QJarncU UttiuerHttg Slibrarg 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE 
 
 SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 HENRY W. SAGE 
 
 1891 
 
PR5527.T7T916""'"'"'""'"^ 
 Tragedies. 
 
 3 1924 01'3 557 230 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013557230 
 
TRAGEDIES BY ARTHUR SYMONS. 
 
TRAGEDIES BY ARTHUR SYMONS. 
 
 NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 
 LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN 
 
 1916. 
 
K.S-lH-oU'^ 
 
 Printed in Grtat Britain. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE HARVESTERS. Page i. 
 
 THE DEATH OF AGRIPPINA. Page 87. 
 
 CLEOPATRA IN JUD^A. Page 123. 
 
THE PERSONS. 
 
 Michael Raven. 
 Peter Corin. 
 Richard : a boy. 
 
 Mary Raven. 
 
 Ann Saundry. 
 
 Tamson Trembath. 
 
 Jane Angove. 
 
 Vecchan : the village "innocent." 
 
 Villagers, Passengers in the coach, a Sailor. 
 
 The Scene takes place at S. Ruan, a village in 
 Cornwall, in the early part of the Nineteenth Century. 
 
Act I. 
 
 MICHAEL raven's cottagc at S. Tiuan. Three "women, one 
 old and two younger are sitting at the kitchen table, 
 drinking tea. mary raven stands by the open fire- 
 place, as if she had just set the kettle bac^ on the 
 hearth, all are listening to the voice of vecchan, 
 'which is heard outside, as the Curtain rises, singing : — 
 
 Father cursed and Mother cried 
 (Ho ! the sickle is in the corn). 
 It's a year ago to-day that I died 
 And a year ago I was born. 
 
 Ann Saundry. 
 
 It's only Vecchan : the poor innocent ! 
 
 There's always death and birth in what she sings. 
 
 And she herself is like a crooked shadow 
 
 Bending bright things into dark images 
 
 That go before their feet. 
 
 Tamson Trembath. 
 
 She's in the wind 
 Always when there's a wind at night. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 I heard her 
 Singing her song and calling to the sea 
 The night my John was drowned. 
 
 Mary Raven. 
 
 I love the child. 
 
She comes and talks to me when I'm alone. 
 She's wiser than most folk. 
 
 Jane Angove. 
 
 She frightens me. 
 I'm thinking she brings no one any luck. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 She knows more things about us than we know. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 It's only life and death and suchlike things 
 
 That matter ; all the rest is like the wind. 
 
 And comes and goes. I knew my John was dead 
 
 Three days before they found him. When I saw 
 
 His body on the sand I had no tears left ; 
 
 I had wept all the water of my eyes. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Ann, it's not we who know these things at all ; 
 
 I say let be, and bide the time of them. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 You never were the one to fret and talk 
 "When fretting was no use, and talk worse help. 
 I mind me when your mother died, you went 
 Into the fields a-gleaning from her grave. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 How's the old man ? 
 
 4 
 
Mary. 
 
 He is well. He is old. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 Old folks get questioning, old folks would know 
 More than there is to tell them ; does he now. 
 Your father, heed the neighbour's talk at all 
 Of Peter Corin.? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 What should father hear, 
 Or heed ? But father's supper will be cold. 
 
 [She goes over to the fire-place and moves a covered 
 
 plate nearer to the fire. 1 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Mary, it's time to speak. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I haven't time 
 To listen : neighbours' talk is neighbours' talk. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Mary, don't say I ever said a word 
 
 Behind your back I wouldn't to your face : 
 
 My girl, I only want to be your friend. 
 
 You haven't lived, as I have, fifty years 
 
 To know what folks can do by telling tales : 
 
 You're young, and not afraid of people's tongues ; 
 
 Yet evil enough comes by people's tongues. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Evil enough : why do you tell me then 
 
 What I've no mind to hear ? 
 
Tamson. 
 
 Why, for your good ! 
 What I've been told I tell you, for your good 
 I tell you : is it nothing to a maid 
 That harvesters o'nights over their pipes. 
 Over their ale beside the furrow, say 
 It's time the banns were called at Ruan Church ? 
 
 Ann [After a pause]. 
 It's getting dark. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I'll light the candle. Well ? 
 
 [Ske lights a candle on the table J] 
 
 Jane Angove. 
 
 The fishermen at Cadgwith ask our men 
 Who's late enough abed to see o'nights 
 Peter and Mary on Goonhilly Downs. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 He has his friends ; but they are not my friends : 
 
 If Peter is my friend, what's that to them .? 
 
 Jane. 
 
 No, no my dear, don't you fly out on us ; 
 We're none of Peter's friends, only of yours. 
 Friend do you say ? Of Peter } that's a word 
 A woman were best stint to any man. 
 And most of all to Peter. But some say 
 He's asked for you in marriage : I'll be bound 
 They know it best, and there's no harm at all. 
 6 
 
Mary. 
 
 No man has asked for me in marriage. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 No? 
 Then I'm mistaken, and no harm at all. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Why do they talk about us ? by what right ? 
 No man has any right to take my name 
 Into his pipe's smoke or his ale-house breath. 
 
 Ann [Qetting up and coming to her\. 
 Don't heed them, Mary ; and let Tamson talk : 
 There's many things much worse to bear than talk, 
 You don't know what it is to sit and think, 
 And hear the wind, when you've a man at sea ; 
 Nor when there's nothing left to think of. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 No, 
 I don't know that. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Ann's thinking all day long 
 Of things that won't be mended ; there are things 
 Thinking might mend. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 They are not worth the thought : 
 It's not the real things you think about. 
 But women's words, fancies of boys and men. 
 
The good name of a maid or of a man. 
 The good name of a maid or of a man 
 Is neither life nor death. 
 
 [^Ske goes back to the table.'] 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Talk as you will ! 
 Her grief has made her strange of speech ; but you, 
 Mary, you'll have to listen, not to us, 
 But to the louder tones about the lanes. 
 That are too busy with you. Take my word. 
 The last to hear what everyone but he 
 Knows for a rumour, won't take long to know 
 Rumour from truth ; the first to know, my girl. 
 Will be your father. Though you'll not heed us, 
 You will heed him. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Here's father. 
 [The door opens, and Michael raven comes in and 
 looks at the three "WomeHy without looking at mary.] 
 
 Michael. 
 
 A rough night. \To Mary.] My supper. 
 [He sits down at the table where the knife and fork are 
 laid for him.] 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Michael, 
 8 
 
 Have you been to chapel } 
 
 Ay. 
 
Tamson. 
 
 Did you see Nicholas there with Martha ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 No. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 None of the neighbours ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 I went to seek the Lord, 
 And not the neighbours. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 You are as bitter, Michael, 
 As if you had not found him. When you hear 
 The preacher pray " Forgive us our trespasses 
 As we forgive them that have trespassed against us," 
 How do you join in that ? You'd not forgive 
 A neighbour's talk against you in his sleep. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Here is your supper, father. [She sets it before him.'] 
 
 Jane \To tamson and ann]. 
 
 Come, it's late ; 
 We were best moving, Michael. 
 
 Michael [Eating]. 
 
 Not for me. 
 
Tamson. 
 
 Mary, my shawl ; come, Ann, we're going. [Aside to 
 
 MARY.] Mind, 'tis for your good we spoke. Michael, 
 
 good-night. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Good-night. \The women slowly get up.] 
 
 Jane [Opening the door]. 
 'Tis a high wind. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 What of the wind ? 
 There's no wind drowns a dead man in the sea. 
 [They all go out. mary closes the door.] 
 
 Michael. 
 
 What did that woman say ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Nothing, father. 
 
 Michael [Putting away his plate]. 
 Nothing, you say ? Is it all nothing then 
 These women say to you } They say to me 
 Something much more than nothing. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Who, father ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 I ask you questions : is it a daughter's place 
 
 lO 
 
To stand before her father and say nothing, 
 And ask him to his face : who told you this ? 
 Who told you that ? Is it a daughter's place 
 To ask and not to answer ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 When have I 
 Not done my duty, father ? When have I 
 Not been a daughter to you ' 
 
 ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 You have done 
 Your duty as a daughter : now will I do 
 My duty as a father. Stand you there. 
 Listen, and speak. Your mother was my wife 
 Nigh thirty years : and twenty years of youth : 
 She lived an honest woman, and so died : 
 And there was not an evil tongue of man 
 Wagged at her from the cradle to the grave. 
 God took her, and he left me in her place 
 You : and have I not done for you all things 
 A father in a mother's place could do ? 
 Answer. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Yes, father. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 What I did for you 
 I did for her sake, and I promised her 
 I'd keep you a good girl, and fit for her. 
 Until the clods of the valley that I'd hoed 
 
 II 
 
Had me and held me under. Honest, eh ? 
 What's honesty if 'tis not honestly 
 Chronicled, current in the sight of the world ? 
 1 promised her you should keep pure the name 
 I gave her and she gave you : now, the name. 
 What have you done with what was once a pure. 
 Honourable and uncontaminated name ? 
 The harvesters toss it among their chafF, 
 The fishers cast it loose out of their nets, 
 The women root it like a gaudy weed 
 Out of their gardens : Mary, answer me. 
 What have you done with it, the name, the name 
 
 Mary. 
 
 father, you are cruel to me ; stop ; 
 What have I done, what can I say to you ? 
 
 1 think that if I told you all the truth 
 You would not now believe me. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 May be no. 
 It's not the truth I ask for : that's with God 
 Who knows, and when He wills for us to know 
 We shall know all, in order and due time. 
 If indeed you are guilty, and have sinned. 
 Wholly, and broken down the fence of God, 
 And made His temple an idolator's ; 
 If indeed you are guilty, I must speak 
 To another purpose ; but I ask of you 
 Why you have merely soiled, not cast away. 
 The reputation of an honest maid .'' 
 You will say nothing .'' 
 
 12 
 
Mary. 
 
 father, be kind ; 
 
 I have been foolish, and I never thought. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Has Peter Corin never thought for you ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 No, no, he hasn't thought. How could he know 
 There were so many listeners at doors. 
 Tale-bearers, spying eyes about the fields ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 You say that they who listened could have heard, 
 And they who looked have seen, and they who told 
 Had truth to tell : do you say that ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 1 say 
 
 Nothing ; I deny nothing. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 So ; that's plain. 
 You will say nothing if I ask you next 
 What I have said I would not ask you yet ? 
 You'll not lie, you'll say nothing ? Then, hear this : 
 If, as they say, you have sinned, and if your sin 
 Should find you out, and all men know your sin. 
 You are my daughter still, I give you bed, 
 I give you bread, and your child bed and bread ; 
 But, as God lives, and as he hears me speak, 
 I will not ever speak to you again ; 
 
 13 
 
Not while I live, not when I die, and not 
 If we should meet before the throne of God ! 
 
 [mary falls on her knees, in terror, michael rises, 
 
 takes a candle, and goes upstairs^ 
 
 [There is a tap at the door, which she does not hear; 
 
 then the door softly opens, and peter corin comes in, 
 
 closes it behind him, comes up to her, and touches her 
 
 on the shoulder. She springs up and flings her arms 
 
 ronnd him.'] 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Peter ! no, no, don't speak ; kiss me ; 'tis you. 
 
 Put your arms round me, Peter, hold me fast. 
 
 Peter [Putting her from him]. 
 Mary, no foolishness : I don't come here 
 To whistle in the wind outside your door 
 And hear your father casting Bible texts 
 About like curses. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 O, if you had heard 
 What father said ; you don't know what he said. 
 But he has burned my heart up with his words. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 I heard him ranting like a Methody, 
 
 Mouthing out God, God, and the throne of God ; 
 
 I'll not come here if 'tis a chapel you keep. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Peter, Peter, be kind to me ! 
 
 14 
 
Peter. 
 
 My dear, 
 I never was unkind to any woman 
 And you know best if I'm unkind to you. 
 If I came here to-night : you sent for me, 
 I don't know why, and yet, in spite of that, 
 I came for you and nothing else but you. 
 What do I find ? Your father's Bible texts 
 And you with white-lipped kisses frightening me ! 
 What is the matter ? Did you want me here ? 
 Shall I go home again ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Don't leave me now, 
 I wouldn't dare stay here. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Well, then, a kiss. 
 I want it, and I'll have it. And no words, 
 Not a half smile, no pretty word at all ? 
 Is this your welcome ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I will try to smile ; 
 I have no pretty words ; such as I have, 
 I have more to speak than you would wish to hear. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 That's like enough ; what might they be about ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Do you still love me, Peter ? 
 
 15 
 
Peter. 
 
 Why, of course. 
 
 Mary, 
 
 Just as you did ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Just as I always did. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Peter, I haven't any other friend. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 O yes, you have : I met a friend of yours. 
 
 Mary. 
 Who.? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Vecchan, singing some old crazy song. 
 She humped her crooked back at me and ran. 
 She hates me. All such misbegotten brats 
 Ought to be drowned, and not be let to live. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 She loves me, and a body that can love 
 Is good enough to live. I envy her, 
 For she can see the other side of things. 
 Like our dreams can. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 What's dreaming ? Good enough 
 For beggars. 
 i6 
 
Mary. 
 
 She is happier than we are. 
 Her life is all one dream : she lives on alms 
 And takes them as fine ladies might take gifts ; 
 She told me that her cottage walls were gold 
 And that she was the daughter of a King. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 She fools you with her folly : are you wise ? 
 The brat's a gallows-child and bides no luck. 
 I hate her, and I hate her apish brain, 
 And wits askew like her misshapen back. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 It isn't right of you to say these things ; 
 
 It frightens me to hear you. But don't speak 
 
 Of Vecchan if it angers you : be kind : 
 
 Father is angry with me : people talk : 
 
 You know how people talk about us two. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Talk ? let them talk ; what harm is people's talk ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Father believes them. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 What can he believe ? 
 There's nothing known, there's nothing to be known. 
 Keep quiet, my good girl, we're safe enough. 
 
 B 17 
 
Mary. 
 
 No, no, there's nothing safe ; for you and me 
 
 There's nothing safe 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Well, maybe not for me. 
 You've never thought of what / have to lose. 
 If this should come to light and be the talk ? 
 Why some day I might want to wed three barns. 
 Five acres, an old maid thrown in to boot. 
 I'm quite a likely fellow. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 No, not that, 
 I'll not think that of you against yourself. 
 Not on your oath. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 A man must have his joke. ■ 
 Still, they do talk ; and it does me no good. 
 Look here, we'll be more careful. Now to-night. 
 If someone saw me waiting by the door 
 Until the old man's candle goes upstairs. 
 Well, they might think, they might say what they 
 thought. 
 
 And what they said might not be good for us. 
 I'll be more careful. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 You'll not come at all ! 
 I know ! You've had enough of me, and now 
 You will be careful. Yes, I know the word : 
 i8 
 
Careful to drop me like a red-hot coal 
 Out of your clean, honest and open hand ! 
 
 Peter. 
 
 No, Mary, I am not that sort of man. 
 
 I don't play fast and loose with what I like. 
 
 I take things and I keep things ; if you think 
 
 I mean to let you go, come here no more. 
 
 Not meet you on the downs, not hold you, no, 
 
 As long as I've a mind to ; let you be 
 
 The miss again, the go-to-chapel miss ; 
 
 You're wrong ! I don't let go of what I've got ; 
 
 Now are you mine or not, eh ? 
 
 Mary [Putting her arms around him\. 
 
 O, all yours, 
 There's nothing in me, Peter, that's not yours. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Why, that's all right. If there's a rarer girl 
 
 From sea to sea in Cornwall, or a girl 
 
 That's better loved by any Cornish chap. 
 
 Miner or fisherman or harvestman. 
 
 Back me against Tregeagle : I'll out-dredge 
 
 Dosmare Pool with half his limpet-shell ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Don't say these things : they make me feel afraid. 
 If we're too certain of ourselves, you know 
 Something is sure to happen. I hardly dare 
 To think how happy we have been. 
 
