saw the house He built.
So! Shield the minx! Make nothing of her guilt,
And let the Devil get her—as he will!
I’ll hold my tongue and work, and eat my fill
From what the beggars leave, for all you care!
Quick! Where’s this scoundrel?
‘Sh! He’s sleeping there
Out in the garden.
(
Shows a gold piece.
)
Mother, see, he paid
13
So much more than he owed us, I’m afraid.
We lose in taking, profit what we give.
(
Taking the coin.
)
What! Gold? A clever bargain, as I live!
It’s five times what the fowls brought!—Not so bad!
And yet—I’ll wager ‘tis not all he had—
Eh?
No—eight hundred rubles in a sack!
Eight—hundred—rubles! Yet the times are slack,
And coins don’t spawn like fishes, Goodness knows!
I’ll warrant he’s some thief that comes and goes
About the country with a ready smile
And that soft speech that is the Devil’s guile,
Nosing out hoards that reek with honest sweat!
Ha, ha—there’s little here that he can get.
14
(
Goes to window softly, peers out, then closes the
casement.
)
Mother, had you heard
How loving kindness spoke in every word,
You could not doubt him. O, his eyes were mild,
And there were heavens in them when he smiled!
No, no, I’m sure
He brought some gift of good that shall endure
And be a blessing to us!
So indeed!
Eight—hundred—rubles—with the power to breed
Litters of copecks till one need not work!
Eight hundred hundred backaches somehow lurk
15
In that snug wallet.
(
To the father.
)
It would be pleasant with a pot of brew
To talk until the windows glimmer pale.
‘Tis good to harken to a traveller’s tale
Of things far off where almost no one goes.
As well to parley with a wind that blows
Across fat fields, yet has no grain to share.
Rubles are rubles, and a tale is air.
I’ll have the rubles!
(
Aghast.
)
Mother! Mother dear!
What if ‘twere Ivan sleeping far from here,
And some one else should do this sinful deed!
Had they not taken my son, I should not need
16
Eight hundred rubles now! The world’s made wrong,
And I’ll not live to vex it very long.
Who work should take their wages where they can.
It should have been my boy come back a man,
With this same goodly hoard to bring us cheer.
Now let some other mother peer and peer
At her own window through a blurring pane,
And see the world go out in salty rain,
And start at every gust that shakes the door!
What does a green girl know? You never bore
A son that you should prate of wrong and right!
I tell you, I have wakened in the night,
Feeling his milk-teeth sharp upon my breast,
And for one aching moment I was blest,
Until I minded that ‘twas years ago
These flattened paps went milkless—and I know!
O Mother! ‘twould be sin!
Sin! What is that—
When all the world prowls like a hungry cat,
Mousing the little that could make us glad?
Don’t be forever grieving for the lad.
‘Twas hard, but there are troubles worse than death.
Let’s eat and think it over.
Save your breath,
Or share your empty prate with one another!
One moment makes a father, but a mother
Is made by endless moments, load on load.
(
Pause: then to girl.
)
I left a bundle three bends down the road.
Go fetch it.
(
Pleadingly.
)
Mother, promise not to do
This awful thing you think.
(
Seizing a stick from the fireplace.
)
I’ll promise you,
And pay in welts—you simpering hussy!
(
The girl flees through back door. After a pause
the woman turns to the man.
)
—Well?
Eight hundred rubles, and no tale to tell—
The fresh earth strewn with leaves—is that the plan?
(
Startled.
)
Eh?—That?—You mean—You would not kill a man?
Not that!
It is much.
Old folk might hobble far with less for crutch—
19
But murder!—Rubles spent are rubles still—Blood
squandered—‘tis a fearsome thing to kill!
I know what rubles cost—they all come hard,
But life’s the dearer.
Kill a hog for lard,
A thief for gold—one reason and one knife!
I tell you, gold is costlier than life!
What price shall we have brought when we are gone?
When Ivan died, the heartless world went on
Breeding more sons that men might still be cheap.
And who but I had any tears to weep?
I mind ‘twas April when the tale was brought
That he’d been lost at sea. I thought and thought
About the way all things were mad to breed—
One big hot itch to suckle or bear seed—
And my boy dead!
Life costly?—Cheap as mud!
You want the rubles, sicken at the blood,
20
You grey old limping coward!
Come now, Mother!
I’d kill to live as lief as any other.
You women don’t weigh matters like a man.
I like the gold—‘tis true—but not the plan.
Why not put pebbles where the rubles were,
Then send him forth?
And set the place a-whir
With a wind of tongues! I tell you, we must kill!
No tale dies harder than a tale of ill.
Once buried, he will tell none.
Let me think—
I’ll go down to the tavern for a drink
To whet my wits—belike the dread will pass.
(
He goes out through the back door, shaking his
head in perplexity
)
(
Alone.
)
He’ll find a coward’s courage in his glass—
Enough to dig a hole when he comes back.
(
She goes to shelf and snuffs the candles. The
moon shines brightly through the window and
the firelight glows. She takes a knife from a
table drawer, feels the edge; goes to the window
and peers out; turns about, uneasily scanning
the room, then moves toward the side door,
muttering.
)
Eight hundred shining rubles in a sack!
(
She goes out softly and closes the door. A cry
is heard as of one in a nightmare. After a considerable
interval the mother reënters with a
small bag which she is opening with nervous
fingers. The moonlight falls upon her. Now
and then she endeavors to shake something from
her hands, which she finally wipes on her apron,
muttering the while.
)
22
When folks get rich they find their fingers dirty.
(
She counts the coins in silence for awhile, then
aloud.
)
Eight and twenty—nine and twenty—thirty—
(
Clutching a handful of gold, she suddenly stops
counting and stares at the back door. There
is the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.
The door flies open and the old man enters
excitedly.
)
Mother! Mother! Wake him! Wake him—quick!
‘Tis Ivan with an old-time, merry trick—
They told me at the tavern—‘tis our son!
(
Rushes toward the side door.
)
(
Stops abruptly, aghast at the look of the woman.
The coins jangle on the floor
)
23
(
As the curtain falls, the singing voice of the
returning girl is heard nearer and nearer.
)
(
Outside.
)
O weary heart and sore,
O yearning eyes that blur,
A hand that drips with myrrh
Is knocking at the door!
The waiting time is o’er,
Be glad, look up and see
How splendid is a dream come true—
‘Tis he! ‘tis he!
27
AGRIPPINA
(
The courtyard of the Imperial villa at Baiae.
A moonlit night in late March. Occupying
the left half of background is seen a portion of
the villa. A short, broad flight of steps leads
through the arched doorway to a pillared hall
beyond, vague, but seeming vast in the uncertain
lights that flicker in the draught. To the
right of the doorway is a broad open window
at the height of a mans head from the courtyard.
An urn stands near window in the
shadow to the right. From within harp music
is heard threading the buzzing merriment of
a banquet that is being given to celebrate Nero’s
reconciliation with his mother. To the right
of stage a glimpse of the moonlit sea is caught
through trees.
)
28
(
Enter from left walking toward the sea,
Anicetus and the Captain of a galley.
)
(
Pointing toward sea.
)
Yon lies the galley weltering in the moon.
A fair ship!—like a lady in a swoon
Of languid passion. Never fairer craft
Flung the green rustle of her skirts abaft
And wooed the dwindling leagues!
A boat’s a boat!
And were she thrice the fairest keel afloat
Tonight she founders, sinks—make sure of that!
And all to drown one lean imperial cat
With claws and teeth too sharp despite the purr!
Ah, scan the graceful woman lines of her!
Fit for the male Wind’s love is she—alas!
Scuttled and buried in a sea of glass
By her own master! It will cost me pain.
29
Better a night of lightning-riven rain
With hell-hounds baying in the driven gloom!
The will of Nero is her wind of doom—
Woe to the seaman who defies that gale!
Go now—make ready that we may not fail
To crown the wish of Caesar with the deed.
(
Exit Captain toward sea.
)
And no brazen wound shall bleed
Red scandal over Rome; the nosing mob
Shall sniff no poison. Just a gulping sob
And some few bubbles breaking on the swell—
Then, good night, Agrippina, rest you well!
And may the gods revamp the silly fish
With guts of brass for coping with that dish!
(
A muffled outburst of laughter in banquet hall.
30
Anicetus turns toward window. Uproar dies
out.
)
They’re drinking deep—the banquet’s at its height
And all therein are kings and queens tonight.
(
Goes to urn, mounts it and peers in at window.
)
A merry crew! Quite drunk, quite drunk I fear,
My noble Romans!—Burrus’ eyes are blear!
One goblet hence, good Burrus, you will howl!
E’en Seneca sits staring like an owl
And strives to pilot in some heavy sea
That wisdom-laden boat, his head. Ah me,
Creperius Gallus, you are floundering deep
In red Falernian bogs, so you shall sleep
Quite soundly while your mistress takes the dip!
Fair Acerronia thinks the place a ship
And greenly sickens in the dizzy roll!
There broods Poppaea, certain of her goal,
Her veil a sea-fog clutching at the moon,
A portent to wise sailors! Very soon
The sea shall wake in hunger and be fed!
31
She smiles!—the glimmer on a thunderhead
That vomits ruin!—What has made her smile?
Ah, Nero’s wine is sugared well with guile!
So—kiss your mother—gently fondle her—
Pet the old she-cat till she mew and purr
Unto the tender hand that strokes her back:
So shall there be no sniffing at the sack!
Would that her eyes, like his, with wine were dim!
Gods! What a tragic actor died in him
To make a comic Caesar!
I surmise
By the too rheumy nature of your eyes,
Divine imperial Nero, and their sunk
Lugubrious aspect—pardon!—but you’re drunk,
Drunk as a lackey when the master’s out!
O kingly tears that down that regal snout
Pour salty love upon a mother’s breast!
So shall her timid doubts be lulled to rest!
(
Bustle within as of many rising to their feet.
)
They rise! The prologue’s ended—now the play!
32
(
He gets down from urn and goes off toward
sea.
)
(
Crying within.
)
Make way for Caesar! Ho!
Make way! Make way!
(
The musicians within strike up a martial strain.
After a few moments, within the hall appear
Nero and Agrippina, arm in arm, approaching
the flight of steps. Nero is robed in a tunic
of the color of amethyst, with a winged harp
embroidered on the front. He is crowned with
a laurel wreath, now askew in his disordered
hair. Agrippina wears a robe of maroon without
decoration. Nero endeavors to preserve
the semblance of supporting his mother, but in
fact is supported by her, while he caresses her
with considerable extravagance. They pause
half way down the steps, and the music within
changes to a low melancholy air.