 19 
 
Peter. 
 
 Why not ? 
 
 Mary, 
 
 Do you remember how we used to meet 
 
 By Vecchan's cottage on the downs ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 I do. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I always was the first. Night after night 
 
 I crept away, and came across the fields, 
 
 Until I felt the first wind from the heath. 
 
 And I would stand and drink great draughts of wind 
 
 Till I was drunken with the honey and salt, 
 
 And drunken with the night, and then you came 
 
 With all the salt and honey in your lips. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 They were rare nights. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I never thought of you 
 Without the thought of honey and of salt 
 And of that first wind blowing from the heath, 
 A windy place, a no-man's land, a harsh 
 Unfriendly place where it is good to be. 
 All other men belong to the tilled fields. 
 And are as orderly as ranks of corn. 
 And cattle in the valley ; only you 
 20 
 
Belong to the long heath that never ends, 
 And to the wind blowing to the heath's end. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 It's only on the heath a man feels free. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I used to go alone there, long ago, 
 
 That was before we went together ; then, 
 
 I walked for miles along the empty road. 
 
 Between the gorse and heather, all alone, 
 
 And heard the birds singing, and felt as free 
 
 As they were : now I couldn't go alone 
 
 And feel so free : I couldn't be free now. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 1 wouldn't let you free, Mary, by God ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 You'll never let me free now, Peter .'' 
 
 Peter. 
 
 No. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Not even if — 
 
 Peter. 
 
 What do you mean by if? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 If people talked against me ; if they came 
 
 21 
 
To cast your name into my teeth, and I 
 Stood shamed, and father cast me ofF from him ; 
 If what is secret now between us two 
 The children talked about us in the roads ; 
 If 
 
 Peter. 
 
 AU your ifs are less then one round nought ; 
 There's nothing except one thing left to fear ; 
 And that, well, we'll know that before they do. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 If there were reason for the people's talk ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 How could there be a reason for their talk ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I do not say there is, but if there were ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Out with the truth, Mary, out with the truth ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Peter, you'll not be angry if I speak ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 I want to know the truth, only the truth. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 O God, it's true. 
 
 22 
 
Peter. 
 
 If this is some damned lie ! 
 
 Mary, 
 
 O, it's no lie, it's nothing but the truth. 
 
 Peter. 
 Fool! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 No, don't, Peter, don't ! you'll kill me. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 L 
 It's after all some trick, some trap of yours — 
 
 Mary. 
 
 It's true, Peter, as true as misery, 
 
 And wretched as the misery of truth. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Now I know how the pleasure of a man 
 
 Ends ; I am caught, and shamed, and fooled : for 
 
 what ? 
 
 A woman, a woman, to the end of time ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Have you no pity ? won't you think of me, 
 Peter, and all the suffering and the shame, 
 And all because I loved you .'' Father says 
 He'll never speak a word to me again : 
 You'll not forsake me, Peter, and because 
 
 23 
 
I loved you more than any woman should ? 
 Say that you love me, Peter, just the same ! 
 
 Peter. 
 
 What's done is done, 
 
 Mary, 
 
 Peter ! 
 
 Peter. 
 
 They knew, it seems ; 
 I didn't know ; you never told me. Eh, 
 Why did you never tell me ? Stand and speak ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 You don't know what I mean ? 
 How do I know that what you mean means me ? 
 
 Mary. 
 Peter ! 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Well ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Do you want an answer ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 No. 
 24 
 
Mary. 
 
 If you woujd have an answer you must wait 
 Till God makes me another kind of woman 
 And you the man I took you for till now. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Come, 1 meant nothing. Put it out of mind. 
 
 What's done is done, and there's no more to say. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 What shall we do ? what's left for us to do ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 What should I do ? what could I do, my lass ? 
 
 There's nothing to be done : bide still and wait. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 You'll let me wait until I come to shame. 
 I thought my father loved me : now I need 
 The help of love, he casts me from his heart. 
 He's kinder than you are. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 There's time enough. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 You speak to me as if you hate me now, 
 
 And I repent that I have trusted you 
 
 25 
 
With all my shame : you hate me for my shame, 
 You won't be honest with me any more. 
 
 Peter, 
 
 Mary, we've only done like other folks ; 
 
 They don't get found out : we're to be found out. 
 
 Whose fault is that ? I say it isn't fair. 
 
 There's something in the world that isn't fair. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Peter, won't you put wrong things to rights 
 And mend the world .'' If every man did that. 
 We women would be out of the world's harm. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 What can I mend ? I didn't make the world. 
 It's made all of a piece, it's made for them 
 That go to chapel and sleep sound o 'nights. 
 It's not made for such women and such men 
 As you and I are : as for mending it, 
 
 1 haven't any mind to : let it go. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 But, Peter, it won't let us live our lives ; 
 It comes between us and the face of the sun ; 
 We cannot fight against things as they are. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Did I not tell you ? Things are as they are ; 
 
 We have to make the best of them. Now come ; 
 
 Don't think about this thing that can't be helped. 
 
 There's time enough. We'll talk of it again. 
 
 26 
 
Mary. 
 
 There's nothing now but this to think about, 
 
 And what's the good of talking ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Little use. 
 No sort of use to-night. [He gets up as if to goI\ 
 
 Mary. 
 
 You're going ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Ay. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Now you don't want to kiss me. 
 
 Peter [Seizing her in his arms']. 
 
 But I do, 
 But I will, Mary, till come never-mass. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Now let me go. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 And don't you dream of it. 
 And, Mary, don't you say a word ot this, 
 
 Mary. 
 
 What should I say to anyone but you ? 
 
 The children will all know it soon enough. 
 
 27 
 
Peter. 
 
 Bide still and wait, my lass. 
 
 [He kisses her, and goes out. She stands motionless for 
 a moment, then goes to the fire, takes a twist of paper, 
 and lights a candle. She takes up the candle and goes 
 slowly across the room towards the stairs.] 
 
 Mary [^^ith a bitter laugh]. 
 Bide still and wait ! 
 
 THE CURTAIN. 
 
 28 
 
Act II. 
 
 The harvest field in August, michael raven is lying 
 asleep under a hayrick; tamson, ann, and jane 
 stand near him looking down on him^ holding sickles 
 in their hands. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 He is asleep ; we'll wait until he wakes ; 
 He has been sharpening sickles all the day : 
 An old man's labour, but too much for him. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 How old he looks. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 You'd hardly say 'twas he, 
 The Michael Raven or a year ago. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 True, trouble packs an old man's back with years. 
 
 Twice his own bundle. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 We will let him sleep 
 Where he has made a bed out of the shade. 
 Let us sit down : this shade is comfortable, 
 And such a harvest sun to dry the corn. 
 And soak to the very marrow of our bones 
 I have not known these thirty or more years. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Well, well, my back is almost broken in two 
 
 29 
 
With gathering up the corn into my arms 
 And stooping down with every sickle-stroke. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 It's good to rest ; there's none of the twelve hours 
 
 That hasn't got its corner on the clock 
 
 Marked out for resting. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Mary never came. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 Better she didn't : she's too near her time. 
 It's cruel for a woman when she needs 
 To lie abed, whether she's rich or poor. 
 To have to crawl about a harvest field, 
 Even to glean a handful. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 She will come, 
 I am sure of it, for she came yesterday. 
 Though she was shaking like a blade of grass . 
 That stands as cold as water in the sun. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Look at her father. How can he sleep there 
 
 As quiet as a child ? I saw him smile, 
 
 As if he dreamed : how can he sleep, I say. 
 
 When Mary hasn't where to lay her head ? 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 You are unjust : you never can be just : 
 
 30 
 
He has been cruel to her, that is true. 
 
 Not heartless, for he gives her bed and board. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Not heartless .? well, he gave her bed and board 
 
 (And little praise it's like to be to him) 
 
 Until three nights ago ; but these three nights — 
 
 Jane. 
 
 Hush, he is waking ! 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 No, he moved in sleep. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 These three night past she's had no bed, or had 
 The heather for a bed : cold charity : 
 Night and the wind upon Goonhilly Downs ! 
 And if her father thrust her out of doors. 
 Or if the girl was crazed and couldn't sleep, 
 I don't well know, and see small difference. 
 That man would be as righteous as God is : 
 Look you what comes to men of righteousness ! 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 You're hard upon him. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 He was hard on her. 
 What is a father for, if not to help 
 
 31 
 
His children when they need him, and to love 
 His children when they're far beyond his help ? 
 It is so soon they get beyond his love, 
 And are no more than bodies that won't stir 
 For any father ; then a father knows 
 That nothing matters except life and death ; 
 Then he learns pity, when it is too l^te 
 To pity but himself. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 He was too hard. 
 For we are all but sinners : a hard man : 
 But it was not for nothing, as we thought ; 
 He had good cause. Who thought, when you and I 
 Bade Mary be more careful of her name. 
 That all the care was over .'' 
 
 Jane. 
 
 Ay, who thought ? 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Why, I did. There are women who step in 
 
 Knee-deep into the slough, and then step back 
 
 A little fouled, and wash their feet of it, 
 
 And go their way. But she's not one of such. 
 
 If Mary gave her heart to any man 
 
 She would keep nothing over ; and for that. 
 
 She is the cleaner and the honester. 
 
 And liker to her father. He and she. 
 
 Father and daughter, have an equal will : 
 
 His will not bend and hers can only break. 
 
 32 
 
Jane. 
 
 He has not spoken to her, so they say, 
 Since he knew all. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Not a word, not one word. 
 No wonder the poor girl is well-nigh crazed. 
 To sit by the same fire, and to eat food 
 At the same table, and not speak, and not 
 Be answered if you speak. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 They die of silence,- 
 He on this side, she on that side of the fire ; 
 And as she droops and withers he grows old. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 Will nothing bend his will ? 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Nothing on earth ; 
 Because he takes it for the will of God. 
 I passed outside the window one dark night. 
 And heard, as I thought, voices, and looked in ; 
 And she was kneeling on the kitchen floor. 
 And lifting up her hands and bowing down 
 Her proud white face upon them ; and I heard 
 Such a poor pitiful and loving prayer 
 For pity, that I could not listen to it. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 Did not he listen ? 
 
 c 33 
 
Ann. 
 
 Turned his head, and sat, 
 Not moving, like a thing frozen to stone ; 
 But as I looked into his eyes and saw 
 All that was in them, he not knowing it. 
 They seemed to flicker like a flame that burns 
 Quite out to ashes. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 There is Peter Corin ; 
 
 Coming this way. 
 
 [peter corin, carrying a sickle in his hand, crosses 
 the cornfield and, seeing the women, stops, takes out his 
 pipe, and is going to speak, when he catches sight oj 
 MICHAEL RAVEN lying askep ; he shrugs his shoulders, 
 puts his pipe in his mouth again, and passes on. 
 Presently he is seen at work at the other end of the 
 field, and remains there thoughout the next tart of the 
 scene."] 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Let sleeping dogs lie, eh ? 
 It isn't Peter Corin who would come 
 Nearer to Michael Raven in his sleep 
 Than half the field's length. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 A man fears a man 
 When he has robbed him ; but he need not tear. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 But he has cause to fear him. 
 
 34 
 
Tamson. 
 
 What of that ? 
 It is himself, and his own flesh and blood, 
 That Michael can't forgive ; as for the man 
 Who wronged him, he's a sinner, and not saved ; 
 But Michael's saved, and Mary, if she sins, 
 Sins doubly, having once been saved from sin. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Is that religion ? 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 No, it's vanity 
 Of the spirit, pride of virtue, self itself. 
 Under a garment of humility. 
 Only, I pity Michael more than her 
 That he's unfathered, for the father in him 
 Dies with worse agonies. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 Hush ! he is waking up. 
 
 [michael sits up and looks round him.] 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Where are your sickles ? 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Here. You have been asleep. 
 We were tired too, and waited till you woke. 
 
 MICHAEL [(getting up]. 
 
 Give me the sickles ; I will sharpen them. 
 
 [He begins to sharpen them.] 
 
 35 
 
I have done wrong to sleep away my time. 
 I'm a hired servant, I am hired to work, 
 Not sleep. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 You will work better if you rest. 
 Rest awhile longer, till the heavy heat 
 Of the full middle of the day is past. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 I have my work to do. You can be idle. 
 
 I do not judge you, though you waste the hours 
 
 In sitting idly while I lie asleep : 
 
 You should have wakened me to do my work. 
 
 [richard, a boy, comes up with a sickle.^ 
 
 Richard. 
 
 Here, Master Raven, Peter Corin says 
 
 His sickle will not cut. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Give it to me. 
 It wants a better edge. I'll sharpen it. 
 
 \He puts it aown.] 
 
 Richard. 
 
 You'll do it now though, Peter Corin says ? 
 
 Michael [laying down the other sickle, and taking it up']. 
 
 Yes, I will do it now. This one can wait. 
 
 36 
 
Tamson. 
 
 You call us idle : have you worked like us, 
 
 Stooping above the corn and cutting it 
 
 In armfuls for the binders, and with all 
 
 The sun's weight like a haystack on our backs ? 
 
 Michael, 
 
 My business is to sharpen this good steel 
 So that the sickles may be sharp to cut 
 The corn before the night comes, or the rain. 
 If I should sleep now, and not sharpen them. 
 Or leave a broken edge upon the blade. 
 There would be less good bread in ovens, less 
 Women and children fed : see how things hang 
 Upon an old man's shoulders ! if I leave 
 One sickle dull, one duty not well done, 
 The proper course of things may go to wrong, 
 One of God's ordinances may fail ! 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Who knows ? 
 I'd not be looking out so far for them. 
 But nearer home, Michael. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 What's to be done 
 Is nearest home : this is my work : do yours. 
 
 Tamson. 
 Well, well. 
 
 37 
 
Michael [To richard]. 
 
 Here is your sickle : I have put 
 A better edge upon it : it will serve 
 Until it is too dark to see the corn. 
 
 [richard takes the sickle hack to peter corin.J 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Give us our sickles. 
 
 \They get up and move a few steps away.] 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Yours is nearly done. 
 
 Ann [Aside]. 
 
 Look, there is Mary : past that arish-mow. 
 
 Jane [Aside]. 
 
 She sees us : not her father. 
 
 Ann [Aside]. 
 
 Let her come. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Your sickle has a duller edge than that. 
 
 It will not come so sharp. 
 
 Tamson [Aside]. 
 
 She is past work. 
 
 [mary comes in, dragging herself along painfully. She 
 
 only sees the women.] 
 38 
 
Mary. 
 
 I have come without a sickle 
 
 Because I am too weak to reap the corn ; 
 
 What can I do to help you ? 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Come with us. 
 
 Michael [To tamson]. 
 
 Here is your sickle. These are not so dull. 
 
 But I will bring them to you. 
 
 [mary, hearing his voice, turns, and stands looking at 
 him without a word, while he goes on with his work, 
 not lifting his eyes."] 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Come with us. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 no, not now : leave me alone with him. 
 
 1 will speak to him, and I will come to you. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 Best come with us. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 You see she will not come. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Leave her alone : her silence will plead now 
 
 If ever any words will. 
 
 ^They go out. mary speaks, slowly, with a pause 
 between each section, michael goes on with his work, 
 not lifting his eyes.J 
 
 39 
 
Mary. 
 
 Father ! . . Father ! . . Father ! 
 I must speak, and, if you'll not hear me now, 
 I think that I shall curse you ; yet not I : 
 God would forgive me : not your daughter : only 
 This tongue that you must reverence ; for it speaks 
 Not from my heart, but deeper, from the womb. 
 If you will hear me, I'll not ask one word. 
 Not a look ; do not even turn to me, 
 Or seem to hear ; but you will hear me. Else, 
 If I go mad and curse you, you may die 
 Without God's pity. 
 
 God must pity me. 
 If He has that for any woman ; sure. 
 No woman wants it more ; and he must know 
 That I have had no pleasure in my sin 
 That might have made it harder to forgive. 
 