)
(
Lifting her face to the moon seaward.
)
How fair a moon to crown our happy revel!
(
Gazing blankly at the moon.
)
(
Placing a loving arm closer about Nero.
)
Just such a night ‘twas, Lucius—you remember?—
When Claudius’ spirit like a smouldering ember
Struggled ‘twixt flame and ash—do you forget?
Ha ha—‘twas snuffed—ho ho!
(
Stroking his hair.
)
‘Twas then I set
34
The imperial circlet here; ‘twas then I cloaked
My boy with world-robes!
(
Still staring at moon and pointing unsteadily.
)
Have that vixen choked!
Her staring makes me stagger—where’s her veil?
It all comes back like an enchanted tale—
The moon set and the sun rose—
Dead and gone—
The sun set and the moon rose—
Nay, at dawn
The blear flame died, the new flame blossomed up.
Did someone drop a poison in my cup?
The windless sea crawls moaning—
(
They move slowly down stairs, Nero clinging to
his mother.
)
Son of mine,
Cast off the evil humors of the wine!
I am so happy and was so forlorn!
Ah, not another night since you were born
Has flung such purple through me! Son—at last
The haggard hours that parted us are past;
I’ve wept my tears and have no more to shed!
I live—I live—I live! And I was dead.
(
Clinging closer.
)
Dead—dead—what ails the sea—‘tis going red—
(
Laughter in banquet hall.
)
Who’s laughing?—Mother—scourge them from the place!
Who gave the moon Poppaea’s dizzy face
To scare the sea?
Your message gave me life!
Ah, Lucius, not for us to mar with strife
36
A world so made for loving!
Lucius dear,
I was too harsh, perhaps; the fault is here.
(
Places hand on heart.
)
(
Staring into his mother’s eyes.
)
Yea, so we mothers err:
Too long we see our babies as they were,
And last of all the world confess them tall.
They stride so far—we shudder lest they fall—
They toddle yet.
And she who bears a son
Shall be two women ever after; one
The fountain of a seaward cooing stream,
And one the shrouded virgin of a dream
Whom no man wooes, whose heart, a muted lyre,
Pines with a wild but unconfessed desire
For him who—never understands, my son!
37
I’ll be all fountain—kill that other one!
Oh, like a wind of Spring
Wooing the sere grave of a buried thing,
Your summons came! Such happy tendrils creep
Out of me, in that old ache rooted deep,
To blossom sunward greener for the sorrow.
And, O my Emperor, if on the morrow
Your heart could soften toward that gentle one,
That frail white lily pining for the sun,
Octavia, your patient little wife,
Smile, smile upon that flower and give it life!
Make of my Lucius emperor in truth,
Not Passion’s bondman!
‘Tis the way of youth
To drive wild stallions with too slack a rein
Toward fleeing goals no fleetness can attain!
Oh splendid speed that fails for lack of fear!
38
The grip of iron makes the charioteer!
The lyric fury heeds the master beat
And is the freer for its shackled feet!
You who are Law shall be more free than others
By seeming less so, Lucius.
Best of mothers,
Tomorrow—yes, tomorrow—Mother, stay!
You must not go so far, so far away!
(
They have reached the extreme right of stage.
The guests now begin to come out of banquet
hall, scattering a rippling laughter. Nero is
aroused by the merry sound, looks back, gathers
himself together with a start.
)
Ah! The moon is bright!
The sea is still! We’ll banquet every night,
Shall we not, Mother?
39
Certain cares of state
Weigh heavily—‘tis awful to be great—
Nay, terrible at times! Can I be ill?
It seemed the sea moaned—yet ‘tis very still!
Mother, my Mother—kiss me! Let us go
Down to the galley—so.
(
They pass out toward the sea, Nero caressing
his mother. The guests now throng down the
steps into the courtyard. They are in various
states of intoxication. Many are dressed to
represent mythological figures: Fauns and
Satyrs; Bacchus crowned with grape leaves,
wearing a leopard skin on his shoulders; six
Bacchantes; Psyche with wings; Luna in a
spangled tunic with silver horns in her hair;
Mercury with winged sandals and the caduceus;
Neptune in an emerald robe, crowned and
bearing the trident; Iris, rainbow-clad; Silenus.
Some are dressed in brilliant oriental garments.
There are Senators in broad bordered togas
40
with half moons embroidered on their sandals;
Pages dressed as Cupids and infant Bacchi;
Officers of the Praetorian Guard in military
uniform. Turbaned, half nude Numidian
slaves, with bronze rings in their ears, come
trotting in with litters, attended by torchbearers.
Some of the guests depart in the
litters. The music continues in banquet hall.
)
(
Staggering against Luna.
)
Who’d be a sailor when great Neptune staggers
Dashed in the Moon’s face!—Calm me, gentle Luna,
And silver me with kisses!
(
Fleeing from his outstretched arms, but regarding
him invitingly over her shoulder.
)
Fie, you wine-skin!
A hiccough’s not a tempest! Lo, I glide,
Treading a myriad stars!
41
(
Neptune follows with a rolling gait.
)
(
Looking after them as they disappear.
)
Roll, eager Tide!
Methinks ere long the wooing moon shall fall!
(
Those near laugh.
)
(
To Second Senator.
)
Was Nero acting, think you?
Not at all.
‘Twas staged, no doubt, but—
The mimic is in mimicry sincere—
The
rôle
absorbed the actor. So he wept.
(
They pass on, talking low.
)
(
To Psyche leaning on his arm.
)
Was it a vision, Psyche? Have I slept?
42
By the pink-nippled Cyprian, I swear
Our Caesar knows a woman! Gods! That hair!
Spun from the bowels of Ophir!
She?—A Circe, queen of hogs!
A cross-road Hecate, bayed at by the dogs!
A morbid Itch—
—strutting in a cloak
Of what she has not, virtue!
Ha! You joke!
All cloaks are ruses, fashioned to reveal
43
What all possess, pretending to conceal—
Who’d love a Psyche else?
(
They pass on.
)
(
To a Satyr who supports her.
)
A clever wile
Her veil is! Ah, we women must beguile
The stupid male by seeming to withhold
What’s dross, displayed, but, guarded well, is gold!
Faugh! Hunger sells it and the carter buys!
Consume me with the lightning of her eyes!
She’s Aphrodite!
Helen, then!
A peep behind that veil, and once again
The sword-flung music of the fighting men,
Voluptuous ruin and wild battle joy,
44
The swooning ache and rapture that was Troy!
Delirious doom!
(
Laughing.
)
O Sorcery of Night!
We’re all one woman in the morning light!
(
Laughing.
)
No, I rend the veil in twain!
(They mingle with the throng.)
(
To a Naval Officer.
)
The wind veers and the moon seems on the wane!
What bodes it—reinstatement for the Queen?
No seaman knows the wind and moon you mean;
Yet land were safer when those signs concur!
(
They pass on.
)
(
To a Bacchante.
)
‘Twould rouse compassion in a toad, and stir
A wild boar’s heart with pity!
(
Placing a warning hand on his mouth.
)
Could you not feel the hidden gorgon stare
The venom of her laughter dripping slow?
(
The musicians from within, having followed the
departing throng from the banquet hall, and
having stationed themselves on the steps, now
strike up a wild Bacchic air.
)
(
Swinging into the dance.
)
Bacchantes, wreathe the dance!
(
From various parts of the throng.
)
46
(
Pirouetting to the music, they assemble, circling
about Bacchus, joining hands and singing.
When the song is finished, the circle breaks,
the dancers wheel, facing outward. Bacchus
endeavors to kiss a Bacchante who regards him
with head thrown back. The dance music becomes
more abandoned, and the Bacchante flees,
pursued by Bacchus, who reels as he dances.
All the other Bacchantes follow, weaving in
and out between pursuer and pursued. The
throng laughingly makes way for them. At
length the pursued Bacchante flings off in a
mad whirl toward the grove in the background,
followed by Bacchus and the Bacchantes.
Fauns and Satyrs now take up the dance and
join in the pursuit. The throng follows
eagerly, enjoying the spectacle. All disappear
among the trees. Laughter in the distance,
growing dimmer. The musicians withdraw
into the villa and disappear, their music dying
47
out. The lights go out in the banquet hall.
The stage is now lit by the moon alone, save
for the draughty lamps within the pillared hall.
After a period of silence, re-enter Nero, walking
backward from the direction of the sea toward
which he gazes.
)
Dimmer—dimmer—dimmer—
A shadow melting in a moony shimmer
Down the bleak seaways dwindling to that shore
Where no heaved anchor drips forevermore
Nor winds breathe music in the homing sail:
But over sunless hill and fruitless vale,
Gaunt spectres drag the age-long discontent
And ponder what this brief, bright moment meant—
The loving—and the dreaming—and the laughter.
Ah, ships that vanish take what never after
Returning ships may carry.
Dawn shall flare,
Make bloom the terraced gardens of the air
48
For all the world but Lucius. He shall see
The haunted hollow of Infinity
Gray in the twilight of a heart’s eclipse.
With our own wishes woven into whips
The jealous gods chastise us!—I’m alone!
About the transient brilliance of my throne
The giddy moths flit briefly in the glow;
But when at last that light shall flicker low,
A taper guttering in a gust of doom,
What hand shall grope for Nero’s in the gloom,
What fond eyes shed the fellows of his tears?
She bore her heart these many troublous years
Before me, like a shield. And she is dead.
Her hand ‘twas set the crown upon my head;
Her heart’s blood dyed the kingly robe for me.
Dank seaweed crowns her, and the bitter sea
Enshrouds with realmless purple!
Round and round,
Swirled in the endless nightmare of the drowned,
Her fond soul gropes for something vaguely dear
49
That lures, eludes forever. Shapes that leer,
Distorted Neros of a tortured sleep,
Cry “
Mother, come to Baiae
.” Deep on deep
The green death folds her and she can not come.
Vague, gaping mouths that hunger and are dumb
Mumble the tired heart so ripe with woe,
Where night is but a black wind breathing low
And daylight filters like a ghostly rain!
O Mother! Mother! Mother!
—
(
With arms extended, he stares seaward a moment,
then covers his face, turns, and walks
slowly toward entrance of villa.
)
Vain, ‘tis vain!
How shall one move an ocean with regret?