 Father, I could not sleep under your roof : 
 
 These three nights past I have not slept but lain 
 
 On the poor friendly pillow of the ground 
 
 Until the dreadful morning. The cold wind 
 
 Has been more kind to me than your charity, 
 
 And if I could have slept, for thoughts, my sleep 
 
 Would have been sounder. And I heard the cry 
 
 Of the companionable morning birds 
 
 And all the little voices of the heath, 
 
 Instead of cruel silence, which shuts up 
 
 Your heart into a stone. I could go mad 
 
 To see you and be silent, as if you were 
 
 The gaoler of a madwoman. And yet 
 
 I must not, and I have to live. 
 
 40 
 
Father, 
 
 I am your child, my child will be your child : 
 
 Have pity ! 
 
 Sometimes I could wish to die ; 
 
 I would have died, but now I must not die ; 
 
 And, father, you are killing me ; each day 
 
 A little more of silence eats my heart. 
 
 Old man, I am not asking in my name 
 
 Pity ; I have forgotten if I was 
 
 Your daughter once, a mother for her child 
 
 Cries, and must not be silenced. 
 
 God make you dumb 
 
 As you are deaf, and as you turn my blood 
 
 Into a frenzy, may a stony cold 
 
 Freeze up your veins ; and as you kill in me 
 
 Bone of the bones you made, flesh of my flesh, 
 
 May God forgive you only when I do ! 
 
 [She flings herself on her face on the ground. As she 
 says the last wordSy vecchan steals in, with an 
 affected air, dressed in grotesque finery, with ribbons 
 flying. She is about sixteen, small, and slightly 
 hunchbacked. She carries in her hand a wreath of 
 corn and poppies?^ 
 
 Vecchan. 
 
 Wicked old man ! I'll not see you at church. 
 
 You are not to be admitted. Get you gone. 
 
 Michael [Rising and taking up the two sickles, without 
 
 looking at mary]. 
 Vecchan, you had no right to take that corn. 
 
 [He goes out. vecchan bends over mary.] 
 
 41 
 
Vecchan. 
 
 I have been looking for you in all the fields ; 
 
 I had to find you. Why are you crying ? It is I 
 
 Who ought to be crying, and, listen ! because of you 
 
 I am very very happy. The king my father 
 
 Has taken away my crown of ruby and gold. 
 
 Because I will marry no man ; but have you forgot 
 
 That this is your wedding-day .'' Do you hear the bells .'' 
 
 I have brought you a crown of corn and poppies, see. 
 
 But you are to say that they are ruby and gold ; 
 
 And we'll go to church in the morning. 
 
 Come ! [^Ske tries to raise herJ] 
 
 Mary. 
 
 No, child, 
 I am too tired ; and I shall not be happy 
 Any more now. 
 
 Vecchan. 
 
 That's strange ; but take it, take it. 
 
 [^She thrusts the garland into her hands J\ 
 You'll not be tired soon ; when you are married and 
 have children 
 
 You can lie abed in the morning, and say your prayers 
 without kneeling. 
 
 Mary [Raising herself]. 
 
 Why have you brought me poppies ? Did you guess 
 
 How much I must forget now .'' 
 
 Vecchan. 
 
 O no, O no, 
 42 
 
The poppies are for rubies, and they're for blood, 
 And blood is red, and red is the king's colour. 
 But you're not listening. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Yes, I am listening. 
 
 Vecchan. 
 
 No one but you must know, till afterwards. 
 Now listen ; shall I tell you some of the wedding- 
 guests ? 
 
 Mary. 
 Yes, tell me. 
 
 Vecchan [Counting on her fingers\. 
 
 There is our grandmother the Earth, 
 And she is hooded with a great green bonnet of leaves. 
 And wears a green robe ; and Our Lady the sea. 
 Who has come with the skipping young waves in her 
 train 
 
 And she wears blue ; and this, you cannot well see 
 For the cloak of clouds he is wrapped in, is the Wind ; 
 And some of our poor relations, the kind beasts. 
 Have come too. But do you want to know the 
 presents } 
 
 Mary. 
 Yes, tell me. 
 
 Vecchan. 
 
 No, I'll not tell you : wait and see. 
 
 43 
 
The sexton is bringing them in a big black bag, 
 
 And he has a spade on his shoulder. 
 
 [Sings.] 
 
 Who'll dig the grave for my true love ? 
 My true love was he. 
 
 My new love, my new love, my new love, 
 My new love and me. 
 But the morning's for burying, and the noon to wed 
 in 
 
 And at night we are all born ; and then begins life 
 everlasting. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Do you love me, Vecchan ? 
 
 Vecchan. 
 
 O yes, dearly, dearly. 
 
 And so does the king's son. 
 
 There's many against the match, but the king is for it ; 
 
 Never fear but you shall be brought to bed of three 
 
 princes. 
 
 [Sings.] 
 
 Three pearls in the king's crown : 
 The king came riding into town 
 
 On Michaelmas day in the morning. 
 Turn the pennies in your pocket, for at the turn of the 
 
 moon 
 We shall all be changed. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Will you change too, and leave me ? 
 44 
 
Vecchan. 
 
 Only if the king my father calls me to his court. 
 
 But I wouldn't go unless you could come with me too. 
 
 They say the old king is evil and afraid of God, 
 
 But I know it is not so, for he goes out in the sunlight, 
 
 And I can prove it to you with any two wisps of straw. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Shall I come with you, Vecchan ? 
 
 Vecchan. 
 
 No, not now, 
 You can join us, though, after the funeral : 
 That will be in the other world : 1 have said my 
 prayers. 
 
 But Death is a reaper, and we are corn for his sickle. 
 [Sings.] 
 
 Ho ! the sickle is in the corn. 
 
 [She catches sight of peter corin, who comes forward 
 
 with his sickle in his hand.~\ 
 But here comes the devil reaping : save me, save me ! 
 
 \She runs away. peter corin comes forward, lays 
 
 his sickle on the ground, and stands infrontofMKS.Y.] 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Is the mad wench gone ? 
 
 Mary. 
 Peter. 
 
 You made her. 
 I? 
 
 45 
 
Mary. 
 
 By coming. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Is that the only greeting that I get .'' 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I came to seek you 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Yes, and found your father, 
 And got no good by it. Why have you been strange. 
 Why have you hid yourself among the folk ? 
 How long is it since I had a word with you .'' 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I came to speak with you ; but now I think 
 
 All speaking must be useless. I have spoken, 
 
 But now, with one who loved me more than you, 
 
 My father ; I have prayed as one prays God, 
 
 And he was silent as God also is. 
 
 Why should I speak with you ? what should we say 
 
 That's not been said already ? There's nothing more 
 
 To talk of for a while. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Yes, many things. 
 Why have you hid yourself away from me .'' 
 Why must I be a stranger all at once ? 
 What does this mean ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 What do you want of me ? 
 46 
 
Peter. 
 
 Tell me one thing, Mary : where did you sleep 
 
 These last three nights ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Upon the heath. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 For choice ? 
 
 Mary. 
 For choice. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 He didn't turn you out of doors ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I have but to make my bed and lay my plate. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 You will not ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 No, I will not. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 In God's name, 
 Why, at all times, and mostly at this time .'' 
 
 Mary. 
 
 At this time chiefly. 
 
 47 
 
Peter. 
 
 You are mad. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Maybe ; 
 But I still keep my memory. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 What is this ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I must be free or die. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Are you not free ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Free .'' when I must be silent, catch my breath, 
 
 Pen up my sighs, quench my tears, teach those thoughts 
 
 That would cry loud and fly far, as with wings. 
 
 To shut themselves in prison. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Better bide 
 Under a roof, although you call the roof 
 A prison. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Do you judge for me ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Why not ? 
 48 
 
Mary. 
 
 Because I have gone clean out of your hands, 
 And now I do not think a thought of yours 
 Or heed you when you bid me. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Now that's strange, 
 I thought I knew you, and I thought you knew 
 Me. But you do not know me, it would seem. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 You have been teaching me. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 You'll say perhaps, 
 Because you are sick and angry — 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I will say .'' 
 
 Peter. 
 
 You'll say you never loved me. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Shall I say it .'' 
 How much I loved you, why should I say now 
 When nothing matters ? you yourself said once 
 Things kinder than you thought : yet, when you said 
 them, 
 
 I shut the eyes up of my own belief 
 That they should see no falsehood. 
 
 D 49 
 
Peter. 
 
 What was false ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Your kisses were all changlings. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 No, not that. 
 And that you know ; you know as well as I. 
 I cared for you, I made you care for me ; 
 You've not forgotten, nor yet I ; you know 
 How little breath I wasted upon wind. 
 But when I said " Mary, I'll come to-night," 
 Or " Meet me here to-morrow," did I come ? 
 Tell me, now, did I meet you .'' 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Yes, you came. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 And is that nothing ? When you talk of love 
 
 I don't mean like a sandpiper in spring. 
 
 With songs and antics : I mean more than that 
 
 I cared for you, as a man can ; by God, 
 
 I never left you and I never would 
 
 If you would let me. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 My father cast me off ; 
 
 You do not cast me off. O no, your greed 
 
 Clutches with all its fingers at the crumbs 
 
 They scattered from the table. 
 
 5° 
 
Peter. 
 
 What does this mean ? 
 Have you forgotten to be friends with me ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Yes, clean forgotten. What I have to do 
 Leaves no room over for remembering. 
 And I should have forgotten that you were, 
 As one forgets a bad dream ; but I wake, 
 And this that moves in me remembers you. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Mary, be friends with me again ; I say 
 
 You must. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Ay, let's be merry. We shall have 
 The strangest weeping comedy. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 You choose 
 To wring my words awry out of my mouth, 
 But this is spoken honest. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Honest ? No ! 
 How long since have you parted ? honesty 
 WiU not remember you. O no, no, no, 
 I am not here to rail or wrangle with you. 
 Leave me alone : if you have any pity, 
 Leave me. 
 
 51 
 
Peter. 
 
 I will not leave you. Do you hear ? 
 I am your mastei'. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 You ? my master ? no. 
 I have another master than you are, 
 Nearer to me than you were ever, made 
 Out of my love that I might hate you for it. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 And yet I am your master and your child's. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Why do you say that ? what is it you mean ? 
 
 O no, you don't mean anything. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 I mean 
 More than I say. 
 
 Mary [T^ising and clinging to hini]. 
 
 No, no, don't say these things 
 Because you pity me a little, no. 
 Or 1 shall hate you ; for you never speak 
 The whole truth out ; and it will do no good. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Mary, don't think I mean to give you up : 
 
 You knew I never meant to give you up. 
 
 Why have you been so strange to me ? 
 
 52 
 
Mary. 
 
 Because 
 I am to be the mother of your child. 
 
 Peter. 
 
 But you don't hate me ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Peter, I am now 
 Disowned for it, dishonoured, pointed at 
 By children's fingers, whipped by women's tongues ; 
 I was the proudest girl in Ruan : now 
 The meanest can look down on me. And for this 
 I have hated you ; not for my sake ; because 
 I was to be the mother of a son 
 Who should be shamed in me his mother. Now, 
 You'll do me right at last ! 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Why, what is this ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I never dared to speak to you, I thought 
 
 You had tired of me, I said it in my heart 
 
 Each day before I saw you and each night 
 
 After I'd seen you, but I never dared 
 
 To say it to your face. Only I prayed 
 
 Sometimes, between my father's silences. 
 
 And then the hope was stronger. You are sure 
 
 You want me still, and you could love me still ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Of course 1 want you : are you mad .'' you think 
 
 53 
 
I'd give you up to any other man 
 
 While I can swing a sickle ? You have been strange 
 
 And angry with me. I knew how to wait. 
 
 We'll have good times again. That you should think 
 
 I'd ever let you go ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 You'll not? You'll not? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 I'll never let you go. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I am too glad. 
 What is it that keeps turning in my head ? 
 I am giddy, but with joy : O dreadful joy ! 
 But you're not lying to me ? you mean truth ? 
 You'll marry me ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 I'll— I'll be good to you. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 You'll make me honest before all the world ? 
 
 You'll marry me in church ? 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Who talked of church ? 
 We didn't need the church six months ago. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 You'll marry me ? 
 
 54 
 
Peter. 
 
 No, I'll not marry you ! 
 [mary recoils from him, and the voice of vecchan is 
 heard singing " Ho ! the sic\k is in the com ! "] 
 
 But, as God lives,' — 
 
 [He steps towards her, holding out his arms."] 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Does God live .? 
 \_She snatches up peter's sic^e and stabs him with it, 
 he falls without a word. As she stands, rigid, and 
 holding the sickle in her hand, vecchan comes in, goes 
 up to her, and touches her on the arm.'] 
 
 Vecchan. 
 
 Put down the sickle, for the harvest is all in. 
 
 THE CURTAIN. 
 
 ss 
 
Act III. 
 
 [The Market-place in S. Ruan. michael raven is sitting 
 on a bench against a wall ; richard, a boy often, stands 
 before Aim."] 
 
 Richard. 
 
 What's murder, Michael ? is it killing folk ? 
 
 Michael. 
 Ay, lad. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 And are folk killed for killing them ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 That's as the law will have it. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 What's the law ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 The law is what makes rules of right and wrong, 
 What you may do and what you may not do. 
 And punishes you if you do the wrong. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 What does the law do if you do the right .'' 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 56 
 
Richard. 
 
 But is it right to kill a man 
 Because he killed another ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 It may be. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 Is the law always right ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 It's always law ; 
 Whatever the law says, has to be done. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 Who made the law .'' did God .-' 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Man made the law. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 Does God know more than those that made the law .'' 
 
 Michael. 
 Ay. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 Then why doesn't God speak out .'' 
 
 Michael. 
 
 That's it ; 
 Why doesn't God speak out and save his truth ? 
 
 57 
 
What does the law know of the truth of God ? 
 These hands have blood upon them, and look clean, 
 Not in God's sight, but in the sight of the law ; 
 And even her most awful hands, that struck 
 Where I had but aided guilt innocently. 
 Her hands that are to bear upon their palms 
 Always the weight of a soul unprepared 
 And unforgiven, that now lives in hell. 
 They also are called clean. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 What do you say, 
 Michael ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 These hands, these hands ! What did I say ? 
 
 Richard. 
 
 Tell me, I want to know, and you must know. 
 
 Is Mary free ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 She's coming back to-day. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 They put her into prison ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 She was tried. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 But if she did kill Peter Corin, why 
 
 Didn't the law kill her ? 
 
 58 
 
Michael. 
 
 I have asked that. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 Was it the baby .•' did he save her life ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 Yes, I suppose so ; she was mad, they said ; 
 
 They said she didn't know. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 Then is she mad ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 No, she's not mad : no madder than I am. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 Well, you are queer, you know. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 You think so, too ? 
 Why do you think so .'' 
 
 Richard. 
 
 You are always talking 
 To yourself, and when you talk to me you say 
 Things I don't understand. And then your hands 
 Are always shaking, and your head shakes, too. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 I am old, I am old ; how old I am 
 
 Only my sorrow knows. 
 
 59 
 
Richard. 
 
 Why do you look 
 At me so sadly ? When will Mary come ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 She will come soon enough. My punishment 
 
 Cannot be long in coming. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 I'll go and see 
 
 If I can see the coach. 
 
 [^ neighbour crosses the square, and stops by michael, 
 while RICHARD runs away and looks down the road.^ 
 
 Neighbour. 
 
 Good evening, Michael. 
 Might you be waiting for the coach ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 I am. 
 Why do you want to know .'' 
 
 Neighbour. 
 
 I want to know 
 Nothing but if 'tis in from Helston yet ? 
 
 Michael. 
 No, it is not. 
 
 Neighbour. 
 
 Then I'll have time, I think. 
 To go up home-along. 
 
 [He goes on. richard runs back.] 
 60 
 
Richard. 
 