(
He has reached the steps and pauses.
)
Ah, one hope lives in all this bleakness yet.
Song!—Mighty Song the hurt of life assuages!
This fateful night shall fill the vaulted ages
With starry grief, and men unborn shall sing
The mournful measure of the Ancient King!
50
I’ll write an ode!
(
He stands for a moment, glorified with the
thought.
)
Great heart of Nero, strung
Harplike, endure till this last song be sung,
Then break—then break—
(
Turns and mounts the steps.
)
Oh Fate, to be a bard!
The way is hard, the way is very hard!
(
A dim outburst of laughter from the revellers
in the distance.
)
II
(
The same night. Nero’s private chamber in
his villa at Baiae. Nero is discovered asleep
in his state robes on a couch, where he has evidently
thrown himself down, overcome by the
stupor incident to the feast of the night. Beside
the couch is a writing stand, bearing writing
materials. A few lights burn dimly.
Nero groans, cries out, and, as though terrified
51
by a nightmare, sits up, trembling and staring
upon some projected vision of his sleep. He
is yet only half awake.
)
Oh—oh—begone, blear thing!—She is not dead!
You are not she—my mother!—Ghastly head—
Trunkless—and oozing green gore like the sea,
Wind-stabbed! Begone! Go—do not look at me—
I will not be so tortured!—Eyes burned out
With scorious hell-spew!—Locks that grope about
To clutch and strangle!
(
He has got up from the couch and now struggles
with something at his throat, still staring at the
thing.
)
(
In an outburst of terrified tenderness extends
his arms as toward a woman.
)
Mother—mother—come
Into these arms—speak to me—be not dumb!
52
Stare not so wildly—kiss me as of old!
Be flesh again—warm flesh! Oh green and cold
As the deep grave they gave you!
‘Twas not I!
Mother, ‘twas not my will that you should die—
‘Twas hers!—I hate her! Mother, pity me!
Oh, is it you?—Sole goddess of the sea
I shall proclaim you! Pity! I shall pour
The hot blood of your foes on every shore,
A huge libation! Hers shall be the first!
I swear it! May my waking be accursed,
My sleep a-swarm with furies if I err!
(
He has advanced a short distance toward what
he sees, but now shrinks back burying his face
in his robe.
)
Go!—Spare me!—Guards! Guards!
(
Three soldiers, who have been standing guard
without the chamber, rush in and stand at
attention.
)
Seize and shackle her!
53
There ‘tis!—eh?
(
He stares blankly, rubs his eyes.
)
(
Blinks at soldiers, and cries petulantly.
)
Great Caesar summoned us.
(
Glancing nervously about.
)
The night is blear—
Make lights! I will not have these shadow things
Crawling about me! Poisoners of kings
Fatten on shadows! Quick there, dog-eyed scamp,
Lean offal-sniffer! Kindle every lamp!
(
Soldier tremblingly takes a lamp and lights a
number of others with its flame. Stage is
flooded with light.
)
By the bronze beard I swear there shall be lights
Enough hereafter, though I purge the nights
With conflagrating cities, till the crash
54
Of Rome’s last tower beat up the smouldering ash
Of Rome’s last city!
So—I breathe again!
Some cunning, faceless
god who hated men
Devised this curse of darkness! What’s the hour?
Too late! Too late! The power
Of Nero Caesar can not stay the sun!
The stars have marched against me—it is done!
And all Rome’s legions could not rout this swarm
Of venom-footed moments!
—She was warm
One little lost eternity ago.
(
With awakening resolution.
)
‘Twas not my deed! I did not wish it so!
Some demon, aping Caesar, gave the word
While Lucius Aenobarbus’ eyes were blurred
With too much beauty!
55
Oh, it shall be done!
Ere these unmothered eyes behold the sun,
She shall have vengeance, and that gift is mine!
(
To First Soldier.
)
Rouse the Praetorians! Bid a triple line
Be flung about the palace!
(
To Second Soldier.
)
Send me wine—
Strong wine to nerve a resolution!
(
To Third Soldier.
)
(
The Soldiers go out.
)
This deed I mean to do
Unties the snarl, but broken is the thread.
Would that the haughty blood these hands will shed
Might warm my mother! that the breath I crush—
So—(
clutching air
) from that throat of sorceries, might rush
Into the breast that loved and nurtured me!
56
The heart of Nero shivers in the sea,
And Rome is lorn of pity!
Could the world
And all her crawling spawn this night be hurled
Into one woman’s form, with eyes to shed
Rivers of scalding woe, her towering head
Jeweled with realms aflare, with locks of smoke,
Huge nerves to suffer, and a neck to choke—
That woman were Poppaea! I would rear
About the timeless sea, my mother’s bier,
A sky-roofed desolation groined with awe,
Where, nightly drifting in the stream of law,
The vestal stars should tend their fires, and weep
To hear upon the melancholy deep
That shipless wind, her ghost, amid the hush!
Alas! I have but one white throat to crush
With these world-hungry fingers!
(
From behind Nero, enter Page—a little boy—bearing
a goblet of wine on a salver. Nero
turns, startled.
)
I bring wine, mighty Caesar.
(
Nero passes his hand across his face, and the expression
of fright leaves.
)
So you do—
I saw—the boy Brittanicus!—One sees—
Things
—does one not?—such eerie nights as these?