 It isn't coming. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 It will come soon enough. Things come, things come, 
 
 "We cannot hinder them. Richard, my boy, 
 
 Tell me, now tell the truth, was it not you 
 
 That brought me Peter's sickle in the field .-' 
 
 Richard. 
 
 I did. I said to you : Peter Corin says 
 Please, Michael, will you sharp his sickle up ? 
 And you said : I will put an edge upon it 
 So that it cuts until the sun goes down. 
 
 Michael. 
 
 And then you took it back to him ? 
 
 Richard. 
 
 I did. 
 And Peter Corin drew his finger down 
 The edge of it, and said : Well sharped, old man ! 
 
 Michael. 
 
 You only carried death between your hands, 
 
 But I gave death help, made death sure with mine. 
 
 Why did not God wither up these old hands 
 
 Sooner ? they shake with age, yet these old hands 
 
 Are guilty. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 Why do you speak as if you spoke 
 To someone ? there is no one here but me. 
 
 6i 
 
Michael. 
 
 No, no, it was the ordinance of God, 
 
 He set it like a trap to snare my soul ; 
 
 And 1 am caught, and the teeth meet in me. 
 
 I am to see this stain upon my soul 
 
 That I may know myself for what I am 
 
 And taste God's mercy in his punishment. 
 
 She must come back to me with all her sin. 
 
 The murderess and the adulteress 
 
 Must sit beside me, sleep under my roof ; 
 
 She must bring blood across my threshold ; God 
 
 Has made my seed a wasting and a plague. 
 
 And I must not be pardoned. Though I sinned 
 
 I must not pardon. I have sworn an oath. 
 
 And I must keep it : 1 must set these hands, 
 
 Though they are shaking, I must build up again 
 
 With these old hands silence like a strong wall. 
 
 Richard. 
 
 Michael, what is adulteress ? 
 
 Michael. 
 
 A word 
 Out of the Bible. 
 
 Richard. '~ 
 
 Is that all ? I thought 
 You spoke of Mary : she's a murderess. 
 Isn't she ? 
 62 
 
Michael. 
 
 This also is my punishment. 
 [Villagers begin to come in, and stand about as if 
 waiting, richard goes up to them.'] 
 
 Villager. 
 
 The coach is late. 
 
 Second Villager. 
 
 The coach is always late. 
 First Villager. 
 There are too many alehouses to pass. 
 
 Second Villager. 
 
 Too many Cornish hills : it's cruel work, 
 
 For any pair of horses on our roads. 
 
 Sailor [With a bundle]. 
 
 You think so } well, you haven't been in Spain. 
 
 Third Villager. 
 
 I haven't : what of Spain ? 
 
 Sailor. 
 
 They say in Spain 
 
 Beasts are not Christians, and they haven't souls : 
 
 Bodies they have though, and they martyr them 
 
 Worse than they martyred Christians. 
 
 Third Villager. 
 
 Is that so .'' 
 
 63 
 
Sailor. 
 
 Horses ? they're not. Skinfuls of rattling bones, 
 Like drums for devils to beat tunes upon. 
 Don't pity the fat nags that pull your coach. 
 
 First Villager. 
 You've travelled, sir. 
 
 Sailor. 
 
 Not yet to London, sir. 
 Many a time I've passed the mouth of Thames, 
 But never nearer. 
 
 [ann, tamson and jane come in, and stand together 
 
 at the opposite side from michael.] 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Look, there's Michael ! 
 Jane. 
 
 Where .? 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 He's sitting on the bench against the wall. 
 
 His eyes are on the ground : he does not see us. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 He will not look at us. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 It's hard on Michael. 
 A just hard man, a God-abiding man, 
 That's been twice chastened for his daughter's sins. 
 What will he do .? how can he let her come 
 Under his roof, she being what she is } 
 
Ann. 
 
 Where should she go ? 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Where is there she can go ? 
 Jane. 
 
 It's hard on Mary. She should not come back. 
 It's a bold thing of Mary to come back. 
 But are you sure that she will come to-day ? 
 
 Ann. 
 
 There has been word from Bodmin, from the gaol. 
 Somehow, by now, I think all Ruan knows : 
 Look- at our folk ; there's a strange sailor too ; 
 Why should they flock to see a girl come home. 
 As if she were a waxwork in a show .'' 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 They're not all come for Mary. If they were ? 
 I'm not come here to pry upon her, Ann ; 
 I'll go before she comes. But, do you think 
 Michael will take back and break his oath .'' 
 
 Ann. 
 
 He will not break his oath : he'll take her back. 
 He's waiting for her there, and he will wait 
 Until she comes ; but he'll not speak to her. 
 Nor then nor never. I'm to bring hpr home, 
 Instead of him, and he has put the words 
 Into my mouth he will not say to her : 
 He told me word for word ; I'm not to say 
 A syllable beyond, a syllable less, 
 
 E 65 
 
Not to show any kindness in the words. 
 Not to say less than the bare truth of them. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 She's got a home then : well, I'm glad of it ; 
 She'll need it, and what has she now to tell 
 But bitter tears, and what belongs to God ? 
 She'll never want to lift her voice again 
 When she has seen her father. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Hush, he'll hear. 
 He's not so old and not so broken down 
 He'll let himself be pitied. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 Do you think 
 That she is free now, just as we folk are .'' 
 She killed the man : we saw him lying dead 
 And her with the red sickle : is it true 
 They let her oiF with nothing .'' 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Well, it's true. 
 And if that's law at Bodmin, it's not law 
 Out of the Bible. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 It is just and right, 
 As well as law. They said the girl was mad, 
 And the girl was mad, for that minute ; yes, 
 And for those days that followed, black with pain 
 66 
 
And darkness without memory, when she lay 
 And felt a seven months' child struggle and run 
 Out of the grave and prison of its life 
 Into the grave. The mother in her blood 
 Turned all her blood to folly and blind rage ; 
 And when she struck, it was the little hands 
 That groped about her heart and made her strike. 
 
 Jane. 
 
 She killed the man. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 I know she killed the man. 
 Why do you judge her harder than the law .'' 
 What's madness, if that is not madness ? Why, 
 Are you afraid of her ? 
 
 Jane. 
 
 No, I'm not afraid. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 But you'll not go to her, and take her hand, 
 When she comes back to us from Bodmin gaol ? 
 She'll seem, not the same Mary as she was. 
 But some new wicked stranger ? 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 As she is. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 I say there is no difference ; as she was 
 
 So she is still, and ever will be so. 
 
 It's only that some chasm has crumbled down 
 
 67 
 
Between her old life and this new scarred life. 
 Do you not see that nothing ever changes 
 Because we change our name for it ? The same 
 Mary with the same silent thinking face. 
 Paler perhaps, and tighter at the lips 
 Will step out presently and come to us. 
 As if the sickle in her hands had whitened 
 Only upon the patient necks of corn. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 The Bible says : " They that take up the sword 
 Shall perish by the sword " ; the law says no. 
 The law pities : that's well and good ; but here. 
 Where Peter Corin's mother can't forgive. 
 Is she to be forgiven ? 
 
 Ann, 
 
 Tamson, if I 
 Who scarcely can set bite to sup for those 
 My John left fatherless, had room at home 
 And bread upon the shelf, I wouldn't say 
 One word the old man taught me, but I'd say, 
 " Mary, poor soul, there's room for you at home. 
 Come home and share the children's bread with them " 
 Only, I must not, for there's none to spare. 
 
 Tamson. 
 
 Thank God for it. Not if I'd all the barns 
 
 In Ruan parish should she darken door 
 
 Or share the bread-crumb of a child of mine. 
 
 68 
 
Jane. 
 
 It's not to be expected, Tamson. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Go. 
 Here's Richard running up the Helston road : 
 He sees the coach : she's coming. I stay here, 
 Because I must : God help us all ! But go, 
 
 [tamson and jane go out.] 
 Sailor [To villagers]. 
 
 Who's that you say ? the girl who killed the man 
 Last year at harvest ? Coming by the coach .'' 
 Why, I'm in luck to see her. Let's sit down 
 By that old man who looks as drugged asleep 
 As any moth by day, and talk of it. 
 
 First Villager. 
 He is her father. 
 
 Sailor. 
 
 The Lord forgive my tongue ! 
 
 Richard [Running up]. 
 
 It's coming, it's coming. [To michael.] Michael, they 
 
 are here. 
 
 [The coach drives up, stops, and the passengers begin 
 to get out, and the luggage to be taken down from the 
 top. Ladders are brought, and the horses unharnessed, 
 and led away. Some of the villagers go up to their 
 friends who have got out, and go away together. 
 Others stand as if waiting, mary is the last to get 
 out. Many stare at her but none speak.] 
 
 69 
 
Second Villager. 
 How late you are ! 
 
 First Passenger [J girr\. 
 
 Where's mother ? 
 
 Second Villager. 
 
 Safe at home. 
 She sent me down to meet you. 
 
 Second Passenger [^ woman]. 
 
 I've not brought 
 A thing of all the things you sent me for. 
 
 Third Passenger [yfjoww^ wow^w]. 
 She's there. 
 
 Third Villager. 
 
 Who, Mary } Where is she .'' 
 
 Third Passenger. 
 
 She took 
 The inside corner. No one spoke to her, 
 Of course. She never spoke. She shouldn't come 
 With decent folk as if she had the right. 
 
 Sailor. 
 
 Is that the girl .'' 
 
 First Villager. 
 
 Yes, she that's getting out 
 The last of all. She waited till the last. 
 I doubt they wouldn't speak to her. 
 70 
 
Sailor. 
 
 Poor lass ! 
 She's sick with journeying. 
 
 First Villager. 
 
 Or with shame. 
 Sailor. 
 
 Not shame. 
 Her eyes see nothing ; if they did, I think 
 They would judge some of us. Where is her child ? 
 
 First Villager. 
 
 The child was born in gaol, and died in gaol. 
 
 It was born dead. 
 
 Sailor. 
 
 And yet that woman lives ! 
 I never heard the like of it, or saw 
 The like of that pale woman with those eyes. 
 It's not for us to judge her, but to go 
 Out of the sight and judgment of her eyes. 
 
 [He goes out, followed by others. The people gradually 
 go in different directions, mary stands, holding a 
 bundle, and looking about her. She sees her father ; 
 they look straight at one another without speaking.'] 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Father ! 
 
 [She moves a step towards him. ann goes up to 
 MARY and touches her on the arm. mary tumsi\ 
 You I was sure of, Ann. But look ! 
 
 Father is here. 
 
 71 
 
Ann. 
 
 Wait, Mary. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 No, No ! 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Wait. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 What do you mean .'' 
 
 Ann. 
 
 He will not speak to you. 
 Don't go to him. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 How we forget things, Ann, 
 All of a sudden, things we know so well. 
 A moment, and I had forgotten everything 
 But that he was my father and I his child. 
 Now I remember. Ann, I am so tired; 
 The journey's over. Why have I come back ? 
 
 Ann. 
 
 You have come back for always. You are home. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Why is he here ? 
 
 Ann. 
 
 It is for you he's here ; 
 Only, you know, he must not speak to you. 
 
 72 
 
He has told me what to say. Tell her, he said 
 (These were his very words) tell her, he said, 
 That bed and board is hers, and always shall be. 
 And that his oath is his, and always shall be. 
 And that he swore he'd never speak to you 
 And never will until God takes his soul ; 
 For which he prays the Almighty day by day, 
 As for his daily bread. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I have prayed that. 
 That prayer is never answered. I am here. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Those were the words he said. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Why am I here .■' 
 The prison was a better home to me. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Never say that. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 It was a better home. 
 It shut out shame, it shut out all the world. 
 Why did they give me freedom, to come here 
 Where silence is a gaoler worse than theirs .'' 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Mary, if I could help you 
 
 73 
 
Mary. 
 
 Why, then, help 
 Would still be in the world, and things that were 
 Might be as if they were not. There's no help, 
 
 Ann. 
 
 My dear, I've suffered for you, nights and nights, 
 
 Lying awake, when all the valley wind 
 
 Pours like a spring-tide on a groaning beach ; 
 
 I've waited for you to come back again. 
 
 The same that you were always ; and you come. 
 
 So broken and so weary ; and yet, now. 
 
 There's nothing I can do to help you, nothing. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 No, there is nothing. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 There are those that could 
 And will not. O those Christian consciences 
 That hoard up the poor sorrows of the world. 
 And call them sins ! I've little doubt you sat 
 From Helston here to Ruan in the coach 
 And not a soul that used to know you seemed 
 To know you now, or spoke to you. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 O, no! 
 But I was glad of that. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Then these that came 
 
 Out of their cottages to see you come 
 
 74 
 
Mary. 
 
 They came to see me ? 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Ay, to see you come, 
 But not to say "God bless you," seeing you ; 
 Not to hold out a hand. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 They're not here now : 
 Father is here, and yet he is not here. 
 And I am tired : let me sit down and think. 
 
 [5^1? sits down on the step of the coach and stares at 
 
 the ground^ 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Don't think too much, Mary : it does no good. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I learned to think the day my child was born, 
 
 And the day after, while they buried him. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Well for you that he died ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 No, ill for me. 
 I should have come back humble, fit to live ; 
 I am proud and tired, and only fit to die. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 You were proud always ; but some weariness 
 
 Has broken down your pride. 
 
 75 
 
Mary. 
 
 Ay, broken it, 
 So that it lives, and cries out with the pain. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 How did you live through all this misery ? 
 
 Mary. 
 
 First like a stone, then like a thinking thing. 
 That lives and weighs evil and good, and says 
 I have been blind, but justice is blind too. 
 If this is justice that has come on me. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 The law was merciful. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 The law ? I mean 
 The justice that made women and made men. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 What sort of justice .'' 
 
 Mary. 
 
 That which gave a woman 
 A body to be loved, and gave a man 
 The power to love a woman ; and then gave 
 A man the power not to forget the woman 
 But only to forget love. Why, that justice. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 You had nothing to repent of ? 
 
 76 
 
Mary. 
 
 All the past 
 Was like a thing worn out and put away, 
 Not to be thought of any more ; I seemed 
 To drift with present time as with a tide, 
 And there was no beginning and no end. 
 And when I thought, and tried to stop the tide 
 By thinking, I was clutching at a weed 
 That the tide carried ; and I hardly knew 
 If I were tide or seaweed or some dream 
 Of sea-birds gibbering at an ashen moon. 
 
 [mary looks up slowly, and draws a deep hreath.'\ 
 Ann. 
 Why do you breathe so deep ? 
 
 Mary \Rising\. 
 
 I do not know. 
 I breathe the wind, and it awakens me. 
 And it is like a memory. What is it .'' 
 I shall remember soon. I have not felt 
 The sea-salt and the heather-honey wind 
 Since — ah, since I was reaping in the field. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 It is the wind that comes across the downs. 
 It comes out of the sea beyond the downs, 
 An evil sea-wind. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 It is awakening me. 
 Do you know, Ann, that if you think a thing 
 And then forget it, and you go again 
 
 77 
 
To where you had the thought, you find it there, 
 
 Waiting for you. I have come back again 
 
 Where all I did, not thought, was done ; and now 
 
 I find it all before me as it was. 
 
 Not as I saw it then, but as it was. 
 
 The truth of it, the truth of what I did. 
 
 All I have done I did because I must ; 
 
 I knew not why I did it : now I know. 
 
 I see myself, my father, and the man 
 
 I killed because I loved him 
 
 Ann. 
 
 No, don't say 
 These idle words ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I loved him, and I killed him 
 Because I loved him, and he had made my love 
 A thing impossible while he lived. There is 
 A hidden cruelty in love that turns 
 Only against the thing it loves the best. 
 I loved my lover and my father loves me : 
 And that is why we kill each other : I 
 The body, he the soul. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Stop, Mary ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 No. 
 I honour my father : let him honour me. 
 He never doubted he was in the right : 
 If he could but believe I was right too ! 
 78 
 
Ann. 
 
 How could that be, Mary ? He still cries out 
 
 Upon the sickle and upon his hands 
 
 Because they sharpened it, and calls his hands 
 
 Helpers of sin, and calls for punishment ; 
 
 So that there is a joy in him to have 
 
 His punishment in you under his roof. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Now I know what he is and what 1 am. 
 
 He'll save his soul : I have to save my soul 
 
 That he would kill for love and righteousness. 
 
 And now I know that, though I have come back, 
 
 I never shall go back to him. Ann, Ann, 
 
 He judges harder than the law. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 He does ; 
 He judges by his Bible. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 That's not true ! 
 The Bible ! " Judge not that ye be not judged ! " 
 I only know the Bible has said that. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 He judges as he thinks his Bible says. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 He judges for himself: so be it ! but I, 
 
 I have myself to judge by. There is some law, 
 
 79 
 
It may be, shall set both to rights some day. 
 Only not now. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 There can't be two things true, 
 Mary ; you've done the thing you've done : God knows 
 You have suffered, and the law has pardoned you. 
 As God will : but you haven't got the right 
 To stand up as you stand and answer him. 
 Say, God forgive me, I was mad. He will. 
 But don't say : I was right. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Shall I not say 
 Father was wrong, father has done me wrong .'' 
 Has he not sold my happiness and his 
 For heavy, empty syllables that weigh 
 False in the balances ? There's sin, a name. 
 Justice, a name, repentance, right and wrong. 
 Names ; he would hold them in his hand, and stand 
 Like a proud, ignorant child clutching his toys. 
 In God's place, more inflexible than God. 
 Yet to himself, the idea of his soul. 
 He has been true, and I to my own soul. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 What are you saying, Mary .'' He looks up, 
 
 And he is listening. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 I gave myself for love. 
 And I rejoice because I have known love. 
 80 
 
It was for love, because I have known love, 
 I killed my lover, and because I was 
 A woman, and the mother of his child : 
 There also I have nothing to repent. 
 And always all my sorrow and this grief 
 Have come to me out of the terrible joy 
 That is the root of love ; ay, and because 
 I am a woman : there's no love that lacks 
 Such sorrow, nor no woman. If we sin. 
 The very earth sins with us, and our life 
 Cries against things that are. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 He has heard all, 
 And seems as if he'd speak. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 All's over now ; 
 I am alone ; there's nothing to be done. 
 Nowhere to go, no corner of the earth 
 To creep into ; only, I will be free. 
 Not accept any bondage, and not stoop 
 Under a roof that grudges me or set 
 My lips to any bread of penitence. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 God help you, Mary ! 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Hush ! what was that ? 
 Do you not hear ! 'Tis Vecchan. My one friend 1 
 
 [vecchan is heard singing.'] 
 F 8i 
 
Dance with the moon In heaven ! 
 
 Old winter was a-cold ; 
 But the young Spring is coming in 
 In purple and cloth of gold, 
 l^Ske runs in gaily, dressed more fantastically than 
 ever, goes up to mary and kisses her.^ 
 
 Vecchan. 
 
 Why have you loitered till the sun is burnt out, 
 
 And there's no more harvest, and the reaping is over ? 
 
 I have been waiting for you in the heat and the cold. 
 
 And I have been sad and merry, and the clock went on. 
 
 And you have never come to me : do you not love me 
 
 any longer ? 
 
 Have you come to me now ? I have teen waiting 
 
 because I love you ; 
 
 But it is time now : will you not come home with me ? 
 
 Come away, come away now. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Do you not see, 
 Ann, she has come because I wanted her ? 
 I did not know, but she and the winds knew. 
 And she has come to me with all her flowers ; 
 There's heather here ; give me the heather, Vecchan. 
 It smells of salt and honey, the old smell. 
 Nothing is changed here ; all the world but I 
 Seems to stand still, and I come back to it. 
 You're still my friend, Vecchan ! and is there still 
 The downs and the mud cottage on the downs, 
 The same still, Vecchan .' 
 82 
 
Vecchan. 
 
 The witch-lady in heaven 
 Told me that you were coming, and all is ready. 
 Why have you been so long ? You have been so long 
 That the moths have eaten windows in the silk 
 And you can see the brightness of the walls 
 That are of gold and silver and precious stones. 
 But that we will say is the court fashion. Come with 
 me : 
 Come with me, Mary, my father is a King. 
 
 Mary. 
 
 Do you hear, Ann ? All that she says is truth. 
 Nothing but truth : she makes the yellow gorse 
 Pure gold with loving it : why should not I 
 Who have seen through so many lean old lies 
 Believe no wisdom and no foolishness 
 Outside her happy folly .'' 
 
 Vecchan. 
 
 Then you will come .'' 
 
 Mary, 
 
 Yes, I will come. 
 
 Ann. 
 
 Stop, Mary. Think again. 
 Here stands your father : he will take you in. 
 And here stands Vecchan : this kind innocent 
 Begs hardly more than bread for her own mouth. 
 You will be homeless, houseless, penniless. 
 Alone. 
 
 83 
 
THE DEATH OF AGRIPPINA 
 
 A Play in One Act. 
 
THE PERSONS. 
 Nero. 
 
 BuRRHUS. 
 
 Seneca. 
 Anicetus. 
 
 Agrippina. 
 
 PoPPiEA. 
 
 acerronia. 
 
 Tribunes, Pretorians, Nobles, Girls, Attendants. 
 
 The action takes place in Nero's Villa at Baias. 
 
A hall, with open colonnades at the back, looking down on 
 the sea. On the right is a door, leading into the 
 banqueting hall. nero, agrippina, popp^a, 
 ACERRONiA, ANicETus, and ATTENDANTS have come 
 out from the feast and have gone towards the colonnades. 
 The ATTENDANT who comes last is seen to shut the door 
 of the banqueting hall, shutting out the sound of voices 
 and laughter. On the left is a closed door, leading to 
 the road. 
 
 Agrippina. 
 
 If this be my true son, and these words truth, 
 As I have doubted, and were wise to doubt 
 Till I have surer proof of them 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Good mother, 
 
 If there be any proof I have not given, 
 
 If there be hid from you and known of me 
 
 Anything in Rome, anything in my heart. 
 
 Ask me, and I will answer ; but if not, 
 
 I pray you, do not doubt me. 
 
 Agrippina. 
 
 It is true, 
 
 You have both done me honour as a son, 
 
 And honour as a king's mother ; you have heard me 
 
 When I have counselled you ; you have done well, 
 
 And I will be a better counsellor 
 
 Than these who feasted with you ; yet, my son. 
 
 You have been hard, unjust, unpitiful, 
 
 89 
 
A king and not a son to me ; if I wrong you, 
 I do not wrong you without cause. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 What cause 
 
 I gave you I am sorry for ; how often 
 
 Have we been hard, unjust, unpitiful. 
 
 To one another : am I not your son 
 
 And are you not my mother, and is not 
 
 The blood of Cassar and Domitius proud 
 
 And angry blood ? We are not easily friends. 
 
 Being son and mother. 
 
 Agrippina. 
 
 If there is in you 
 
 Anything of your father, but I think 
 
 I bred you mine, ay, to the bone and marrow, 
 
 I have much cause to doubt you ; but, my son, 
 
 It were so strange, new, and unhoped a joy 
 
 To let my heart go out to you without fear. 
 
 That I am drawn, and scarcely can withhold 
 
 The mother from my arms. 
 
 [Ske holds out her arms to himl\ 
 Nero. 
 
 May I not kiss 
 
 The hands that were my cradle ? They are fine. 
 They are smooth yet ; may I not kiss the breast 
 I drank in life from ? Kings have been your lovers. 
 And are you not my mother ? 
 
 Agrippina. 
 I am content 
 90 
 
That I have seen this day ; now let me go, 
 My son, my king. Listen ! A joyous music. 
 
 \The sound of music is heard from the shore below. "l 
 
 Nero. 
 
 'Tis the feast, mother. 
 
 Agrippina. 
 Whose ? 
 
 Nero. 
 Athena's. 
 
 Agrippina. 
 
 Ah! 
 
 Now I can hear the voices, and a song : 
 
 " Goddess of mercy " : that is not her office ; 
 
 What are they singing .? 
 
 ACERRONIA. 
 
 It is of Orestes, 
 
 Because Athena freed him from his guilt 
 
 At Athens, when the Furies followed him. 
 
 Agrippina. 
 
 They followed him because he killed his mother : 
 
 How could Athena free him from his guilt 
 
 Who could not from remembrance .'' A wild song ; 
 
 It passes, with the flutes and tambourines. 
 
 Is the ship ready .'' 
 
 Nero. 
 
 I will not let you go. 
 
 91 
 
There was a thing I have not told you of. 
 You shall not go to-night. 
 
 Agrippina. 
 What is the hour ? 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 It is past midnight. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 You shall not go to-night. 
 
 Anicetus. 
 
 Madam, the ship is ready. 
 
 POPP/EA. 
 
 The queen is tired, 
 
 And waits on sleep ; we wait not on her pleasure 
 
 "Who keep her from her bed. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Do not go yet. 
 
 Agrippina [7b popp^aJ. 
 I thank you ; you are carefuUer for me 
 Than I for my own self. But I am tired ; 
 I am tired, Nero, truly, and with this new 
 Labour of happiness, and I must rest. 
 To-night I sleep at Bauli ; I shall sleep sound. 
 You'll send me in your ship ? I'll go in it ; 
 Come. Yet, one word with you before I go. 
 
 [They go aside. 1 
 92 
 
PoPP^A. 
 
 Why did you swear that there would be a wind ? 
 There is no wind. 
 
 Anicetus, 
 
 Madam, there is no wind ; 
 
 But if you drop a stone into the sea, 
 
 The stone must sink. 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 You will fail, Anicetus ; 
 
 This innocent sea will never cover up 
 
 A deed so naked. 
 
 Anicetus. 
 
 If I fail in it 
 
 Let my own shipwreck drown me. 
 
 [nero ««^agrippina return, talking earnestly.'] 
 
 Agrippina. 
 
 I will send 
 
 Messengers to Octavia ; that you heed 
 
 My will in this contents me ; for myself 
 
 What is there I should ask ? 
 
 Nero. 
 
 What should you ask. 
 
 Seeing that I live in you, and am a king 
 
 Because I am your son ? 
 
 Agrippina. 
 
 And now farewell. 
 
 93 
 
PoPP^A. 
 
 Farewell. 
 
 Agrippina. 
 Kiss me, my son. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 If I should kiss you 
 
 Again, you'd say I am not honest with you. 
 
 Or that I feign to love you ; and yet, mother, 
 
 I'll kiss you for good night. 
 
 Agrippina. 
 Come, Acerronia. 
 
 [y^f ANiCETUs potttts the Way, and AGTiavvit^iA, followed 
 by ACERRONIA and others, begins to move down the 
 steps towards the sea, the music thai, had been heara 
 before returns ; and at the same moment the door oj 
 the banqueting-hall is burst open, and a troop of young 
 nobles and women hurries out crying ^^ Nero.^''\ 
 
 First Noble. 
 Where's Nero .'' 
 
 Second Noble. 
 
 The last cup of wine was sour. 
 
 First Girl. 
 
 Where's Nero .'' All my violets were alive 
 
 When Nero sat among us like the sun. 
 
 Now they are dead. 
 
 94 
 
Second Girl. 
 
 The savour went with him 
 
 Out of the courteous spices drunk with fire. 
 
 First Noble. 
 Come back, Nero ! 
 
 Second Noble. 
 
 He does not hear us. ' Come, 
 
 There's music by the sea ; the singing girls 
 
 Are dancing with white feet upon the sand. 
 
 First Noble. 
 
 The Queen-Mother is going to her ship ; 
 
 Let's follow, and she'll think we honour her. 
 
 Come. 
 
 First Girl. 
 
 Is she really the Queen-Mother now .'' 
 
 Why does the King stand looking after her . 
 
 As if he did not see her, and as if 
 
 He could see nothing else ? 
 
 Third Girl. 
 
 Come, to the sea. 
 
 [^TAey follow agrippina down the steps in a crowa^ 
 looking curiously at nero, who stands with popp^a 
 not speaking or seeing them. Some remain on the 
 stage, and turn back towards the banqueting-hall.'\ 
 
 Third Noble. 
 
 Why did we leave the feast ? 
 
 95 
 
Fourth Noble. 
 1 followed you. 
 
 Third Noble. 
 
 I was a fool to follow those young men. 
 
 First they cried out for Nero ; then they went 
 
 With Agrippina, who is going home ; 
 
 And now they follow after singing-girls. 
 
 Why did we leave the feast .'' 
 
 Fourth Noble. 
 We'd best go back ; 
 I left a cup half-filled. 
 
 Third Noble. 
 
 We are not so young 
 
 As those young men, and that's a sorry thing ; 
 
 But we are wiser ; wisdom ripens slowly 
 
 At the bottom of a jar : don't shake the jar ; 
 
 Wait, and it ripens. 
 
 Fourth Noble. 
 
 Let's go back and drink 
 
 Your wisdom in old wine. 
 
 Third Noble. 
 I will go back. 
 
 [They go back and shut the doof behind them.'] 
 VovvMA. 
 
 All's well, Nero, and now let all be done 
 Better than well. Can you act innocence ? 
 96 
 
Nero. 
 
 I can act anything : what would you have me act ? 
 
 PoPPjEA. 
 
 First you must clear your eyelids of this weight. 
 Go back into the feast, call for more wine, 
 Call for flowers, call for music ; and, being there, 
 Not dream, and not remember. Will you do this ? 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Poppaea, I will do it. I am now 
 
 Like the poor actor who must play his part 
 
 While his own roof-tree's burning. 
 
 PoPPyEA. 
 
 This night's applause, 
 
 If you should win it, crowns you the best actor 
 
 Upon the stage of the world. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 I will not fail ; 
 
 It is a heavy and a weary part. 
 
 But I will play it. 
 
 PoPPjEA. 
 
 Go, and I will wait 
 
 Till Anicetus comes to bring me word 
 
 That all is well. 
 
 [nero goes in. popp^a is left alone. She looks 
 towards the sea, and seems to listen. After a pause 
 ANICETUS comes up the steps from the sea."] 
 
 Is all well, Anicetus ? 
 
 G 97 
 
Anicetus. 
 
 The Queen's aboard ; my rowers bend their backs, 
 
 Thinking they row to Bauli. When the ship 
 
 Touches the middle current of the bay 
 
 The timbers open under them and the sea 
 
 Pulls at their feet and drags the whole ship down. 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 The Queen is a strong swimmer. 
 
 Anicetus. 
 
 When the ship 
 
 Opens, a beam above the cabin roof 
 
 Drops under with a weight of lead ; and he 
 
 Who falls into the water alive shall die 
 
 Of old age and not drowning. 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 For your service 
 
 Nero shall give you gold ; for every fear 
 
 You strangle in deep water, gold and honour ; 
 
 You shall have gold of me for every hope 
 
 You bring to ripeness, if my enemy's eyes 
 
 See not the sun to-morrow. 
 
 Anicetus. 
 
 Though I serve 
 
 Nero in all things, in this thing I serve 
 
 One Anicetus, whom I answer for. 
 
 PoPPjEA. 
 
 What has she done against you ? 
 98 
 
Anicetus. 
 
 But for her, 
 
 Seneca had not stepped into my shoes 
 
 These ten years since, and thrust me out of office. 
 
 I have forgotten nothing. 
 
 POPP^A. 
 
 This is well ; 
 
 So many hates must hang about her neck 
 Heavier than your lead. Look out to sea ; 
 Which is the light of the Queen's ship ? 
 
 Anicetus. 
 The light 
 Which flickers highest. 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 That ? It seems to hang 
 
 Like a high cresset smoking from a roof. 
 
 Was that a cry ? And now the light's gone out. 
 
 Go, Anicetus, bring me word. 
 