(
With eager boyish earnestness.
)
(
Irritably.
)
(
The Page, startled, presents the salver, from
which Nero takes the goblet with unsteady
hand. Page is in the act of fleeing.
)
58
(
Page stops and turns tremblingly.
)
Never dare
Again to look like—anyone! Beware!
(
Page’s head shakes a timid negative. Nero
stares into goblet and muses.
)
Blood’s red too. Ah, a woman is the grape
Ripe for the vintage, from whose flesh agape
Glad feet tonight shall stamp the hated ooze!
It boils!—See!—like some witch’s pot that brews
Venomous ichor!—Nay—some angry ghost
Hurls bloody breakers on a bleeding coast!—
’Tis poisoned!—Out, Locusta’s brat!
(
Hurls goblet at Page, who flees precipitately.
)
‘Twas she!
The hand that flung my mother to the sea
Now pours me death!
Alas, great Hercules
Too long has plied the distaff at the knees
Of Omphale, spinning a thread of woe!
Was ever king of story driven so
59
By unrelenting Fate? Lo, round on round
The slow coils grip and choke—a mother drowned,
Her wrathful spirit rising from the dead—
A gentle wife outcast, discredited,
With sighs to wake the dread Eumenides!
Some thunder-hearted, vaster Sophocles,
His aeon-beating blood the stellar stream,
Has flung on me the mantle of his dream,
And Nero grapples Fate! O wondrous play!
With smoking brand aloft, the haggard Day
Gropes for the world! Pursued by subtle foes,
Superbly tragic ‘mid a storm of woes,
The fury-hunted Caesar takes the cue!
One time-outstaring deed remains to do,
Then let the pit howl—Caesar sings no more!
Go ask the battered wreckage on the shore
Who sought his mother in a sudden sleep,
To be with her forever on the deep
A twin ship-hating tempest!
(
Enter Anicetus excitedly.
)
Lost! We’re lost!
The Roman ship yaws rock-ward tempest-tossed
And Nero is but Lucius in the wreck!
Croak on! Each croak’s a dagger in that neck,
You vulture with the hideous dripping beak,
The clutching tearing talons that now reek
With what dear sacred veins!
O Caesar, hear!
So keen the news I bear you, that I fear
To loose it like the arrow it must be.
I know not why such wrath you heap on me;
I know what peril deepens ‘round my lord;
How, riven by the lightning of the sword,
The doom-voiced blackness labors round his head!
Say what I know, that my poor mother’s dead—
So shall your life be briefer!
(
A light coming into his face.
)
Yea, lives—and lives to overthrow!
—And her living is our death!
—And potent is her breath
To blow rebellion up!
(
Rubbing his eyes.
)
Still do I sleep?
62
Is this a taunting dream that I may weep
More bitterly? Or some new foul intrigue?
‘Tis bitter fact to her who swam a league,
And bitter fact to Nero shall it be!
At Bauli now, still dripping from the sea,
She crouches snarling!
(
In an outburst of joy.
)
Oh, you shall not die,
My best-loved Anicetus! Though you lie,
Sweeter these words are than profoundest truth!
They breathe the fresh, white morning of my youth
Upon the lampless night that smothered me!
O more than human Sea
That spared my mother that her son might live!
What bounty can I give?
I—Caesar—falter beggared at this gift
Of living words that lift
63
My mother from the regions of the dead!
Ah—I shall set a crown upon your head,
Snip you a kingdom from Rome’s flowing robe!
I’ll temple you in splendors! Yea, I’ll probe
Your secret heart to know what wishes pant
In wingless yearning there, that I may grant!
(
Pause, while Anicetus regards Nero with gloomy
face.
)
What sight thus makes your face a pool of gloom?
The ghost of Nero crying from his tomb!
(
Startled.
)
Even so I said.
The doomed to perish are already dead
Who woo not Fate with swift unerring deeds!
That breathless moment when the tigress bleeds
Is ours to strike in, ere the tigress spring!
64
What could it boot your servant to be king
While any moment may the trumpets cry,
Hailing the certain hour when we shall die—
Caesar, the deaf, and his untrusted slave?
Peer deep, peer deep into this yawning grave
And tell me who shall fill it!—Wind and fire,
Harnessed with thrice the ghost of her dead sire,
Your mother is tonight! She knows, she knows
How galleys founder when no tempest blows
And moonlight slumbers on a glassy deep!
The beast our wound has wakened shall not sleep
Till it be gorged with slaughter, or be slain!
Lull not your heart, O Caesar! It is vain
To dream this cub-lorn tigress will not turn.
Lo, flaring through the dawn I see her burn,
A torch of revolution! Hear her raise
The legions with a voice of other days,
Worded with pangs to fret their ancient scars!
And every sword-wound of her father’s wars
Will shriek aloud with pity!
(
During Anicetus’ speech he has shown growing
fear.
)
Listen!—There!
You heard it?—Did you hear a trumpet blare?
‘Tis but the shadow of a sound to be
One rushing hour away!
(
In panic.
)
Where shall I flee?—
I, the sad poet whom she made a king!
At last we flesh the ghost of what we sing—
We bards!—I sang Orestes.
(
His face softens with a gentler thought.
)
Ah—I’ll go
To my poor heartsick mother. Tears shall flow,
The tears of Lucius, not imperial tears.
I’ll heap on her the vast, too vast arrears
Of filial love. The Senate shall proclaim
66
My mother regnant with me—write her name
Beside Augustus with the demigods!
Yea, lictors shall attend her with the rods,
And massed Praetorians tramp the rabble down
Whene’er her chariot flashes through the town!
One should be kind to mothers.
Yea, and be
Kind to the senseless fury of the sea,
Fondle the tempest in a rotten boat!
What would you, Anicetus?
(
Nero gasps and shrinks from Anicetus.
)
No, no!—her ghost!—one can not stab so deep—
One can not kill these tortures spawned of sleep!
No, no—one can not kill them with a sword!
Faugh! One good thrust—the rest is air, my lord!
(
Enter Page timorously. Nero turns upon him.
)
(
Frightened.
)
Spare me, good Caesar!—Agerinus—
(
Page flees. Nero to Anicetus menacingly.
)
We shall know
What breath from what damned throat tonight shall hiss!
(
Enter Agerinus, bowing low.
)
My mistress sends fond greetings and a kiss
To her most noble son, and bids me say,
She rests and would not see him until day.
The royal galley, through unhappy chance,
Struck rock and foundered; but no circumstance
68
So meagre might deprive a son so dear
Of his beloved mother! Have no fear,
The long swim leaves her weary, but quite well.
She knows what tender love her son would tell
And yearns for dawn to bring him to her side.
(
To Anicetus.
)
So! Spell your doom from that! You lied! You lied!
I’ll lance that hateful fester in your throat!
Yea, we shall prove who rides the rotten boat
And supplicates the tempest!
(
With a rapid motion, Nero draws Agerinus’
sword from its sheath. Anicetus shrinks back.
Nero cries to Agerinus.
)
Wait to see
The loving message you bear back from me!
(
Nero brandishing the sword, makes at Anicetus.
As he is about to deliver the stroke, enter
Poppaea from behind. She has evidently been
69
quite leisurely about her toilet, being dressed
gorgeously; and wearing her accustomed half-veil.
Her manner is stately and composed.
She approaches slowly. Nero stops suddenly
in the act to strike Anicetus, and stares upon
the beautiful apparition. Anger leaves his face,
which changes as though he had seen a great
light.
)
(
Languidly.
)
(
Nero with his free hand brushes his eyes in perplexity.
)
I—can not—tell—
What—‘twas—I wished—I wished—
(
Haughtily.
)
(
She walks slowly on across the stage. Nero
70
stares blankly after her. The sword drops
from his hand. As Poppaea disappears, he
rouses suddenly as from a stupor.
)
(
Three soldiers enter. Nero points to Agerinus.
)
There—seize that wretch who came to kill Imperial Caesar!
(
Agerinus is seized. Nero turns to Anicetus.
)
Hasten! Do your will!
(
Nero turns, and with an eager expression on his
face, goes doddering after Poppaea.
)
III
(
The same night. Agrippina’s private chamber
in her villa at Bauli near Baiae. There is one
lamp in the room. At the center back is a
broad door closed with heavy hangings. At
the right is an open window through which
the moonlight falls. Agrippina is discovered
71
lying on a couch. One maid, Nina, is in attendance
and is arranging Agrippina’s hair.
)
He was so tender—what should kindness mean?
(
The maid seems not to hear.
)
I spoke!—you heard me speak?
And deemed my voice some ghostly summer wind
Fit for autumnal hushes? He was kind!
Was ever breath in utterance better spent?
Your slave could scarcely fancy whom you meant,
There are so many tender to the great.
When all the world is one sky-circled state,
Pray, who shall fill it as the sun the sky?
The mother of that mighty one am I—
72
And he caressed me!
I shall feel no pain
Forever now. So, drenched with winter rain,
The friendless marshland knows the boyish South
And shivers into color!
On the mouth
He kissed me, as before that other came—
That Helen of the stews, that corpse aflame
With lust for life, that—
Ah, he maidened me!
What dying wind could sway so tall a tree
With such proud music? I shall be again
That darkling whirlwind down the fields of men,
That dart unloosed, barbed keenly for his sake,
That living sword for him to wield or break,
But never sheathe!
(
Lifts herself on elbow.
)
O Nina, let me be
Robed as the Queen I am in verity!
Robed as a victrix home from splendid wars,
73
Whom, ‘mid the rumble of spoil-laden cars
Trundled by harnessed kings, the trumpets hail!
Let quiet garments be for those who fail,
Mourning a world ill-lost with meek surrenders!
I would flare bright ‘mid Death’s unhuman splendors,
Dazzle the moony hollows of the dead!
Ah no—
(
Arising and going to window.
)
(
Parts the curtains and gazes out.
)
‘Tis the dread
Still clinging from the clutches of the sea,
That living, writhing horror! Ugh! O’er me
Almost I feel the liquid terror crawl!
Through glassy worlds of tortured sleep to fall,
Where winds blow not, nor mornings ever blush,
But green, cold, ghastly light-wraiths wander—
(
Turning from window with nervous anger.
)
(
Turns again to window; after pause, continues
musingly.
)
She battles in a surf of spectral fire.
No—like some queen upon a funeral pyre,
Gasping, she withers in a fever swoon.
Had she a son too?
(
Approaching the window.