 [anicetus goes hurriedly down the stepSy and popp^a 
 remains gazing anxiously into the dark. The door of 
 the hanqueting-hall opens, and nero comes slowly 
 across towards vovvma, who comes forward to meet 
 him.'] 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Poppaea, 
 
 I feel a pity creeping through my blood. 
 
 Straight to the heart ; I shall weep, Poppaea, tears 
 
 Of perfect pity. 
 
 99 
 
POPP^A. 
 
 I did not think your heart 
 So easily moved. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Nor I, Poppaea. See, 
 
 I am as tender-hearted as a child, 
 
 And weep to think on that which 1 have thought 
 
 Necessary to be done. 
 
 Popp^A. 
 Most necessary. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 She was my mother : That I should speak of her 
 And say " She was ! " She practised on my peace, 
 Yet was my mother. She was my enemy, 
 Being my mother. What is there in a word 
 That comes again and stabs into my side 
 Memory like a knife ? 
 
 PoPPiEA. 
 
 Be bold, be bold 
 
 After the event, as when your blood was warm 
 To accomplish it ; nothing is done till that 
 Cool and turn hard like iron. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Is it, a woman 
 
 Who gives me no man's counsel .'' I would I could 
 
 Undo the deed. 
 
 PoppyEa. 
 
 You would not if you could. 
 
 lOO 
 
Undo the deed. Go back into the feast. 
 
 Do you not dare go back, drink wine, sit still. 
 
 While I wait here, as I would wait, alone ? 
 
 Nero. 
 
 How long have I to wait, and hardly breathe ? 
 
 Do you not see, Poppaea, that the night 
 
 Waits, like an awful minister of death. 
 
 Silently, and the open eyes of heaven 
 
 Are watching to behold that thing which now 
 
 Is to be done under the sleepless moon ? 
 
 PoPP^EA. 
 
 The night is like a day ; there is no wind, 
 The sea is white, and not a breathing ripple 
 Sighs over on the sand. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 If I should look 
 
 Upon the sea, one horror would be there, 
 
 Like this lean horror growing like a tree 
 
 Out of the rooted poison in my soul. 
 
 POPP^A. 
 
 Think no such thoughts ; be merry ; drink this wine. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 WiU it not taste of blood ? I cannot drink it ? 
 
 PoPPjEA. 
 
 So sick already .'' Would you if you could 
 Repent again ? You would not if you could 
 
 lOI 
 
Call Anicetus back, undo the deed, 
 Unking yourself. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 I fear — more than the deed, 
 
 The undoing of it, yet I fear the deed. 
 
 POPP^A. 
 
 This is some play you act in that obscure 
 Theatre of your soul ; act not too well : 
 The actor grows the part. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 If I should live 
 
 To be Orestes, driven about the world 
 
 By household furies ; if I should lose my sleep, 
 
 Hunger and thirst, and all that nature gives 
 
 To fill the vacancy of time, which else 
 
 Aches full with thinking ; if I should forget 
 
 All, but to-night, and this one endless night. 
 
 Night after night, making a night of day, 
 
 Recur, and be my lifetime ; if 
 
 PoPPiEA. 
 
 No more. 
 
 Let days to come write their own chronicle ; 
 
 But you, sleep and forget. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Your hands are clean. 
 
 But I have done a deed at which the world 
 
 Shall wonder and turn pale ; I have gone beyond 
 
 102 
 
The common bounds of evil : I have killed 
 My honour among men, given up my right 
 To the common warmth and shelter of the earth ; 
 And yet you bid me sleep ! 
 
 PoPPiEA. 
 
 You may sleep sound, 
 
 Now, and now first ; you have given sleep to Rome, 
 
 Because no woman stirs that civil strife 
 
 Which keeps men from their beds, 
 
 Nero. 
 
 It is for this, 
 
 And the gods know it, that 1 have done this thing ; 
 
 And I will pay the price. Give me the wine ; 
 
 I'll drink it. 
 
 PoPP^A. 
 
 Drink ; be strong. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 I am strong to bear 
 
 The utmost pang of nature. 
 
 [/^s he drinks^ a messenger enters hurriedly from the 
 sea-steps^ followed after a moment by anicetus.] 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 My lord, my lord ! 
 
 Nero. 
 
 What is this hasty villain ? 
 
 103 
 
Messenger. 
 
 Most gracious lord ! 
 
 Nero. 
 Speak then. 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 Your noble mother— 
 
 Nero [Dropping the cup]. 
 Do not say it. 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 May I not speak good news .'' 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Speak, and be dumb ! 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 Your noble mother has escaped alive 
 
 Out of a perilous shipwreck, and she sends 
 
 To bid you have no fear for her ; she is well. 
 
 And means to seek her home. 
 
 Anicetus [Coming forward]. 
 'Tis true, my lord. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 My guard, Seneca, Burrhus, all of you, 
 
 Where's Burrhus ? bring him quickly ; Seneca, 
 
 It is a plot against me ; seize this man : 
 
 104 
 
He comes to kill me. 
 
 [sENECA, BURRHUS, and guavds have rushed in, and 
 come forward while he speaks. Nero goes up to the 
 man, clutches him, and stealthily drops a dagger between 
 his fee t."] 
 
 What is that ? a dagger, 
 
 See there, between his feet ! 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 My lord, my lord, 
 
 I am innocent. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Seize him, I say. 
 
 [The guards seize him and drag him away.] 
 
 Messenger. 
 My lord ! 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Let him be silenced. Am I not safe from foes 
 
 Even in my palace ? who will be my friend .'' 
 
 Seneca. 
 
 Caesar has only friends. 
 
 BuRRHUS. 
 
 What has he done .'' 
 
 Nero. 
 
 I am undone, undone ; my mother lives 
 
 To seek my death ; this villain whom you saw 
 
 105 
 
Came for revenge ; she has a fear of me 
 That now will prove most deadly. She will say 
 I sought her death, she will outcry the winds 
 With clamour of her wrongs ; she will shake Rome 
 Though she were crushed beneath it. There remains 
 One thing, and one thing only. Which of you 
 Will speak the word, and do it .■* 
 
 \There is a silence, burrhus and senega look at one 
 another^ and glance aside <3^ anicetus.] 
 Seneca } 
 Burrhus .-' Are both these traitors ^ am I lost .? 
 
 Seneca. 
 
 Burrhus, you have the guards. 
 
 Burrhus. 
 
 Not for this work. 
 
 Let him who planned it end it. 
 
 Anicetus [Coming forward']. 
 As I will. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 He gives me back my kingdom. Sirs, take note 
 
 It is a freedman, and no man of you, 
 
 Who makes me master here. 
 
 Anicetus. 
 My lord, in this 
 I have your leave .? 
 1 06 
 
Nero. 
 
 Hasten, good Anicetus, 
 
 Take what lies readiest to your hand, but go 
 
 Quickly, and bring me word — that's not enough — 
 
 Token, that all is well 
 
 Anicetus. 
 
 When all is done, 
 
 I will bring token, Caesar, that all's done. 
 
 [He goes out^ followed by his men."] 
 BuRRHus [Asidel. 
 
 Come, Seneca, here's nothing to be said. 
 Nothing to be done yet ; there's no room here 
 For you and me till all this deadly work 
 Is over ; then, if Nero calls for us, 
 We must come back again, and, if we can. 
 Save him. 
 
 Seneca \_Aside\ 
 
 We cannot save him. 
 
 Nero [Crossing to ihem]. 
 
 Seneca, 
 
 You fed me with the chaff of words : speak now. 
 
 Burrhus, you were my sword ; your hand is slack, 
 
 And trembles from the hilt. You, both of you. 
 
 Old, wise, unready, foolish, I have done 
 
 Justice myself, and, for my justicer. 
 
 No more than Anicetus. Get you gone 
 
 With all unfaithful servants. You have seen 
 
 This peril of my life and of my throne, 
 
 107 
 
And have not lifted finger. Get you gone. 
 No, stay and answer me. You, Seneca, 
 Who have the craft of wisdom, speak. 
 
 Seneca. 
 
 My lord, 
 
 There is no good nor evil to the man 
 
 Who knows what good and evil are ; he knows 
 
 How to bring evil things to a ripe good. 
 
 If this thing be indeed, as it may be, 
 
 A justice more than justice, good shall come 
 
 Out of the evil in it, and survive. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Words, words ; is this philosophy ? get you gone. 
 
 [senega goes out slowly. "] 
 Burrhus shall answer me. 
 
 BURRHUS. 
 
 The people shall, 
 I fear, my lord. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 The people ? a beast whose maw 
 
 We cram with corn, whose gullet, like a sink. 
 
 Flows over with foul blood ; we give it corn. 
 
 Blood, iron bars, the whip, and hollow words : 
 
 It licks the hand that feeds it. 
 
 Burrhus. 
 It has teeth. 
 io8 
 
Nero. 
 
 Go to the guard ; gather them : wait without. 
 
 BuRRHUS. 
 
 I go, my lord. [He goes slowly towards the door.] 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Go quickly. [To Popp^ea.] Do you think 
 
 Anicetus will fail twice ? 
 
 Popp^A. 
 My life on it, 
 He will not fail. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 But he must bring me proof : 
 
 I have not known a night that went so slow : 
 
 But he must bring me proof. If he should come 
 
 And say, I have done this, and lie to me, 
 
 And she should live to shame me ! She has craft 
 
 And an imperial pride : she will not die. 
 
 She'll not consent to die. The second time 
 
 She will come in, not answering a word, 
 
 And banish her accusers. It's not possible 
 
 That she'll accept of death from such a slave. 
 
 She will beat down the eyes of all his swords. 
 
 She will walk through the swords, and come to me 
 
 And smile her dreadful smile. She will come in 
 
 [^ sound of feet is heard : he pauses^ listens^ clutches 
 hold of popPiEA, and says in a terrified whisper.] 
 She is coming ! 
 
 [anicetus and his men appear at the top of the steps 
 leading up from the sea, and the body of agrippina, 
 
 109 
 
covered from head to foot^ is bought in on a litter. It 
 is set down and nero slowly goes up to it, uncovers the 
 face, and gazes on it in silence. The door of the 
 banqueting hall is thrown open, and the feasters come 
 out, at first slowly, then more quickly.^ 
 
 Third Noble. 
 
 Who has called us from the feast ? 
 
 Second Noble. 
 Someone is dead. 
 
 Fourth Noble. 
 Who is it tha£ is dead ? 
 
 Fourth Girl [Behind]. 
 What is it ? 
 
 Nero [In a low monotonous voice]. 
 
 She was very beautiful. 
 
 This is the first time that I dare look close, 
 
 And not be chidden. She is not angry now, 
 
 Nor sad, nor fond ; but she is beautiful. 
 
 Was it not necessary for her to die 
 
 That I should see her as she was, and know 
 
 How beautiful she was ? When we are dead 
 
 Men see us as we are, but, while we live. 
 
 As we would have them see us, I forget 
 
 If this dead woman were my enemy 
 
 Or I had cause to reverence her. Now 
 
 I reverence her dead. 
 
 no 
 
Third Noble [Jsiae]. 
 
 Do you mark that ? 
 
 He gazes on her In an ecstasy, 
 
 And dreams, not sees her. 
 
 Fourth Noble \Aside\. 
 Is he a man ? 
 
 Third Noble \_Aside\. 
 
 Ah, no, 
 
 A poet, and afraid. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Take up the body ; 
 
 Come, we must burn this precious thing with fire, 
 
 And render it to the gods. Come. 
 
 \The bearers raise the litter and carry it out slowly, 
 through the door on the left; nero walks beside it with 
 his eyes on the face o/'agrippina, as if in a dream. 
 He is followed by popp^iEa, and by some of the feasters."] 
 
 Fourth Noble. 
 
 What is this } 
 
 Must we see this, and yet keep silence ? 
 
 Third Noble. 
 
 Ay, 
 
 She that keeps silence now, beyond the door, 
 
 Talked once : she will not say another word. 
 
 First Girl. 
 
 Is this an honest death ? 
 
 Ill 
 
Second Girl. 
 
 They say 'twas drowning. 
 
 First Girl. 
 
 There was blood upon the sheet that covered her. 
 
 Fourth Noble. 
 
 How did she die ? There's surely some man honest 
 
 That knows and that can tell us how she died. 
 
 Sixth Noble. 
 
 That can I tell, if you will bear with me 
 
 And suffer the whole truth. 
 
 Fourth Noble. 
 Speak, tell us all. 
 You saw her die ? 
 
 Sixth Noble. 
 
 Would I had seen it not. 
 
 The sea had cast her up upon the land. 
 
 And would not be her slayer ; and the land 
 
 Mocked her with hopes of safety ; for there came 
 
 The people flocking round her full of joy, 
 
 Crying her name, and crying on the gods 
 
 For pity and good help ; and she had come 
 
 From the sea's edge not many paces yet, 
 
 Because the people thronged her in their care. 
 
 When, suddenly, like a more deadly sea 
 
 The billow of Anicetus and his men 
 
 Broke on the people, and broke through, and chased 
 
 The succour and the joy ; and all fell back, 
 
 112 
 
And fled hither and thither ; and she stood, 
 Fearless, and faint yet from the buffeting sea. 
 And spoke the name of Nero. At that name. 
 That name her death, " Strike " Anicetus cried, 
 " For Nero " ; and she, knowing her death sure, 
 Would not bow down her head, but, choosing it, 
 " Strike here ! " she cried, and offering the womb 
 That had born Nero to the shameless swords 
 That did the will of Nero, she embraced 
 Death like a lover. 
 
 Fifth Noble. 
 
 Can any man do this 
 
 And go unpunished ? Are there gods in heaven 
 
 Or men on earth that these things can be done 
 
 And we stand here and suffer them .'' 
 
 Sixth Noble. 
 
 Why, no less. 
 
 There is a splendour in the height of crime 
 
 That blinds the eyes of men, or turns the sight 
 
 To admiration. 
 
 Fifth Noble. 
 
 How can this one man, 
 
 Who has wronged all men, live, and none of all 
 
 Whom he has wronged strike back one blow for Rome ? 
 
 It is not Caesar's guards : one man who gives 
 
 His life for Caesar's ends him ; and what Roman 
 
 Puts such a price upon his single life 
 
 Which he will stake in battle in one hour 
 
 H 113 
 
Twenty times over, and for Caesar, whom 
 He holds a tyrant ? 
 
 Third Noble. 
 
 It is not that he reigns 
 
 By divine right of lineage : equal right 
 
 Was Caesar's and Britannicus'. 
 
 Sixth Noble, 
 
 It is 
 
 A dizzy glory seated in this height 
 
 Of inaccessible evil. He shall reign 
 
 Till he destroy Rome utterly, and fall 
 
 Only with Rome. 
 
 Fifth Noble. 
 May Nero 
 
 Sixth Noble. 
 
 Hush ! he comes. 
 
 [nero returns, with popp^a, anicetus and the others 
 who have gone out with him. He stands still, and 
 looks around him.'\ 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Were we not at a feast .'' You are all dumb. 
 Bring me a cup of wine. Why do you stand 
 As if you waited .'' I say there's nothing now 
 To wait for any more. 
 
 Servant [Offering a cup]. 
 My lord, the wine. 
 114 
 
Nero [Not taking it]. 
 
 There have been many feasts that ended so ; 
 Fire is the end of all things ; and this fire 
 Burns out my heart. 
 
 Servant [Again offering the cup\. 
 My lord. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 I did not call you. 
 
 The feast is ended : by your leave, my lords. 
 
 Or I shall weep before you : to your beds, 
 
 And think, not without pity, of the man 
 
 Now woefuUest among you ; but no words, 
 
 As I am Caesar, and can require of you 
 
 The solace of your silence. For to-night 
 
 Farewell. ' 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 Kind lords, and all best friends of mine, 
 
 The gods be with you in your going. 
 
 First Lord. 
 
 Come, 
 
 If the gods go not with us, sure, we leave 
 
 No gods under this roof. 
 