)
The moon!
See, she is strangled in a noose of pearl!
What tell-tale scars she has!
—Look yonder, girl—
Your eyes are younger—by the winding sea
Where Baiae glooms and blanches; it may be
Old eyes betray not, but some horsemen take
75
The white road winding hither by the lake.
The way lies plain—I see no moving thing.
Why thus is Agerinus loitering?
For he was ever true.
(
Joyously.
)
Ah foolish head!
My heart knows how my son shall come instead,
My little Lucius! Even now he leaps
Into the saddle and the dull way creeps
Beneath the spurred impatience of his horse,
He longs so for me!
(
Pause—She scans the moonlit country.
)
Shrouded like a corse,
Hoarding a mother’s secret, lies the sea;
And Capri, like a giant Niobe,
Outgazes Fate!
O sweet, too gentle lies
And kisses sword-like! Would the sun might rise
76
No more on Baiae! Would that earth might burst
Spewing blear doom upon this world accursed
With truth too big for hiding!
See! He sleeps
Beside her, and the shame-dimmed lamp-light creeps
Across her wine-stained mouth—so red—so red—
Like mother blood!—See! hissing round her head
Foul hate-fanged vipers that he calls her hair!
Ah no—beyond all speaking is she fair!
Sweet as a sword-wound in a gasping foe
Her mouth is; and too well, too well I know
Her face is dazzling as a funeral flame
Battened on queen’s flesh!
(
Turning angrily from window.
)
Oh the blatant shame!
The bungling drunkard’s plot!—Tonight, tonight
I shall swoop down upon them by the light
Of naked steel! Faugh! Had it come to that?
Had Rome no sword, that like a drowning rat
The mother of a king should meet her end?
77
What Gallic legion would not call me friend?
Did they not love Germanicus, my sire?
Oh, I will rouse the cohorts, scattering fire
Till all Rome blaze rebellion!
(
She has advanced to a place beside the couch,
stands in a defiant attitude for a moment, then
covers her face with her hands and sinks to the
couch.
)
No, no, no—
It could not be, I would not have it so!
Not mine to burn the tower my hands have built!
And somewhere ‘mid the shadows of his guilt
My son is good.
(
Lifts herself on elbow.
)
Look, Nina, toward the roofs
Of sleeping Baiae. Say that eager hoofs
Beat a white dust-cloud moonward.
(
Nina goes to window and peers out.
)
Landward crawls
78
A sea fog; Capri’s league-long shadow sprawls
Lengthening toward us—soon the moon will set.
—And yet—and yet—
He called me baby names. Ah, ghosts that wept
Big tears down smiling faces, twined and crept
About my heart, and still I feel their tears.
They make me joyous.—After all these years,
The little boy my heart so often dirged
Shivered the man-husk, beardless, and emerged!
He kissed my breasts and hung upon my going!
Once more I felt the happy nurture flowing,
The silvery, tingling shivers of delight!
What though my end had come indeed tonight—
I was a mother!
—Have you children?
Lovers go
Like wind, as lovers come; I am unwed.
How lonely shall you be among the dead
Where hearts remember, but are lorn of hope!
Poor girl! No dream of tiny hands that grope,
And coaxing, hunting little mouths shall throw
Brief glories ‘round you!
Nina, I would go
Like any brazen bawd along the street,
Hailing the first stout carter I should meet,
Ere I would perish childless! Though we nurse
The cooing thing that some day hurls the curse,
Forge from our hearts the matricidal sword,
80
The act of loving is its own reward.
We mothers need no pity!
‘Twill be said,
When this brief war is done, and I am dead,
That I was wanton, shameless—be it so!
Unto the swarm of insect scribes I throw
The puffed-up purple carcass of my name
For them to feast on! Pointed keen with shame,
How shall each busy little stylus bite
A thing that feels not! I have fought my fight!
That mine were but the weapons of the foe,
Too well the ragged scars I bear can show.
Oh, I have triumphed, and am ripe to die!
About my going shall the trumpets cry
Forever and forever!
I can thread
The twilit under-regions of the dead
A radiant shadow with a heart that sings!
Before the myriad mothers of great kings
I shall lift up each livid spirit hand
81
Spotted with blood—and they shall understand
How small the price was!
(
The tramp of soldiery and the clatter of arms
are heard from without. Nina, panic-stricken,
runs to window, peers out, shrinks back, and,
turning, flees by a side door.
)
Why do you flee?
Did I not say my son would come to me?
‘Tis Nero—Nero Caesar, Lord of Rome!
My little boy grown tall is coming home!
(
She goes to window, peers out, shrinks back,
then turns toward the door and sees three
armed men standing there—Anicetus, the
Captain of a Galley and a Centurion of the
Navy. The men stare at her without moving.
)
(
Silence.
)
82
To know my health?—Go tell
My son, your master, I am very well—
And happy—
(
The men make no reply. Agrippina straightens
her body haughtily.
)
—If like cowards in the night
You come to stab a woman—
(
Drawing his sword and speaking to Captain.
)
(
The men spring forward with drawn swords.
Agrippina does not move. The light is
stricken out.
)
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
-
Added missing period to many stage directions to conform with majority practice in
book.
-
Changed 'faneless' to 'faceless' on p.
54
.
-
Silently corrected typographical errors.
-
Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