 Second Lord. 
 
 We were wise to go 
 
 Before the feast turn evil. Who of us 
 
 Is too minute for this omniscient fear ? 
 
 [All go out. NERO and popp^a are left alone.] 
 
 "5 
 
POPP^A. 
 
 This is well done, Nero, and greatly done. 
 Done like a Caesar. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Why, this had to be ; 
 
 Who is it says she might have lived ? No, no, 
 
 I have done a thing her life made necessary. 
 
 Did not her hands set me upon a throne 
 
 Too narrow to be shared, and high enough 
 
 To fall from mortality ? She would have thrust 
 
 The throne from under me. 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 Yet Octavia lives. 
 
 I dreamed that she was dead. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Dream no such dreams. 
 
 PoPPiEA. 
 
 I held her head with the long dripping hair 
 Thus, between both my palms ; with angry joy 
 I looked into her face, and she, unchanged. 
 Kept down her heavy, meek, and scornful lids. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 You had not dared 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 I had not dared ? 
 
 ii6 
 
Nero. 
 
 To look 
 
 Into the eyes beneath them. 
 
 PoPPjEA. 
 
 Being dead ? 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Poppaea, the dead live : be sure of that. 
 
 Seneca knows not of it, but I know 
 
 What I have seen, and I have seen the dead. 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 I would that I could see them. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 What, the dead ? 
 
 These things must not be sought ; they come to us. 
 
 They are about us, and they look on us 
 
 Out of our shadows, out of a blind wall. 
 
 Call to us out of wind, out of the sea 
 
 {He pauses^ listens^ O, that was not the sea ! Did you 
 not hear ? 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 I heard nothing. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Did you not hear } Now, now. 
 
 She's crying, and yet I saw the fire take hold 
 
 Upon the flesh, and suck the hollow bones. 
 
 So many hours dead, and not quiet yet ! 
 
 117 
 
She'll wake me with her crying, night by night. 
 Come to my bedside, rather like a mother 
 Than like an angry ghost : she kisses me 
 Down even to the bottom of a dream. 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 That will be very well : she loves you still, 
 
 Or else the dead forget. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 If she torgot, 
 
 That were the best ; but she'll remember ; why, 
 
 Her kisses were all hoarded from my lips 
 
 To come again to plague me. Do you think 
 
 Some of the dead, that were not, as she was, 
 
 Immortally full of life, do these forget ? 
 
 PoPPjEA. 
 
 Surely the dead forget. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 She will not, no, 
 
 She'll never let me sleep ; she will bring dreams. 
 
 If I should close my eyes, she would be there ; 
 
 And if I shut my ears, she would still speak. 
 
 Now the whole earth is full of her, the fire 
 
 Has not put out her spirit. There is a quick 
 
 And angry spirit more impalpable. 
 
 More like divinity, in this red wind 
 
 Than habits in the earth or in the air. 
 
 It can put out the torches of the night 
 
 That smoke about the moon ; but not her spirit. 
 
 ii8 
 
She'll never die, and I must always live. 
 Where is this voice that calls me by my name, 
 Where ? where ? say that you hear it. 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 I hear nothing. 
 
 Nero [Striking his jorehead]. 
 Then it is here, within me } I am changed, 
 I am inhabited. How shall I escape. 
 When I must flee away out of myself, 
 Because she is within me ? 
 
 \He sits down and covers his face with his hands. 
 
 Theny without raising his head^ he says — ] 
 Is it day yet ? 
 
 Popp^A. 
 
 Be comforted ; the long, unfriendly night 
 
 Is over ; rise up and uncover your face. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 Who am I that I should look upon the day .'' 
 
 [The door on the left is thrown open, and burrhus, 
 with the Tribunes of the cohorts and the chief Pretorians, 
 appears on the threshold, nero rises. They come 
 forward, some fall on their knees, and kiss the hands of 
 
 NERO.J 
 
 Burrhus. 
 
 Hail, Caesar : these be friends ; they bring you thanks. 
 
 119 
 
First Tribune. 
 
 Perish all traitors ; praise to all the Gods, 
 
 For Caesar has done justice. 
 
 Second Tribune. 
 Praise to the gods 
 That have saved Rome and Caesar. 
 
 First Pretorian. 
 
 Hail, all hail, 
 
 This justice has saved Rome ; praise to the gods. 
 
 Second Pretorian. 
 Caesar, we bring yoii thanks. 
 
 First Tribune. 
 
 We bring you thanks. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 I am a king again. Pretorians, 
 
 Tribunes, friends faithful to me, I perceive 
 
 That this long night is over, which I count 
 
 The woefuUest of my life. This thing now done. 
 
 Justice has done for me ; this shall bring peace. 
 
 This household woe shall bring peace to the world. 
 
 Second Tribune. 
 
 Praise be to Caesar ; praise be to the gods. 
 
 Nero. 
 
 The just gods helping me, there now is nothing 
 
 I cannot hope for of my spirit, nothing 
 
 1 20 
 
Left to the gods to thwart me with, 1 stand 
 
 Now at the height and pinnacle of my power, 
 
 Steadfastly immovable. I will strike all 
 
 The ages dumb with wonder. When men see 
 
 Wy golden forehead jostling the pale crowd 
 
 Of dim and inextinguishable stars. 
 
 They shall look up, and they shall say 
 
 First Tribune. 
 
 Was this 
 
 A god or was this Caesar ? 
 
 All. 
 
 It is a god. 
 
 Nero [raising his hands solemnly], 
 
 I will give thanks, a god unto the gods. 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS. 
 
 121 
 
CLEOPATRA IN JUDAEA. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 That Herod's head 
 
 I'll have : but how, when Antony is gone 
 
 Through whom I might command it ? 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra, iii. 3. 
 
THE PERSONS. 
 
 HeroDj King of Judaea. 
 Pheroras, his brother. 
 CosTOBARus, his brother-in-law. 
 Hyrcanus, formerly High Priest. 
 Phanuel, a Priest. 
 SoHEMus, of Iturea. 
 Mardian, a Eunuch. 
 
 Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt. 
 
 Iras, ■ , 
 
 r. 1- her women. 
 
 Lharmion 
 
Scene : A hall in the Palace of King Herod in Jerusalem. 
 HEROD is seated with his counsellors hyrcanus, 
 pheroras, costobarus, phanuel, and sohemus. 
 
 Phanuel. 
 
 This queen, this concubine, this idolatress, 
 
 This white tenth plague of Egypt, brother's wife 
 
 And sister killer, this insatiate leech 
 
 And whore of all the Caesars, this outspewed 
 
 Unswallowable and deadly weed of God 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Peace ; do not prophesy against the queen. 
 My lords, this is the seventh day our guest, 
 Cleopatra, came to us from Antony ; 
 Seven days we have done her honour, and to-day 
 She will come here to take her leave of us. 
 The guards are ready and the litters wait. 
 Think well, my lords, counsel me : shall she go 
 With state, such as we owe our enemies. 
 And tribute, back to Egypt .? or shall she go 
 In the narrow balsamed litter of the dead, 
 Tribute to Antony ? Think well, my lords. 
 
 Phanuel. 
 
 Cry out, the maledictions of the hills. 
 And dews of ague from the pools, cry out 
 Against this woman that shall make Israel sin, 
 
 Herod. 
 
 We must have patience, Phanuel. My lords. 
 
 All hangs upon a moment, which, once past 
 
 125 
 
Returns no more. Consider who she is 
 
 Whom now I hold, whom now I hold or loose. 
 
 She covets all Judaea, as a fog 
 
 Sucks up the watery lifeblood of the earth 
 
 She has sucked up the cities of the plain 
 
 From Egypt to Eleutherus, save Tyre 
 
 And Sidon, both free cities, and she seeks 
 
 The freedom of these cities. Syria 
 
 She has already, and Arabia 
 
 She hopes for ; and she comes from Antony 
 
 Gone against Artabazes, to subdue 
 
 Armenia, that he may give this woman 
 
 A kingdom for a bracelet on her wrist. 
 
 Do I not now already pay to her 
 
 Dues for Arabia, revenues for the groves 
 
 Of palm and balsam about Jericho .'' 
 
 One morning, with her arm about his neck, 
 
 Antony leans for kisses : which the Queen 
 
 Sadly puts by: "You love me not," she sighs. 
 
 Whereat the fond fool, Antony, with oaths 
 
 By twenty several gods, clahiours " A test ! " 
 
 And takes it for a kiss. O Antony 
 
 Has kissed away the world, and now the queen 
 
 Sets politic bounds to appetite, and stints 
 
 Her choicest lusts, lest, for a bankrupt love. 
 
 He snatch at no more kingdoms. Counsel me 
 
 What I shall do with this wise enemy, 
 
 Now my most perilous guest ? 
 
 CoSTOBARUS. 
 
 Wisdom, my lord, 
 Were here one thing with honour : let the King 
 126 
 
Send back the queen to Egypt ; being a queen 
 She must have royal usage. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 What think you, 
 Hyrcanus ? 
 
 Hyrcanus. 
 
 O my son, stain not your hands 
 With any woman's blood : a woman's blood 
 Stains deeper than a man's, and hurts the soul. 
 This is a woman dear to Antony, 
 And you shall rather take the Nile from him 
 Than this mere toy of beauty. Men grown fond 
 Cling tighter to their toys than children do. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 You are old and wise, Hyrcanus, yet I know 
 
 Why you would pleasure Antony. He slew 
 
 Antigonus, who cut off both your ears. 
 
 To thrust you from the Priesthood. Poor old man. 
 
 You have been High Prjest, and for a little time 
 
 You have been a King, and now, at fourscore years, 
 
 Are you so grateful still to Antony 
 
 Who lent you his revenge ? 
 
 Hyrcanus. 
 
 Phraates the King 
 Of Parthia gave me room in Babylon. 
 In Babylon were many Jews, and all 
 Reverenced me as if I still had been 
 High Priest and King. But I did iU to leave 
 
 127 
 
Babylon, where all men reverenced me. 
 
 Here even Herod mocks me. [He rises.] 
 
 Herod [Putting him back in his seai\. 
 
 No, father, 
 
 I also reverence you, I set your place 
 
 Above the place of all men at the feast, 
 
 I do you honour before all men. Come, 
 
 Have patience with me. You have not spoken yet, 
 
 Pheroras ; you are brother to me and share 
 
 My labours in the kingdom. 
 
 Pheroras. 
 
 Herod, first 
 Be friends with Antony, and for his sake 
 Seem friend to Cleopatra. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 But is she not 
 A poison in his bones to Antony .? 
 Shall I not rid him of his mortal hurt 
 In ridding him of Cleopatra ? 
 
 Pheroras. 
 
 Brother, 
 Does not a man love better than all springs 
 Of living water in his neighbour's fields 
 The poison that is sweet to his own bones } 
 
 COSTOBARUS. 
 
 That you know best, Pheroras. Twice you have 
 
 spurned 
 
 128 
 
Herod, and his two daughters you have spurned, 
 And for a handmaid. Truly you cleave close 
 To your own poison. 
 
 Pheroras. 
 
 He who speaks to me 
 Speaks from a better knowledge. As a man 
 Puts by a woman, so your wife put by 
 Her husband, being the daughter of a King. 
 I would not for the Kings of the earth put by 
 My wife that was a handmaid. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Peace, no more. 
 Is it a time to speak of these things now, 
 Or of the thing now present ? You are all 
 Wranglers among yourselves, each for his own 
 And no man for the kingdom. Shall I find 
 Counsel in you or put my trust in you ? 
 For I would make an end now suddenly 
 Of Cleopatra, and in one stroke rid 
 Antony of his most unfaithful friend. 
 Who will one day when he has need of her, 
 Sell him for love or safety ; and myself 
 Of this sly enemy, this running flame 
 That would lick up Judaea like a field 
 Of windy corn. 
 
 Phanuel. 
 
 The fire of heaven lick up 
 The Nile and all its vermin ; winds of drought 
 Suck dry the Egyptian cisterns ; may the dust 
 
 I 129 
 
Of all the desert be heaped over her, 
 Because of whom Israel shall surely sin. 
 
 SoHEMUS. 
 
 Phanuel speaks truth 
 
 Herod. 
 
 How so ? 
 
 SoHEMUS. 
 
 Beware of her. 
 Herod. 
 Why, so I would. 
 
 SoHEMUS. 
 
 Let her not come to you ; 
 They say she cast a spell on Antony. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 I have no fear of any woman's spell. 
 
 SoHEMUS. 
 
 That's not well said, my lord. Antony said 
 He would not fear a woman. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 If she should die, 
 It were well for me and well for Antony. 
 
 SoHEMUS. 
 
 If she should die, what man is there of us 
 Shall say to Antony : " It is for your good 
 That this your leman, the chief woman now 
 At this time in the world, has suffered death 
 130 
 
For Herod's pleasure ? " Have a care, my lord ; 
 Send her alive out of the land : but look 
 Upon her face no more. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 You have all spoken ; 
 You have said wisely ; yet is it my will 
 To follow out my will, whether it be 
 Wisdom or folly. This Egyptian plague 
 Has cumbered the sound earth too long. She is 
 The idol of the world's idolatry ; 
 No heathen can resist her, for she has 
 The witchcraft of their gods ; but as for me. 
 My trust is in the Lord God, he is the God 
 Of my own people, he is the Lord of Hosts. 
 I will rise up in the young strength of God 
 And smite this ancient evil, that has wrought 
 So much of all the evil of the world. 
 
 [The doors are thrown open, and an attendant 
 
 appears.l^ 
 
 Attendant. 
 
 The Queen of Egypt and the Queen of Queens, 
 
 Empress and daughter of the Ptolemies, 
 
 Regent of Isis, Cleopatra ! 
 
 [e/f// rise. CLEOPATRA enters, attended by charmion, 
 IRAS, MARDiAN, and the others, herod moves forward 
 to receive her, hut before he has reached her, phanuel 
 comes forward with a pointing finger, and cries out at 
 her.'] 
 
 131 
 
Phanuel. 
 
 See, 
 
 The leprosy of beauty, the white sin 
 
 Her idols are upon her, Ashtaroth 
 
 Points with the horns of the white poisonous moon 
 
 Upon her forehead, Baal is in her eyes. 
 
 Beware of the accursed beauty ! 
 
 [cLEOPATRA gaZBS at htm with a tranquil and mock- 
 ing smik.'] 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Sir, 
 Mardian my eunuch shall attend on you. 
 Go, Mardian, comfort him ; speak to him kindly, 
 
 Mardian. 
 
 [phanuel rushes out past her with uplifted arms. 
 
 She turns to herod.] 
 Your counsellors are women, by these tears. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Pardon, immortal queen : this is a voice 
 Which cries some sacred madness like a bird, 
 Not knowing what it speaks. Think it no more 
 Than a grey handful of the dust which rose 
 Against you in the desert. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Why, so be it : 
 My eyes remember that, and my ears this. 
 These lords are courteous to me, by their looks. 
 Why do they stand apart ? 
 132 
 
Herod. 
 
 They do but wait 
 To give you homage. 
 
 Cleopatra [To hyrcanus]. 
 
 You may kiss my hand, 
 
 Old man. Ah, Costobarus, this is well. 
 
 I was your friend, and better than you thought. 
 
 Brother of Herod, also my good friend ; 
 
 And you, Sohemus, be it well with you. 
 
 [They all salute her and go out.'] 
 Go, Iras, Charmion, go ; be not far off. 
 Take Mardian and the others, wait without. 
 [Aside.] And look you, Iras, if you find a friend, 
 Sound him of Herod's purpose. [They all go out.] 
 
 My kind lord, 
 I have been your guest ; I leave you ; this last time 
 We speak together ; be the lips of each 
 Naked as truth. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 God be my witness, lady, 
 I have no guile within my heart or mouth. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Which of the gods, Herod } 
 
 Herod. 
 
 The Lord of Hosts. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 We call him Mars : a serviceable oath ; 
 
 Antony swears by Bacchus, who, they say, 
 
 133 
 
Repents in his own wine. He swears by him 
 
 That men may cry " The God ! " They're very like ; 
 
 There is an image somewhere, you would say, 
 
 'Tis Antony's big smile, and lips curled back. 
 
 And cheeks that pout and dimple to the eyes. 
 
 But still the eyes watch and the lips stand firm. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Antony chooses well. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 You smile, my lord ? 
 Indeed, he feasts past reason. 'Tis a fault. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 I thought of no such thing. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 'Tis very true. 
 I left him by Euphrates, all his mimes 
 Supping beside him : certain singing men 
 And certain dancing women. If Antony 
 Forgets to be a King, all's over. Hark, 
 There is a thing I have not told you yet : 
 I tire of him a little, 
 
 Herod. 
 
 This cannot be. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Why, not so much but I'd have Antony 
 
 Rather than Caesar ; yet Octavius stands 
 
 To be the stronger ; but no matter. 
 
 134 
 
Herod. 
 
 Madam, 
 Antony loves you better than the world. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Is not that why I begged the world of him ? 
 He parcels me the world, scrap after scrap. 
 But slowly, slowly. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 He has not promised you 
 Judaea yet ? 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 I swear I never thought 
 To ask it of him ; no, by Isis, no ; 
 I will not ask Judaea, on my life, 
 Of any man but Herod ! 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Yet even this 
 Antony gave me when I fled to Rome, 
 Scarcely escaped from Malchus. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 On your way 
 You came to Alexandria, and you fled 
 Into a storm from Alexandria, 
 Because you feared the sea and Antony 
 Less than a woman. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Did I wisely .'' 
 
 ^35 
 
Cleopatra. 
 
 If 
 I ask of you Judaea, have I then 
 Nothing to give ? You do not answer me. 
 Are you his servant ? 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Antony is my lord, 
 I am as faithful servant to him as 
 I hope for faithful servants. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Antony 
 Is my lord also ; I have no other slave 
 So faithful to me as this Antony. 
 By Isis, I have whipped him from his throne 
 For having frowned upon me. You hold Antony 
 By serving Cleopatra. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 To his hurt ? 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 To his hurt chiefly. Octavia medicines him, 
 I serve him for his pleasure, not his good ; 
 And thus I keep him. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Shall 1 also keep him, 
 Who am no woman, nor, as women are, 
 Naturally inconsistent, if 1 wrong 
 The trust that holds a man bound to a man ? 
 136 
 
Cleopatra. 
 
 Listen, Herod. I am not, as you think, 
 
 The thing that cries and kisses, may be bought 
 
 For kisses and for honey in the words. 
 
 I am a woman : women are that thing, 
 
 But not a queen, and not a Ptolemy, 
 
 Herod ; and not, though all the world turned lover, 
 
 The woman Cleopatra. I have played 
 
 At kisses for the world ; not with the world 
 
 For kisses. 
 
 [There is a pause, herod looks at her intently 
 
 without speaking^ 
 
 Once you willed to be a King ; 
 You are a King now, Herod. Are you content } 
 There is a fiery craft within your eyes 
 That marks you for a King of more than Jews. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 So much suffices me. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 If you would bend 
 So low as to allow a woman's aid ! 
 Antony does, but Mariamne 
 
 Herod. 
 
 No, 
 Nothing of Mariamne ! 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 How you cry 
 "Nothing of Mariamne ! " Do my lips 
 Blacken her name, Mariamne, saying it } 
 
 137 
 
Herod. 
 
 A small poor private matter of my own, 
 
 So please you, madam. Pray you, let it pass. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Because you love her ? 
 
 Herod. 
 
 For so slight a cause ! 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Answer me, Herod. You, who are a King, 
 Prouder than any King, and in your land 
 You hold your wives as we our mistresses. 
 Are you so sure this woman whom you love 
 Loves you again and loves no other man ? 
 
 Herod. 
 
 I could not be more sure. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Why, that's well said. 
 That's bravely said, said like a man ! That's said 
 As Antony might say it when he speaks 
 To praise Octavia. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Has Octavia, madam. 
 Done Antony more wrong than to be chaste, 
 A keeper of his children and her house .'' 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 That's wrong enough : she does him hurt with it, 
 
 To make all Rome his hater. 
 
 138 
 
Herod. 
 
 I am content 
 To suffer so much hate. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 She is his wife. 
 Antony tempts her not. I say, think twice 
 Before you trust a woman once. Think thrice 
 Before you trust a woman while the world 
 Holds Antony. No, let me speak. I say 
 That there is not a woman born of woman 
 He lusts not after, and not a woman born 
 That would not serve his pleasure for her own. 
 If I were not more instant and more strong 
 Than Antony to content Antony. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Then let me speak, if you will have it so. 
 
 I say there is one woman, and my wife. 
 
 Not to be tempted, not by Antony. 
 
 Not with all Rome. I have thought twice and thrice. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 You say it. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Who should speak for me ? 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Your pride : 
 Antony even now burns after her. 
 
 Herod [rising]. 
 
 He has not seen her face. 
 
 139 
 
Cleopatra. 
 
 Why do you rise ? 
 
 Herod. 
 
 You test my patience, not my loyalty. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 With Antony, when women are the talk 
 
 A word suffices. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Words I do not fear. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Many have praised Mariamne. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 They did well. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 He doats upon her picture : is that well ? 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Her picture ? he, her picture ? 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Prays to it. 
 Bears it about with him, calls his friends to see, 
 Acquaints them with the name, who sent it him. . 
 
 Herod. 
 
 You lie, Cleopatra. 
 
 140 
 
Cleopatra. 
 
 Do I lie, my lord ? 
 
 [She lakes out the picture^ unrolls it, and shows it to 
 
 himJ] 
 Do you deny the hand ? 
 
 Herod [Snatching it from her reads']. 
 
 "To Antony 
 From Mariamne." 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Is it her hand or not ? 
 Herod. 
 Where had you this ? 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Of Antony sleeping. 
 
 Herod [Walking to and fr6\. 
 
 Why, 
 God of my fathers, why must Mariamne 
 Be now at Caesaraea ? I would look 
 Into her eyes until I found the truth 
 Naked. I would set this name that does commit 
 Adultery with this name before her face. 
 As here they kiss together. I would shame 
 Her mother in her eyes. But I must wait. 
 But I must wait. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Some of her messengers 
 I gave to lions, some to snakes ; my beasts 
 
 141 
 
Love dearly a man's flesh : they do my will 
 When a man's justice lingers. 
 
 Herod [fFalking to and fro]. 
 
 Always now 
 The mother, with her rage against my throne ; 
 She threats me with her graveyard lineage, thrusts 
 Her withered ancientness between my sight 
 And Mariamne. And Mariamne hears 
 Her voice crying against me ; and now 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Now 
 She perils you with Antony, she plays 
 More than her honour ; it is with your life 
 She plays. But Herod, I will be your friend. 
 
 Herod [Holding out the picture]. 
 
 Do you not bring me bonds from Antony .'' 
 
 Is not this picture for a sign of it. 
 
 These names for seals upon it ^ You are wise. 
 
 You work to pleasure Antony : are we friends ? 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Herod, I stand between your death and you ; 
 
 I am more your friend than you can think of me. 
 
 Let me but speak. Antony seeks your death 
 
 In seeking Mariamne : yet in her 
 
 Seeks but a moment's woman : while I live 
 
 Antony dares not leave me ; while I live 
 
 He never shall have Mariamne 
 
 142 
 
Herod. 
 
 Ah! 
 Not while you live, Cleopatra ! It is true 
 How strangely we forget ! 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 But that's not all : 
 Does not Mariamne long for Antony ? 
 We stand between them ; Herod, what shall we do 
 For one another ? I only am your friend, 
 Herod, in this ; if you will be my friend 
 In all things ! 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Surely I will be your friend ; 
 I had not thought to be so much your friend. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 There have been kings have knelt to me for that 
 You would not for the taking. Here is my hand : 
 I would not that you kissed it. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 The queen's hand 
 I kiss ; and so I seal myself your friend 
 In all things. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Why, that's well. Hark in your ear : 
 No man was ever yet a friend to me, 
 But I will be a friend to you as no man 
 Was ever yet my friend. 
 
 ^^2 
 
Herod. 
 
 How shall that be ? 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 I have learned love in Egypt. All I know 
 
 I have not taught even to Antony ; 
 
 And I know all things. Have I not learned love 
 
 In Egypt ? there the wise old mud of the Nile 
 
 Breeds the dark sacred lotus, and the moon 
 
 Brims up its cup with wisdom ; I have learned 
 
 The seven charms of Isis, each a charm 
 
 To draw the stars out of the sky with love ; 
 
 The seven names of Apis, each a name 
 
 To stroke the madness out of cruel beasts ; 
 
 And I have looked into the heart of death 
 
 And death has told me all things, and I know 
 
 How to make every hour of life as great, 
 
 Terrible, and delicious, as the hour 
 
 When death tells all things. Can Mariamne love 
 
 As I can love, Herod ? 
 
 Herod. 
 
 No, not as you 
 Can love, Cleopatra ! 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Kings have cast their crowns 
 Into the dust, and kings that are my foes 
 I can take up into my hand and cast 
 Into the dust, for love of me. I am a woman. 
 But I have power greater than any man's. 
 144 
 
HeroD. 
 
 Though you have greater power than any matt, 
 
 How should it profit me ? 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 If you are a man, 
 Why do you ask ? Is there not heat enough 
 In these chill suns that would not warm our winter 
 To thaw the holy courses of your veins ? 
 How shall it profit ? how if it be but 
 That I shall take your foes into my hands. 
 And bind them with the girdles of my hair. 
 And set them blind and bound into your hands ? 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Will you bind Antony for me ? 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 My lord, 
 You gird at me with Antony. Men forget 
 The women whom they love ; but when I love 
 No man forgets me. When Mark Antony 
 Saw me the first time, I was a child at play 
 In Egypt, a young child ; the second time 
 I came to meet him into Asia, 
 A queen, and like a goddess. Thirteen years 
 Had made me and had unmade Antony, 
 But when he stepped between the silver oars 
 Into the music and the purple cloud. 
 His eyes remembered. Herod, since that day 
 He has not left me. He has a Roman wife, 
 A wedding-ring, and not a woman ; I, 
 
 K 145 
 
I alone hold the man who holds the world ; 
 And Herod, I will give you Antony. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Why should you do a greater thing for me 
 
 Than you have done for Antony ? 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Because 
 Herod shall be . . . greater than Antony ! 
 Am I not Cleopatra ? are not you 
 King, yet a king whose neck takes on the yoke, 
 Antony sets upon it, and his brow 
 The sorer stain a woman's lightness sets 
 For Antony upon it ? Break the yoke, 
 Wipe out the stain, be lord of Antony, 
 And lord of Cleopatra ! 
 
 Herod. 
 
 For what price ? 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Herod, when you have given me the world, 
 
 I will give you more than I gave Antony. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 I am not rich enough to pay the price. 
 
 And the reward is greater than my hopes. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Greater shall the reward be than your hopes : 
 
 As great as your deserving. 
 
 146 
 
Herod. 
 
 Humbly, madam, 
 And gratefully, and in all things honourably, 
 I crave your leave to answer. As for me, 
 I am an Idumean, and here King 
 Over the Jews ; I owe to Antony 
 My kingdom, and my honour binds me his. 
 Also I am the husband of a queen. 
 Whom I hold fast from all men, as you hold 
 Antony from all women : in this thing 
 I take you for ally ; it profits you, 
 And I am profited by it : while you live 
 I know you never will loose Antony : 
 May the Queen live for ever ! As for me. 
 What I may do to honour you I will ; 
 What honour I shall do you presently 
 You shall not wait to hear. May the Queen live 
 For ever ; let there be between us two 
 Peace, and a long farewell. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 My prudent Herod ! 
 [He goes out. charmion and mardian enter.'\ 
 Charmion, I add an altar to the God 
 Of Herod where the altars of my gods 
 Smoke not in Egypt. 
 
 Charmion. 
 
 Madam, is all well .'' 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 All's well enough, Charmion. [She starts up.] 
 But this dog, 
 
 147 
 
This Herod swine and carrion of a Jew, 
 
 This puppet plucked by Antony, this King 
 
 Antony would unking for me, if I begged 
 
 At the right wine-warmed moment of the feast. 
 
 Or under some cool moon upon the Nile ; 
 
 This husband of a woman, whom he holds 
 
 As I hold asps in Alexandria, 
 
 For pretty, intimate deaths ! a biting thing. 
 
 Most cold and biting ! I have failed, Charmion, 
 
 And with this Jew ! 
 
 Charmion. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Lady! 
 
 When Antony 
 Made laws for Rome, and all the senators 
 Sat round him in the Forum, I do think 
 That, passing in my litter, I have seen 
 Antony rise and run to me. 
 
 Charmion. 
 
 His seat 
 Is empty, madam, before an eye but his 
 So much as sees the litter ! 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Antony, 
 Antony's known, reckoned with ; let that be. 
 But you have known Caesarion's father, speak, 
 Mardian, if you heard Caesar answer No 
 To my most idle word .'' 
 148 
 
Mardian. 
 
 I have seen Caesar 
 Kneel to you, madam, and not take your Yes 
 So easily as a Kingdom. 
 
 Charmion. 
 
 They say. Madam, 
 The young Octavius, though his speech is stern. 
 Dreams but of Egypt. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 I am worth a Caesar, 
 Charmion ; the gods have made what they have made ; 
 We'll not dispraise them. This fierce woman here 
 Is not ill-mated : let him keep her close ; 
 That's well enough : she's not for Antony. 
 
 [iras rushes in.'] 
 Iras. 
 Madam, a plot, a plot ! 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 What's this ? 
 Iras. 
 
 Beware ! 
 They plot your death. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Who.? 
 Iras. 
 
 Herod. 
 
 Cleopatra [fFiih a slow smile]. 
 No, not Herod. 
 
 149 
 
Iras. 
 
 It is from Costobarus, and I wormed 
 
 Into his heart, and he is most your friend. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Well, what said he .'' 
 
 Iras. 
 
 He said, and not for nothing. 
 And secretly, that Herod seeks your life. 
 And means to kill you, and has ready now 
 A litter for your body, and a guard 
 To follow it to Egypt, for a gift. 
 Back to Antony, dead. O who shall save us ? 
 He said he had pleaded for you. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Now this is strange, 
 Wonderful, more than wonderful, most strange. 
 That not an hour, a little hour ago. 
 This may have been ? his eyes were cold to me 
 With thinking of me dead. And now the guard 
 Is ready, and the litter waits for me. 
 That is to take me living. I have done well ; 
 I have done wisely, wiser than I knew. 
 
 Iras. 
 
 O madam, must we die ? 
 
 Charmion. 
 
 What shall we do ? 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Tremble not, foolish child, the fear is past. 
 My life is more to Herod than my death ; 
 150 
 
I have saved myself ; Mariamne, whom I hate, 
 Has saved me ; and I have not wholly failed. 
 
 [/^ knocking is heard at the door.\ 
 Charmion. 
 Hark, what is that ? 
 
 Iras. 
 
 They are coming. 
 
 Mardian IJDropping on his kneel. 
 Spare my life ! 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 They shall not harm you, Mardian ; courage, girls, 
 
 And bid them enter. 
 
 [charmion opens the door, and an armed man is seen, 
 
 with other armed men behind him^ 
 
 Officer. 
 
 In the name of the King, 
 To the most excellent queen ! To Cleopatra, 
 Herod ! The captains of the royal guard, 
 An hundred horsemen of the royal guard. 
 Captains with chosen spearmen, camels charged. 
 With five of the King's litters, wait the queen's 
 Most royal leisure to attend the queen 
 As far as Egypt. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 The King honours me. 
 Even so will I one day honour the King. 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS