Author 
 
 Title 
 
 Imprint. 
 
Chatterton, The Black 
 Death, and Meriwether 
 Lewis, Three Plays by 
 Charles Reznikoff. 
 
OCT 24*22 
 
Chatterton, The Black 
 Death, and Meriwether 
 Lewis, Three Plays by 
 Charles Reznikoff . 
 
 C-O-vsm^ *gj 
 

 Copyright 1922 by Charles Reznikoff. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 For Sale at 
 
 THE SUNWISE TURN 
 
 51 E. 44th Street 
 
 New York 
 
/ 
 
 / / 
 
 CHATTERTON r 
 
 Scene One 
 
 (The tombs of Canynge, his wife, and Rozvley 
 within a church. From their tombs) 
 
 Canynge. The marble flooring of my vault 
 had fallen in, 
 And into me, waist-deep in sand, an elm 
 Struck its twisted roots. 
 
 Canynge's Wife. On my smooth body 
 
 That knew silk and wool only, 
 Ant-hills like sores. 
 
 Rowley. My enemy, the clock, 
 
 Talked me, the poet, down at last. 
 Live, while you can, Chatterton, 
 Until the mortgagee forecloses 
 Upon Bristol and your spacious sky. 
 
 Canynge's Wife. Bristol, 
 
 Beside the blue flowing water. 
 
 Chatterton. No wonder you ghosts cry 
 out against 
 
 The clamp of death, 
 
 Lord Mayor Canynge, Lady Mayoress, and 
 Priest Rowley. 
 
 Any weather is fair weather to a warm coat. 
 
 I eat in the kitchen, sleep with the footboy. 
 
 They send to peep upon me, copying Mr. Lam- 
 bert's documents, 
 
 Hours: eight to eight. Sister and mother take 
 in sewing. 
 
 1 
 
 ©0.0 62567^ 
 
"Thank you kindly, Mr. Lambert," and "Thank 
 
 you, Mrs. Lambert" ; 
 Colston's charity-boy thanks you. 
 Trifles. Have you had a pebble in a shoe? 
 A hair on your tongue, a grain of sand in 
 
 your eye? 
 Do this and this and be back sharp. 
 If I could only leave and be alone, 
 Not stolen jotting. 
 
 The heart fills and fills, no end to seeing. 
 You are young, j'ou were just seventeen ; 
 I have lived one-fourth of my life, if I live 
 
 to be seventy. 
 
 Rowley. The sun, the air, water when 
 thirsty, bread and fruit, 
 When lean and hungered into exaltation, 
 Stretching along a bed when tired, and waking 
 To listen to the night over the house, 
 So easily are the living joyful. 
 
 Chatterton. A man with a grain of sand 
 in his eye 
 Can not see the sun. 
 
 Canynge. Prisoners have been known 
 
 To scoop their way, using fingers only, 
 Under walls sunk deeply into earth; or with 
 
 an iron nail 
 Scratch out the mortar holding stone and bars. 
 So I, scullion, became merchant and Lord 
 
 Mayor. Step by step, distances. 
 
 Chatterton. Prisoners are prisoners us- 
 ually. 
 
 Rowley. Men, brick by brick, have made 
 such work ; 
 
Were these not troubled too by this and that? 
 While you live, 
 You may outfly eagles ; 
 Because you are not eagle, but a man. 
 Live, Chatterton ! the earth is man's and star 
 by star in time. 
 
 Chatterton. Sundays I have walked the 
 
 streets and seen 
 Men and women, and girls two by two, and 
 
 men alone, 
 Dressed in their Sunday clothes, their faces 
 
 ugly; 
 And thought, Through these rushes I can 
 
 tread any way I please. 
 
 Canynge's Wife. Holiday nights when the 
 weather was warm, 
 We used to walk about, 
 
 In silence, or talking softly close to one an- 
 other, 
 Houses and trees in moonlight. 
 
 Chatterton. I have seen them pass and 
 
 turn the corner, 
 Colors shining in their wings and their heads 
 
 rubies. 
 I will begin building myself webs, 
 Delicate thought leading to delicate thought. 
 
 Rowley. To catch flies? 
 
 Chatterton. To catch an earth tumbling 
 
 on through space 
 And suck it dry. I have made a Bristol out 
 
 of rhyme 
 And peopled it with nobles, sat at their feasts, 
 
 3 
 
Talked and heard ; 
 
 But I am tired of make-believe, of being- a 
 
 scrivener's apprentice, 
 Mother and sister, sempstresses, a family of 
 
 servants. 
 Some mole from prison; 
 
 But I shout the way Jews shouted at Jericho. 
 There are birds in heaven, who rides Pegasus 
 
 may catch some. 
 Days like grains of sand slip through my 
 
 fingers, 
 While I am idle on this accidental shore where 
 
 I was born ; 
 But I have feet to walk away and maybe 
 
 wings. 
 
 Chatterton's Mother (is heard calling). 
 Tommy, Tommy ! 
 Time to be back at Mr. Lambert's. 
 
 Scene Two 
 Burgum (to his wife). Here, a document 
 
 that may interest you : 
 My family tree. You see the name 
 Was once de Bergham. Norman de Bergham 
 
 who fought at Hastings. 
 You didn't think when you were marrying 
 A pewterer, that he had blue blood. 
 As in a fairy tale, the beggar is a prince. 
 
 Here's the coat of arms. 
 
 Burgum's Wife. Yes, 
 
 Like a fairy tale. This document 
 Does not look old. 
 
 Burgum. Of course not. 
 
 It is a copy of the originals. 
 
There is a boy named Chatterton. 
 His uncle is the sexton of St. Mary's. 
 The boy played at dolls with the church's 
 Old parchments, learned his letters from them. 
 Colston's apprenticed him to Mr. Lambert, 
 The scrivener. Now and then the boy still 
 
 visits 
 The old church, rummages the papers, 
 Hopes to become an antiquarian, if you please. 
 The other day he came upon my name, 
 That is, de Bergham, and knowing of me, 
 Searched and found all, of which he made 
 This copy. I saw the originals. 
 They are, of course, the church's. They were 
 
 smoky, 
 As if candle-smoked, scarcely read. 
 
 Burgum's Wife. Perhaps it is a swindle. 
 Did you give 
 Money? 
 
 Burgum. He is not bright enough to swin- 
 dle; 
 Dreamy, the kind swindled. As proud as 
 
 Punch, 
 Too proud to stoop to petty knavery. 
 I gave him five shillings. Perhaps, 
 I swindled him : a lot of work here. 
 
 Burgum's Wife. Five shillings for that 
 paper ! 
 I scrimp and you waste money so. 
 
 Burgum. He went to so much trouble. 
 And really he did not want the money. 
 I had to urge him. He seemed displeased. 
 
 5 
 
Burgum's Wife. That he could get no 
 more. 
 
 Burgum. That he was tipped 
 
 For just a friendly service, I thought. 
 He is a friendly boy . . . 
 
 I have been thinking . . . we are growing old. 
 If we had children, a girl, perhaps, to help you, 
 Or a lad, a lad like this, 
 Whom I could teach my business, what I 
 
 have learnt 
 At such cost . . . 
 
 Perhaps the shop would be less dull. 
 The lad comes of decent folk, is poor, 
 And starved for friendship — it was just a 
 
 fancy. 
 
 Burgum's Wife. We have been alone to- 
 gether 
 
 So many years. Perhaps a nephew — but a 
 stranger 
 
 At the table and beside the fire. 
 
 Why should we change? 
 
 Burgum. It was just a fancy. 
 
 Scene Three 
 
 (In Walpole's mansion-hause, Strawberry 
 Hill) 
 
 Walpole (giving a manuscript) . The poems 
 
 of which I wrote you, Gray, 
 Those found in a church at Bristol, the work 
 Of one Rowley, a priest when Edward the 
 
 Fourth was king. 
 Spirited and harmonious. 
 I wrote this Chatterton to send more. 
 
These came and this about himself : 
 A poor widow's son, apprenticed to a scriv- 
 ener, 
 The work irks him, and won't I send money 
 That he may buy freedom and spend time in 
 
 writing. 
 It seems he dabbles in verse or wants to 
 dabble. 
 
 Gray (who has been dipping into the manu- 
 script). A forgery I 
 
 This is modern as yesterday's gazette : 
 
 Modern words, consonants merely doubled ; 
 
 Obsolete words, taken from any glossary to 
 Chaucer, 
 
 Stuck into an idiom, modern as yesterday's 
 gazette. 
 
 Walpole. Why flare up? The worm would 
 crawl 
 
 Out of his rain-filled hole. 
 
 Of course, I'll write him to stand his ap- 
 prenticeship, practice the profession, 
 
 And when he will have made his fortune, write. 
 
 But why should you be angry at him, Gray? 
 
 What could your mother, the milliner, have 
 done? 
 
 By chance, you had an uncle, rich and child- 
 less. 
 
 Uncle Antrobus made Eton and Cambridge 
 possible, 
 
 Travel and contemplation, time to see, think, 
 write. 
 
 After all, the Elegy is your only poem. 
 
 You felt that, how narrowly you might have 
 been 
 
 Another "mute, inglorious Milton" in the host, 
 
 7 
 
The "youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown". 
 As for me, Walpole's son, 
 
 From Strazvberry Hill I dare not write un- 
 kindly 
 To this Bristol starveling. 
 
 Gray. Kind of you, Walpole. 
 
 Walpole. Then I'll not write at all. I'll let 
 
 it drop. 
 The lad's a swindler. Why should I help him ? 
 If he's a poet, that's his pleasure. 
 If he's a man, he'll stand on his own feet. 
 If he cannot and his poetry is lost, 
 A lot is lost. How many poets do wars kill, 
 And plagues? Ten thousand acorns on the 
 
 oak, 
 That one oak may grow again. 
 Why should I water acorns? Besides, 
 The lad has home, food, and not arduous 
 
 work, 
 Why should he beg? The great poets, Gray, 
 Have been citizens, capable 
 In the business about them : Aeschylus, 
 A soldier with the rest at Marathon, 
 Sophocles, an admiral, Dante, 
 The politician, and Shakespeare — 
 Not recluses in a college like you, Gray. 
 
 Gray. Certainly not forgers. 
 
 Walpole. Why should you be angry at him, 
 Gray? 
 What could your mother, the milliner, have 
 
 done, 
 Unless your Uncle Antrobus . . . 
 
 8 
 
Scene Four 
 
 Lambert's Mother (to servant). Tell your 
 master that I must see him 
 At once! (To Lambert when he comes). 
 That charity-school brat ! Read this : 
 Suicide, if we do not let him go. 
 Suddenly to come upon a body, 
 Like stepping on a mouse in a dark hallway; 
 Or have a servant rush up to me, 
 Hear a shriek in the next room ; let him go ! 
 
 Lambert. What's this? A will and testa- 
 ment? 
 
 Lambert's Mother. It says that he is going 
 to kill himself 
 And so writes this, his last testament. 
 Where is he? 
 
 Lambert. Safe in the office. 
 
 I'll pound him good and proper for the joke, 
 Wasting time in writing this 
 And scaring you. 
 
 Lambert's Mother. Don't bother with him. 
 
 Cancel his prentice papers, rid the house of 
 him. 
 
 He quarrels with the servants ; makes such 
 faces, 
 
 Talking to me or you, some day he'll spring at 
 us. 
 
 And what have we done? We've given him a 
 good home, God knows, 
 
 And you are teaching him your own profes- 
 sion. 
 
 I used to offer buns or a tart at first, 
 
 Carried them in my pocket just for him; 
 
 9 
 
But he would glare so at me, refuse, 
 
 And snarl his thanks. He's out of his mind, 
 
 And if he should do, what here he threatens, 
 
 There'll be no stilling the town's talk, 
 
 How we ill-used the orphan and drove him 
 
 to it. 
 Your friends may call upon the council 
 For investigations ; then we are 
 At a spiteful servant's mercy. Pack him offl 
 I won't sleep another night 
 With that boy in the house. 
 
 Lambert. This will of his 
 
 Will be a good excuse. I have been disap- 
 pointed 
 More than I cared to tell you. Those at Col- 
 ston's 
 Thought highly of him, highly enough 
 To apprentice him to a scrivener; but he has 
 
 proved 
 Unaccountably dull at times, lazy and insolent, 
 Not in so many words, but, as you say, in 
 
 manner. 
 I'll have him in. (To footman) Send in Chat- 
 
 terton. 
 Send for his mother, too. 
 (To Chatterton) Well, my whippersnapper, 
 So you're going to commit suicide. 
 Here's a pocket-knife. Or perhaps, 
 Mother will send for arsenic, which the porter 
 Makes into a paste for rats. 
 
 Lambert's Mother. Stop! 
 
 Lambert. So you don't like being my ap- 
 prentice. 
 You needn't be. You were glad enough 
 
 10 
 
To become such, if I remember. 
 Wait here until your mother comes. 
 We'll sign the necessary quittance 
 And then, march! Look here, 
 If you make such faces at me, 
 I'll smash your face. You're still 
 My apprentice and I have the right 
 To beat you, which I have never done, 
 I ought to be ashamed to say. (Lambert and 
 his mother go out.) 
 
 Scene Five 
 
 (The same room in Lambert's house at twi- 
 light.) 
 
 Chatterton's Mother. Why does he keep 
 us waiting so? 
 O Tommy, are you sure you're right? 
 You didn't intend suicide, did you, Tommy? 
 
 Chatterton. Mother, quit calling me Tom- 
 my. 
 Of course I didn't intend suicide; 
 It was a trick to scare Lambert, 
 And make him let me go; didn't it work? 
 
 Chatterton's Mother. Everybody thought 
 it such a good thing, 
 
 When Mr. Lambert took you for his appren- 
 tice. 
 
 And you did, too. 
 
 Chatterton. I was sick of that school, 
 Boys and masters. 
 
 Chatterton's Mother. You were glad 
 enough to be taken into Colston's. 
 It is not for anybody's asking. 
 
 11 
 
Chatterton. I would have learnt more by 
 
 myself 
 At home. I thought that they would teach 
 Greek and Hebrew, English; they taught 
 
 arithmetic 
 And how to write in a good, round hand — 
 What else? 
 
 Chatterton's Mother. That, too, is needed, 
 Thomas. 
 
 Chatterton. For me, 
 
 Life is too short-winded and strength too 
 
 weak 
 To waste. I thought through Lambert 
 To escape, that here I would have — for my- 
 self — more time. 
 I have, but not enough. 
 I grudge fractions of my life 
 To copying mortgages. 
 
 Chatterton's Mother. But how are you to 
 make a living? 
 
 Chatterton. From the work I want to do. 
 
 The Gentlemen's Magazine of London 
 
 Has taken a poem of mine; 
 
 I have two essays in the next Cave's Monthly; 
 
 And one who plans a new magazine, 
 
 Writes me from London, "Thomas Chatter- 
 ton, Esquire, 
 
 Dear Sir : — I count upon your help" and so 
 forth. 
 
 You and sister will go in silks ; 
 
 The proudest here in Bristol will be glad to 
 know you. 
 
 How can I stay in Bristol four years more 
 
 To become at last a scrivener, 
 
 When I have now such work and future in 
 London. 
 
 Footman. Mr. Lambert will see you. (The 
 darkened room is left empty.) 
 
 12 
 
Scene Six 
 
 (Chatter ton is writing in a dingy room. A fat 
 old woman, Mrs. Ballance, enters. She seats 
 herself. Chatterton keeps staring in her face.) 
 
 Mrs. Ballance. You must excuse me, Cou- 
 sin Tommy, but as your mother's cousin, 
 
 And older than yourself ; as it were, in charge 
 of you ; 
 
 For didn't your mother send you here to live? 
 
 You have been in London going on two weeks. 
 
 At first, quite proper and natural, 
 
 A young man to go about, seeing the town ; 
 
 And London must seem so big to you from 
 Bristol, 
 
 I know how it was when I came to London ; 
 
 But you can't keep on so, now can you ? 
 
 You must try for a place in an office. 
 
 I wouldn't speak of any kind of work 
 
 For a young man like you, 
 
 Who likes to read and practices penmanship; 
 
 But a genteel clerkship in an office ? 
 
 And must you stay up the night long? 
 
 It isn't good for the eyes and you're looking 
 peaked as it is. 
 
 You needn't stare so, Tommy. 
 
 The young man who rooms with you, has 
 complained to Mr. Walmsley, 
 
 "I can't sleep nights with him having his can- 
 dle lit and scratching paper." 
 
 It isn't I that am complaining, child. 
 
 I only mean the best for you. 
 
 Young people complain, but we old 
 
 Are glad to take the world as it is. 
 
 Many a bitter talk I had with myself, 
 
 Or with father and mother, and later with 
 Ballance ; 
 
 And here am I, an old woman, 
 
 Pains in me every moment I'm awake, 
 
 Husband dead and little I knew of him 
 
 When he was alive, sailing the seas, 
 
 And no children, never had any; 
 
 I go on living quietly, 
 
 13 
 
Doing chores I'm lucky enough to get, 
 Frying my bit of supper at night; 
 Thank God, a roof over me. 
 When I die, I'll say to God, 
 Just like a lady leaving a party, 
 "I've had a fine time, thank You." 
 Not that I mean it all, but He'll know 
 I mean some of it, and after all, 
 He does the best He can, I suppose . . . 
 
 Scene Seven 
 
 (The office of Fell, owner and editor of The 
 Freeholder's Magazine.) 
 
 Fell. Mr. Chatterton ! Sit down, sir. Here. 
 The chair is rickety, 
 But, pshaw ! this is all makeshift. 
 I am to be in funds. A lord — 
 I have sincere promises. 
 Then, sir, you will see a large room, 
 Grey carpet, delft blue curtains, 
 No furniture at all, sir, 
 Just desk and chair, and next to these, 
 A visitor's chair. Space ! 
 If I had money, I would build a house 
 On a hill, overlooking a sweep of fields; and 
 
 I would have 
 Great loaves baked in my ovens. 
 Whoever wanted to, 
 Could come and live with us . . . 
 You are young, Mr. Chatterton, 
 For your mature style. 
 Your letters are as good as Junius. 
 Mr. Wilkes remarked your letters. 
 We must have you meet the Lord Mayor. 
 You did well to come. In a month, 
 You'll be the talk of London, young as you 
 
 are; 
 You'll be gaped at in the coffee-houses. 
 The Freeholder's Magazine is proud 
 To have your writings. Come, your promise f 
 You must show me everything. 
 
 Chatterton. I am sorry, Mr. Fell, but Mr. 
 
 14 
 
Hamilton of Town and Country 
 Has bespoken an article, ten pounds to be 
 paid me ; but other — 
 
 Fell. The Court's enemies — and the Court 
 Has enemies — are raising a fund. 
 The Freeholder's Magazine has become 
 A power ; it must not be allowed to fall, to 
 
 slacken. 
 For the next issue I must have from you . . . 
 
 Scene Eight 
 
 Chatterton's Sister (is reading a letter to 
 their mother and grandmother.) . . . settled 
 in comfortable lodgings in Brooke Street 
 where I have a room to myself. 
 
 I shall engage to write a history of England 
 for Mr. Dodsley, the bookseller. Mr. Wilkes 
 knows me by my writings. He has affirmed 
 what Fell had of mine could not be the prod- 
 uct of a youth. Creditors have sent Fell to 
 King's Bench, he having offended certain per- 
 sons; but I am bettered by this. His succes- 
 sors in The Freeholder's Magazine will be 
 glad to engage me on my terms. Buy the 
 next number of Town and Country. It has 
 an article of mine for which I have been paid 
 ten pounds. 
 
 I am to be introduced to Mr. Beckford, the 
 Lord Mayor. I will ensure Mrs. Ballance an 
 allowance from The Trinity House, a founda- 
 tion for widows of deserving seamen. 
 
 Do not worry about my clothes. London 
 is not Bristol. Dress is not discussed here. 
 If a man dresses well, praise ; but if not, noth- 
 ing is said. He is prudent. 
 
 Tell Katon and Mease to send me whatever 
 poems they have and I will see them placed. 
 I am sending you some trifling presents : six 
 cups and saucers with two basins, two fans, 
 and for grandmother, some tobacco and a 
 pipe. 
 
 15 
 
Scene Nine 
 
 (The room in back of Hodge's shop. Hodge's 
 wife at the window.) 
 
 Hodge's Wife. Quick, husband, there he 
 goes. Run and ask him in. 
 
 Hodge. You know I've asked many a time 
 And he's refused. 
 
 Hodge's Wife. But now he's starving. 
 Look, how pale and thin he's grown and can 
 
 hardly walk. 
 Hurry ! 
 
 Hodge. Why should I keep humiliating my- 
 self 
 
 Before a boy, who is nothing after all to me, 
 
 A stranger, who moves into a garret next door 
 a month ago, 
 
 And in another month out and away. 
 
 I offer what slight help I can, am rebuffed, 
 
 That's the end of it. 
 
 Who offers bones to stray curs — that snap. 
 
 Hodge's Wife. You're a man and he's only 
 a silly proud boy. 
 He's starving and we have so much. 
 Quick ! he's at his door. Go or I'll go. 
 
 Hodge. You soft-hearted fool ! (He kisses 
 her and goes out. She prepares bread and 
 butter and tea. Her husband comes back with 
 Chatterton.) 
 
 Chatterton. Pardon me . . . your husband 
 insisted . . . 
 
 Hodge's Wife. We are always glad to have 
 a guest for tea. Won't you sit here? 
 (They sit down. At first Chatterton eats 
 slowly, then gorges.) 
 
 Chatterton. Pardon me ... I had so 
 much to do, 
 
 16 
 
Rose late for breakfast and quite forgot 
 
 lunch — 
 And now myself. No more, thank you. 
 I find that eating makes me stupider than I 
 
 am. 
 
 Hodge's Wife. But we must eat 
 
 Chatterton. Yes, we are that much ani- 
 mal, 
 
 Not trees, chained to earth, 
 
 Nor even beasts with four feet on it; 
 
 But if we could like moths that have no en- 
 trails, 
 
 Live our day or two, untroubled by food, 
 
 And our work done, die. 
 
 Hodge's Wife. But a man's work can not 
 be done in a day or two. 
 
 Chatterton. No, it takes a lifetime. 
 
 Hodge. What is your work, neighbor? 
 When I close shop at midnight, 
 I see your candle burning. Do you read so 
 
 late ? 
 You must be fond of reading. 
 
 Chatterton. I used to be; 
 
 But now the taste is easily chewed out 
 Of what I read. Each generation 
 Finds the charm again — for a while. 
 These dry words of ours were poetry. 
 Take mouse from a verb that meant in Sans- 
 krit, 
 Steal; a thief, now called a mouse, 
 If many use it, mouse is plain thief, 
 The mouse forgotten. Whatever men can 
 
 make 
 Has their mortality. Talking of mice, 
 A rat haunts my room. Can you spare ar- 
 senic? 
 
 Hodge. Certainly. 
 
 Let me get some while we talk of it. (He 
 goes out) 
 
 17 
 
Hodge's Wife. But what do you do? 
 
 Chatterton. I write — 
 
 Music after a fashion ; a sulky music, 
 Made out of ordinary speech, 
 The way a sculptor might make statues 
 Out of sand, or carve wooden spools 
 The housewife throws away. 
 
 Hodge's Wife. . . . Whatever you do, 
 You must take care of yourself to do it. 
 Eat well and in time ; but if you are poor, 
 What is there to be ashamed of? 
 Jesus was poor, the apostles begged their way. 
 We have enough and to spare. 
 You must come and eat with us ; 
 Pride in such a little matter 
 Is silly. Be proud of your work 
 And humble yourself for it. When you can, 
 You will repay. 
 
 What a little matter and not worth this fuss ! 
 Promise that you are coming in to supper. 
 Promise me! 
 
 Chatterton. Why? 
 
 Hodge's Wife. Do you not love your work? 
 
 Chatterton. I used to . . . 
 I might write reams, catch in that mass of 
 
 cobweb 
 A few phrases, in time sucked dry. 
 When I was a boy I played at blocks ; and 
 
 then tired, 
 Gave the little building a kick ; down 
 It came with a little crash. 
 Why did I grow tired? I saw 
 The little building empty and its sky, 
 The plaster ceiling. 
 
 Hodge (entering). Here's your arsenic. 
 
 Chatterton. Thanks. I must go. Thanks 
 for your friendliness. 
 
 Hodge's Wife. I'll keep supper waiting. 
 You must come. 
 
 18 
 
Chattekton. Good-bye. (He goes out.) 
 
 Hodge's Wife. Hodge ... I think . . . 
 Take back the arsenic ! 
 
 Hodge Why? 
 
 Hodge's Wife. He'll poison himself ! 
 
 Hodge. You have such fancies. 
 
 Hodge's Wife. Tell him you were mistaken, 
 it isn't arsenic. Run, take it away ! 
 
 Hodge. Don't be silly. 
 
 Scene Ten 
 
 (In his garret, Chatterton pours the arsenic 
 into a glass of water, but hesitates to drink. 
 On his table are papers which he tears up, 
 strewing the floor. He reads') 
 
 Item: One poem, one shilling; item: one 
 
 article, five pounds ; two songs, one shilling ; 
 
 one squib . . . (He tears up the sheet.) 
 
 Dear Doctor Barrett : — I implore you by 
 
 your former kindness to help me to a position 
 
 on an African brig. I have come to the end 
 
 of my resources and have neither strength 
 
 nor prospects to strengthen me. (He tears it 
 
 up.) 
 
 August first, one month and no answer. He 
 might have answered, even a refusal. 
 (Dipping into and tearing to bits manu- 
 script until the floor is covered.) Trash, 
 trash ! 
 
 Tories, Whigs, Lord This, Lord That. Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Will England last longer than Rome or Egypt ? 
 
 It will not outlast the earth. 
 
 What have I to do with these, to build argu- 
 ments 
 
 For the Court, against the Court, 
 
 That I may eat, lodge, write more arguments. 
 
 If men were like winds with no important 
 bellies 
 
 19 
 
That fill, empty, and must be filled daily; 
 
 If I were rich enough to wander 
 
 Beside rivers or through streets; 
 
 Put words together carefully. 
 
 But to write this over and over, 
 
 That I may live, 
 
 Teach my feet to walk to prose, 
 
 Cant, rant, smart as any . . . 
 
 I might eat there . . . 
 
 But will they not tire? 
 
 What money can there be in my traffic with 
 the moon. 
 
 What is your business? Did they not ask 
 to-night ? 
 
 And afterwards surely. 
 
 But what is business for a man? 
 
 Sell clothes or grain, 
 
 Ride waves, furrow the earth, the gull's com- 
 panion or the ox's ; 
 
 Build house or bridge for men to crawl upon; 
 
 Try to comprehend the world in whose sky 
 
 Earth is a star? 
 
 These green grains of arsenic 
 
 Will dissolve the earth 
 
 Into the nothingness that once it was ; 
 
 Unflesh me of my hungers, those persistent 
 curs, 
 
 Pull out the riddles worming in my brain, 
 
 And write the answer zero 
 
 To the subtraction. 
 
 Too long a grace over so little meat. {He 
 drinks the poison and walks up and down 
 in silent agony.") 
 
 Scene Eleven 
 
 {The same room at night. Chatterton goes to 
 the tvindow.) 
 
 The street-lamps under the clouded night 
 
 Have made the sky grey. Half the earth 
 
 Is dark. In the universal night 
 
 Day was a little shelter. 
 
 "Is it not beautiful," they would say 
 
 Of light. Burning-glass, 
 
 20 
 
Resting your spot of light on me. 
 
 When floor and street were stinking hot, 
 
 I am rid of you. 
 
 No longer to fly about you, sun, with other 
 
 moths ; 
 Because I burn. 
 
 Rid of you, too, broken trinket 
 In the rhinestone glitter of stars, 
 TJnburied corpse, swelling and misshapen, 
 Eaten away by those white ants, the stars. 
 Shine, sun and moon, for those at ease ; 
 For these you are beautiful ; 
 But to me, caught in this street, 
 A small cloud travelling across a cloudy sky, 
 A stick now caught in the surf, 
 Being drawn away, now flung ashore, 
 To be drawn away again ; 
 
 A poisoned rat that slowly leaves his hole — 
 Tf T were Sampson 
 To push these walls away. 
 
 Scene Twelve 
 
 {An alley into ivhich Chatterton enters from 
 the crowded street.) 
 
 I place anger upon my head like an iron 
 
 crown, hurting my temples ; 
 I would fillip the carriages and speed them 
 
 screeching away ; 
 Like a truckman, lashing his horses 
 Until they pound the stone pavement with 
 
 broad hoofs, sparks flying about them, 
 Strike and strike. 
 
 If I had the anger of a cloud, 
 
 I would scoop up rain in my palms and fling 
 it upon the people, bowing heads and hur- 
 rying into doorways ; 
 
 Then with lightning I would split the houses 
 
 And fire cover the ruins like a sudden fungus. 
 
 Pile up cities, trample grass into pavement, 
 
 for every tree, chimneys; 
 With your steep hills of brick, cover the 
 
 earth ; 
 
 21 
 
My resignation is tendered. . . . 
 
 Pit}' these walls, winds and ram, 
 Pity these habitations of men. 
 
 Will London, too, be a waste like Babylon? 
 They will build again by other rivers. 
 
 Will they not be tired at last as I am, 
 When they have dragged the unknown mer- 
 chandise, 
 If the wagon carries any; 
 In reins and blinkers, 
 Have made the same turns and gone the same 
 
 streets 
 Often enough? 
 
 Scene Thirteen 
 
 (Chatterton climbs to the top of a hill.) 
 
 These trees with many arms stretch out and 
 
 up 
 To hold me. So is life sweetened 
 To make it palatable. 
 Desires, satiety, our uncertain doom and of 
 
 those dear to us, 
 Human ills like numbering itself, 
 Senses and mind make endurable : 
 As in the taste of food, for which we try 
 
 much tasteless, stale, or rancid ; 
 As in a few words' meaning, for which we 
 
 hear 
 So much trite and foolish. 
 For keener sight we pay with keener sight 
 Of ugly streets and ugly men and women. 
 The good, itself part pay for sorrow, the lure 
 
 to keep us living, 
 Through our senses and our minds 
 We must pay back with usury. 
 If we play red or black, we lose. 
 Still, the players have the game's excitement. 
 But must I sit it out? Surely a loser 
 May leave early. 
 I'll take no more goods, pay 
 
 22 
 
No more bills. Although a little sooner than 
 
 the rest, 
 File a bankruptcy petition ; 
 The store locked, the blinds down, the clerks 
 
 discharged. 
 Beautiful striped fabric, green and blue of 
 
 day and the dark band of night, 
 Embroidered so closely and ingeniously, 
 I cannot handle you at a profit. 
 Business is bad, 
 
 Or, perhaps, I am a bad business man. 
 Now let me deal in the plain black shoddy of 
 
 death. 
 
 Scene Fourteen 
 
 Chatterton. Ocean, bitter salt water, larger 
 than continents, incessantly troubled, 
 
 In whose cold night the fish and knotted 
 weeds have their being, 
 
 Feeding upon each other and drowned men ; 
 
 Loud in my own ears, 
 
 At a little distance I am dumb, mouth open, 
 shrill and dumb ; 
 
 As here those other waves are silent, 
 
 An edge of white along the black water. 
 
 Silence is more dignified than speech ; 
 
 Certainly more dignified than ineffectual 
 speech ; 
 
 And dignity is most dignity, 
 
 When in the stiff persistent pose of death. 
 
 Let me be dignified at last. Let me, 
 
 Chatterton, the scrivener's apprentice, 
 
 The listener-in at circles of the great in cof- 
 fee-houses, 
 
 The great-eyed watcher from the walks of 
 those 
 
 In carriages or on horses, be dignified as any. 
 
 He-who was hungry shall himself give food. 
 
 And who was badly clothed and sheltered, 
 shall himself 
 
 Be a lodging. Munificence of death . . . 
 
 Beautiful, you were beautiful, sea, and beau- 
 tiful was your companion, land. 
 
 23 
 
But what is beauty merely? A beautiful wom- 
 an, 
 
 Seen often enough, her skin is skin, 
 
 Hair, hair, eyes, eyes, nose, nose, mouth, 
 mouth, 
 
 Blurred into a face. 
 
 I am a drunken man who leans aside, vomit- 
 ing", 
 
 And from his other side pushes the woman. 
 
 Scene Fifteen 
 
 (Night. A square in the city. On the benches 
 are seated men and women, among them 
 Chatterton.) 
 
 A Girl (to Chatterton). Jolly in the work- 
 room, all the girls at tables ; 
 
 As they work, they laugh and chatter to each 
 other, 
 
 Laugh and chatter at each other. 
 
 Now and then, the old forewoman screams; 
 
 And all are silent for a moment, 
 
 Then begin to whisper, 
 
 And are laughing, chattering noisily as ever; 
 
 Until the old forewoman screams 
 
 And all are silent for a moment, but a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 The heavy white-washed timbers of the ceil- 
 ing, 
 
 The red brick walls, unplastered and un- 
 painted — 
 
 I make believe that I am in my castle sewing 
 
 And the others are my maids about me, all 
 my maids in rows along the hall. 
 
 The old forewoman, rudely interrupting, 
 
 Is a parrot, that my lord and master brought 
 me from the east ; 
 
 And we all are sewing brocade, pearls and 
 gold thread upon velvet, 
 
 For my lord and master and myself. 
 
 What we sew is shoddy and we sew on wood- 
 en buttons, painted black to look like bone, 
 Sewing fast with hard stout cotton ; 
 
 24 
 
And T laugh out shrilly at the girl who siti 
 
 beside me, 
 And we all laugh out together, 
 And we try to make each other small as each 
 
 one knows herself ; 
 Only to the old forewoman we speak gently. 
 And when we catch her looking we sew auay, 
 
 away. 
 When the streets in winter are still befogged 
 
 with night, 
 Or early summer mornings when the sky is 
 
 blue and cool — 
 
 A Second Girl. Why should she complain, 
 
 who is out 
 Among others, making friends with girls and, 
 
 perhaps, men ; 
 While I have to stay home among pots and 
 
 dishes, 
 The broom's companion. 
 
 An Old Woman. Why should either of 
 you talk, 
 
 Young and strong. The old should complain, 
 
 Servants to our daughters and our sons' wives. 
 
 Scolded and taught — much good it does us — 
 
 We hold our mouths close ; 
 
 No use talking to the young and wise. 
 
 We sit beside the stove. Our spoons shake 
 
 When we lift them to our lips; 
 
 We spill food over ourselves, 
 
 Dirty with age. The hair has fallen 
 
 From our scalps, leaving us bald women; 
 
 And into the deep wrinkles of our faces, 
 
 Dirt sifts. We keep staring 
 
 Out of flabby eyes. Strength has gone from 
 us 
 
 Suddenly. We had just begun making our- 
 selves comfortable, 
 
 Now our children are grown up, we had been 
 saying, 
 
 Now we know that we are neither to be great 
 nor rich, 
 
 Let us rest a while, 
 
 Let us begin to take pleasure in our lives, 
 
 25 
 
Such as they are; and saying so, 
 We found ourselves old. 
 
 An Old Man (to Chatterton). Aren't you 
 sick of stories of the poor? 
 
 But if we knew Csesar or a scholar like Abe- 
 lard, 
 
 Perhaps we would wonder 
 
 How easily men become great among men; 
 
 And if we could see Helen herself, we might 
 say, 
 
 I have seen such. 
 
 The great and little hang from the mind, 
 
 Leaves of a tree until the winter of death; 
 
 Again and again, the mind stirs to a noisy 
 life 
 
 Lives of many, pebbles along its shore ; 
 
 But are you not eager to forget 
 
 The faces of men and women 
 
 And your own ugly face? 
 
 A Woman. Look at the froth on his lips. 
 
 Another Woman. He has poisoned him- 
 self. 
 
 26 
 
THE BLACK DEATH. 
 
THE BLACK DEATH 
 
 Scene One 
 
 (A room in a Jezv's house in a town of west- 
 ern Europe at the beginning of the fourteenth 
 century. Two old Jews, the master of the 
 house and a guest, have just dined. They say 
 in a low voice the benediction after eating. 
 After a pause) 
 
 Host. What news? 
 
 Guest. In our Granada the Messiah has 
 not come. 
 Some of us do well, some not so well. 
 
 Host. To judge from what in our syna- 
 gogue 
 Some say, I thought that in Granada 
 Jews rode the clouds for carriages. 
 Thanks for your news of no news. 
 Have you not heard of a new sickness 
 Coming westward ? 
 
 Guest. I hear of this and that always. 
 Young, each new war I asked about 
 Eagerly, and what new book? I used to ask. 
 I saw then whatever is, matters, 
 But afterwards saw, matters slightly. 
 So deeply rooted in the earth is man, 
 Nothing to the tree can matter much, 
 Until in its own time it age and die. 
 Why still be fluttered 
 By news of doctrines and king's policies, 
 Even disasters? 
 
 Host. But if this wind 
 
 Carry you away? 
 
 Guest. It will. 
 
 Tell me about my room, 
 
 My street, my chair, or dish, about the sun 
 Or night. I like the rough touch of bread, 
 
 28 
 
The warm smell it had, the brown loaf 
 Upon the table. The room with this sunlight 
 On the floor, or at night, 
 The candle's glow against the darkness. 
 
 Host. This sickness worries me. Have 
 
 debtors 
 Here and there, and then, life itself — 
 My daughter . . . 
 Doctors see death many times, but a doctor 
 
 is in tears, 
 When his own mother dies. If you thought 
 This sickness would come home, you too 
 Could not shake off this news so lightly. 
 Do you know that Christians indebted to us, 
 Say that we spread the plague? 
 
 Guest. When we were in Egypt, a pharaoh 
 
 came 
 Who knew not Joseph. When Charlemagne 
 
 was emperor, 
 He sent for us. Charlemagne is dead. 
 A time to read holy books in rooms 
 Whose windows open upon gardens. 
 Does not winter follow summer? 
 The)' had it well and we must have it ill. 
 Is this news? 
 
 Host. That Judah had back his own land 
 And we were in our walled town, Jerusalem ; 
 That we were ploughing our land, 
 And that our poets spoke their own speech, 
 Not Aramaic or Spanish. 
 
 Guest. Had Israel a land? Was Canaan 
 ours, 
 Which we took a while and never held 
 Again -t Assyrian or Roman? 
 When Solomon was king was the land 
 Israel's? 
 
 "My father punished you with whips," 
 Rehoboam said. 
 Palestine was a halting-place, 
 One of many. Our kin, the Arabs, 
 
 29 
 
Wander over their desert. Our desert 
 Is the earth. Our strength 
 Is that we have no land. 
 Nineveh and Babylon, our familiar cities, 
 Became dust; but we Jews had left 
 For Alexandria and Rome. 
 When the land is impoverished, as lands be- 
 come, 
 The tree dies. Israel is not planted, 
 Israel is in the wind. Cut at the wind 
 With swords, set fires under it; 
 A little smoke a little while, the smoke 
 Uncurls and is gone. Take no threats to heart; 
 This may be the end of you and me; 
 But for all the grains of sand blown 
 From the desert, the desert is ; 
 And all the waves that spill upon the shores 
 Leave the sea full. 
 
 Host. Some get drunk on words, but I, 
 
 like most, 
 Must have substance. Thanks for your words, 
 I offer wine. (He does so. Before drinking, 
 they say the benediction in a low voice.) 
 
 Scene Two 
 (The council chamber of the town.) 
 First Councillor. Month after month and 
 all day long, fog, 
 In which their sun was a yellow stain 
 And men and trees turned yellow 
 And then grey. At times the earth suddenly 
 
 heaved 
 And shook. 
 
 Second Councillor. They say 
 Crowded China and India are dead. 
 
 First Councillor. The Genoese fleeing 
 Crimean Caffa 
 Report Armenia covered with dead 
 Along roads, blocking streets of towns, 
 And in deserts caravans, 
 Their men, camels, and dogs dead; 
 The Kurds fled to the hills and dying 
 
 30 
 
On cliffs, in gorges ; and ships, crews dead, 
 Blown about the Black Sea. 
 
 Third Councillor. What Noah's ark can 
 ride this flood? 
 
 First Councillor. The dying Turks be- 
 sieging Caffa 
 
 Tied their own dead instead of stones upon 
 the catapults 
 
 And shot them to the city ; the Genoese 
 
 Scraped from roofs and cobblestones, 
 
 Until the harbor bobbed with bloody scraps 
 
 And white bellies of dead fish. 
 
 Who could among 1 the Genoese took ship 
 
 And fled — to die in Italy 
 
 And bring their kinsmen death. 
 
 Heathen and Christian, man and beast alike, 
 
 As if there were no God Who set man and 
 beast apart, 
 
 No Saviour for the Christians. 
 
 Third Councillor. In Africa are cities 
 In which nothing lives. No smudge of fire 
 
 upon the walls ; 
 An enemy, not to be shot at, overcame them. 
 God sends a flood to drown sinners. 
 
 The Mayor (entering). The plague is near. 
 
 I have the news from Rudolph, 
 Back from his trading. At Coblenz half are 
 
 dead, the rest in the fields, 
 From which the peasants drive them. And 
 
 so elsewhere. 
 The citizens look to us ; we must not in the 
 
 thunder and lightning of these times 
 Become ourselves distracted. There are enough 
 
 who will be. 
 Here and now we must consider how to save 
 
 the city; 
 And if our means will not avail, as probably 
 
 they will not, 
 What means we have to care for sick, dead, 
 
 and the remnant. 
 As to the known causes of this disease, 
 
 31 
 
This is clear: it spreads from man to man; 
 The sick poison the sound by touch or breath, 
 Or by the body's odour; for, it is said, 
 The sick at once decay. We must decree, 
 
 therefore, 
 That no one come within our walls, stranger 
 
 or former townsman. 
 
 First Councillor. Rudolph has come. 
 
 Mayor. From Rudolph we have learnt the 
 danger. 
 Let no one in ; let in no merchandise. 
 
 Third Councillor. What good are walls, 
 What good decrees, when you wall in 
 The Jews with us? 
 
 Second Councillor. The plague, Jews say, 
 is their Messiah. 
 
 First Councillor. They may be innocent 
 or they may be guilty, 
 
 Who knows ? We know that they are strangers, 
 
 Who lived among Chaldeans and Assyrians, 
 
 And are suddenly here 
 
 In our everyday streets, this fourteenth cen- 
 tury. 
 
 Mayor. My people ! like a lost traveller, 
 Who fears on each bough a beast's implacable 
 
 hate, 
 Or in a bush a suddenly moving snake. . . . 
 But even if the Jews are harmless, they should 
 
 be watched 
 To quiet those of us who fear them, and 
 
 perhaps, 
 They are not harmless. Let all of them be 
 
 shut up in one house. 
 Let their wealth be taken into our fund; 
 Apart, they still are part of us ; 
 And must bear our sorrow with their own. 
 But let a watch be set about the house 
 That none go in or out, and that none 
 Still harm those whom we now harm . . . 
 
 32 
 
For all decrees, whether we live or die, 
 Turns on a game of chance, in which we are 
 The coins ; of some value, each with a human 
 
 face ; 
 This kept, hut this, from the same die — (The 
 
 mayor vomits a stream of blood and 
 
 pitches across the table. The others, 
 
 aghast, leave.) 
 
 Scene Three 
 
 (Before the house of the Jezvs. The guard 
 calls to a passer-by.) 
 
 Guard. Neighbor ! 
 
 Passer- By. My daughter is dead. 
 
 Guard. She ? 
 
 Passeu-By. She, too. 
 I wrapped her in the sheet in which she lay 
 And carried her beyond the walls. 
 Now I am plague, 
 Breathing plague, carrying plague in my hands. 
 
 Guard You might have waited 
 Until those whose work it is 
 Took care of her. 
 
 Passer-By. The rich 
 
 With jewels in their ears and linen bed-clothes 
 Are cared for. Who takes care of us ? 
 Among scavengers who carted in the dead, 
 Were fathers and mothers dragging dead 
 
 children 
 And children dragging dead parents. 
 I left her in a pit, deeper than a man un- 
 
 helped could climb from, 
 Shallow with dead. 
 
 She who loved whatever lived, and at work, 
 Stroked dishes and furniture, 
 Tore at herself, 
 As if to pull up the thick root, her heart, 
 
 33 
 
And end the plague's violence. 
 
 Guard. She was not alone in suffering. 
 
 Passer-By. So much the worse. 
 
 Guard. If good times pass, bad times also 
 pass. 
 
 Passer-By. Yes, we shall rebuild. We have 
 the spider's stubborn mechanism ; 
 To stop and reason is to starve and die. 
 So you are still on guard. 
 The magistrates can still spare men to guard 
 The emperor's precious Jews. 
 
 Guard. We guard ourselves. 
 
 Some say that they have seen 
 Jews blowing plague upon us 
 In eastern dust. 
 
 Passer-By. Have Jews brought this plague? 
 
 Guard It is said so. 
 
 Passer-By. I would dig into their flesh ! 
 
 Hurting may be a cure for hurt. 
 
 Can I revenge myself upon the stars, 
 
 Or whatever makes this this or that that, 
 
 My daughter live and then my daughter dead. 
 
 If Jews bring this death, the world's intelli- 
 gible. 
 
 But if Jews bring this death, who is the prin- 
 cipal 
 
 Of these agents? Jews, sea-hydras, lions, rats, 
 and vermin 
 
 We kill, rightly we think ; these, small as 
 ourselves. 
 
 We can not reach beyond our reach. 
 
 And so are not to see beyond our sight . . . 
 
 Jews, I have had too much of death 
 
 To kill. Kill or be killed, I am indifferent. 
 
 (A crowd enters, circling about three musi- 
 cians. Their instruments are a large drum, 
 
 34 
 
a viol, and a pipe. The viol and pipe play 
 snatches of jolly songs. As he talks, the 
 drummer beats his drum.) 
 
 Drummer. Listen, all of you, plague-sick 
 or to-be-plague-sick, 
 
 To my speech, like a Jew's speech, voluble, 
 
 Hot and salted with the name of God, his 
 famous countryman ; 
 
 Listen, you men and women, strutting like 
 lunatics, 
 
 Each thinking himself or herself, god or god- 
 dess, 
 
 Or at least king or queen; be comforted, each 
 of you, saith your prophet, 
 
 You are not Atlas to the world's stability. 
 
 Laugh, shout, scream, or weep; 
 
 Leap, stand, kneel, or lie down, 
 
 The heavens stay up, the world endures. 
 
 Death comes suddenly or slowly; be careless 
 or take thought, 
 
 Death is a plague with which we are all in- 
 fected. 
 
 What good will crying to the Lord for mercy 
 do us? 
 
 Has He mercy upon fish or upon beetles? 
 
 The dogs are His ; does He bother more about 
 them? 
 
 Just, His tribes are equal. 
 
 Eat, drink, and be merry, it was said; to- 
 morrow we die. 
 
 To-morrow, they said, meaning some day; 
 
 But for us it is literal, to-morrow we die. 
 
 What shall we eat and drink? Have we 
 money? 
 
 Take to-day, I answer, whatever you wish, 
 for to-morrow you die. 
 
 If you are made in God's image, be cruel 
 
 As He to just and unjust, wolves and cattle. 
 
 Take whatever you wish, for to-morrow you 
 die. 
 
 The Jews' house 1 
 
 (The crozvd flings itself against the door. The 
 35 
 
flagellants are heard coming. The monk 
 enters, staggering under a huge crucifix. He 
 is follozved by a procession of barefoot men 
 and women, singing a hymn, in their left 
 hands lighted candles. They whip them- 
 selves. ) 
 
 The Monk. The cherubim are hushed and 
 sorrowful 
 The Lord arises, looking down to us. . . . 
 For our sins, O Lord, for our sins ! 
 
 A Flagellant. The Lord is just! 
 
 Another. Else no order! 
 
 Another. The Lord is merciful ! 
 
 The Monk, {pointing at the Jew's house). 
 Sinners have brought the plague upon us ! 
 (All push against the door. In the clamour 
 are heard drum, viol and pipe, and the flagel- 
 lants' hymn.) 
 
 Scene Four 
 
 (Within the Jezvs' house. Either side the door 
 Jews, zvrapped in prayer-cloths, stand at their 
 prayers, rocking backwards and forzvards. 
 Nozv and then their chant is lifted into a wail. 
 Suddenly the shouting outside and the pound- 
 ing on the door stop. The Jezvs stare at each 
 other. Then the door is struck a powerful 
 blow. Those outside are using a beam as a 
 ram. The blow is repeated at intervals. 
 
 Scene Five 
 
 (In the same town, within a Jew's house. 
 The master of the house and a guest have just 
 dined.) 
 
 Host. What news among our Jews in 
 Hamburg? 
 
 36 
 
Guest. Much as here. 
 
 If you have time to-morrow, show me 
 Where; the massacre was. 
 
 Host. The first visit to our city? 
 
 Guest. Yes. 
 
 How do you live among the Gentiles now? 
 
 Host. Not worse than you in Hamburg. 
 
 Guest. Evil done to man, like this plague, 
 and evil men do, 
 Like sores upon a healthy body, scab and fall 
 off. 
 
 Host. If the body is healthy, sores? 
 
 Guest. These at least are gone, your city 
 once more crowded. 
 
 Host. The disease is in the blood to break 
 out again. 
 
 Guest. We shall live through it as before. 
 
 Host. A tree has new leaves many times, 
 but in the end the tree dies. 
 
 Guest. Are not other trees left? 
 
 Host. In the end the land sinks under the 
 sea. 
 
 Guest. Are not other lands raised? 
 
 Host. The earth itself will crumble out of 
 the sky. 
 
 Guest. Will there not be other stars? 
 
 Host. Far away. 
 
 Guest. This plague and massacre, these at 
 least are gone. 
 
 Host. The dream is gone, not what caused 
 the dream. 
 
 37 
 
MERIWETHER LEWIS. 
 
MERIWETHER LEWIS 
 
 Scene One 
 
 (Sioux zvarriors with scalp sticks are dancing 
 about fires to the noise of drums. Lewis and 
 another, backs to the audience, are watching,') 
 
 Soldier. The Mandans warned us, Captain 
 Lewis, how treacherous these Sioux are ; 
 In the frenzy of this dance, is there nothing to 
 fear? 
 
 Lewis. Show no fear and there is nothing 
 to fear. 
 
 Soldier. Their dancing files are about our 
 scattered men. 
 Would it not have been better to have kept 
 together? 
 
 Lewis. That would have shown us afraid. 
 
 They do not know our strength, seeing us 
 calm ; 
 
 Keep calm, and they will not know our weak- 
 ness. 
 
 Soldier. I wish that I were out of this. 
 
 Lewis. The way through 
 
 is the way out. 
 
 Any other way is harder. Do and do, 
 Like the witches in Macbeth; but do not stop 
 To value what you do. It is pastime. . . . 
 Ferocity is painted on their faces ; 
 But if they should turn upon us, 
 Men are not Promethean to live forever, tor- 
 tured. 
 
 Scene Two 
 
 (An expanse of snow in the mountains. Lewis 
 and another are hardly able to walk.) 
 
 Lewis. Here they went. See, here ! 
 
 39 
 
Soldier. What's this? 
 
 Lewis. Horse guts. They have killed . a 
 horse for food. 
 
 Soldier. Here is the head. The lips have 
 flesh. 
 
 Lewis. Can you cut them off? My hands 
 are stiff. 
 
 Soldier. The head is frozen hard. They 
 must have gone by yesterday. 
 
 Lewis. Let's carry the head to that cleft 
 
 and build a fire. 
 Whose horse was it? This is Clark's, I think. 
 
 See the white forehead. 
 When we cut off your lips, horse, you will 
 
 begin to grin. 
 
 Soldier. I can't walk now. Let's rest a 
 
 moment. 
 Is it beginning to snow? It that snow or 
 
 stars? 
 Do you feel snow falling? 
 
 Lewis. Nothing is falling. All is frozen 
 fast, 
 
 The stars are frozen to the sky and these 
 snow-covered mountains, 
 
 Rising behind each other, are frozen to their 
 base. 
 
 Men live and work and what they ?re, 
 
 Snowed under with their earth at last. 
 
 But what we are 
 
 Is born on other stars, in turn to die there; 
 
 And what men in their orbits signify, the 
 stars signify and that is — 
 
 We, whose lives are in years, bother about 
 
 Timeless matters; and daily see 
 
 The bright roof, our sky, dissolving into dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Come on now, and we two Salomes help each 
 
 40 
 
other with this head. 
 
 {They do so.) 
 
 What follows a straight line may end some- 
 where, 
 
 But stars go in circles. I throw up my head 
 spinning to the stars. 
 
 I kill time until time kills me. 
 
 One shot from this pistol, or five seconds 
 falling into that abyss — 
 
 The earth is still. 
 
 Scene Three 
 
 (Night. The Pacific surf is heard. Leivis' 
 and Clark's soldiers break up camp.) 
 
 A Soltiier. (waiting for the start, to 
 another.) I am so sleepy. . . I wish 
 that I could sleep, crawl into my own bed 
 between the cool sheets, in my own room 
 in my own house. . . . 
 
 The last time I was on furlough, a farmer 
 gave me a lift. I fell asleep and when 
 I woke — ■ 
 
 Beside the wide blue Hudson, twinkling with 
 sunshine, and the cart taking me home. 
 
 To be coming up that road now, even if the 
 sky were grey and the coldest wind blow- 
 ing, chunks of ice hiding the water. 
 
 If I could only get a little sleep. While we 
 wait, I'll just close my eyes, just close my 
 eyes a little. . . . 
 
 Second Soldier. There's something in the 
 bush, listen !. . . . 
 
 First Soldier. Nothing. 
 
 A ship waiting at the river's mouth, traders' 
 
 ships along the coast and after all, no ship. 
 
 All over again, Indians, rowing, portage, 
 
 mountains, portage, rowing and Indians. 
 
 Second Soldier. Listen, something in the 
 bush. . . . listen. . . . 
 
 41 
 
Scene Four 
 
 (A village on the Mississippi. A cannon is 
 heard. Cheers. Afterwards, Lewis, Clark, 
 and citizens enter. Lewis is playing with his 
 pistol.) 
 
 Citizen. Well, Captain Lewis, the country 
 had given up hope of your returning. 
 
 Second Citizen. Gone three years. 
 
 First Citizen. You're the next President, 
 if you choose to be. They were talking 
 of Congress voting land, if you'd get back. 
 (He turns to Clark.) They ought to make 
 it ten thousand acres apiece. Jefferson 
 will make you governor of Missouri, Capt. 
 Lewis. 
 And we need a good man what with all that's 
 going on. The trouble is frontiers get the 
 riff-raff. The steady decent people stay 
 back home ; those with a screw loose, loaf- 
 ers, goal-birds, and bankkrupts in the 
 States float here. 
 
 Third Citizen. The whole country is going 
 to hell. A man from New York was here 
 and he tells me the papist Irish are land- 
 ing there in droves. You can see them 
 any day, coming from the Battery, in rags, 
 not a penny to their name, drunk the lot 
 of them; men, women and brats boozing 
 from the same bottle. This will be a fine 
 country in nineteen hundred and six with 
 those breeding in it. We've kicked 
 out George the Third to have the Pope 
 instead. 
 
 Second Citizen. A minister had an article 
 about it in the ladies' journal my wife gets. 
 
 Third Citizen. There's not much use 
 bothering about this part of the country. 
 
 42 
 
Down the river they had an earthquake 
 a while back. That's the kind of a coun- 
 try it is. And there ain't a river like the 
 Mississippi in all the land. It'll change 
 its course overnight and wipe out a town- 
 ship. A man that'll farm beside that river 
 is a fool ; and a town that's built beside 
 that river is a town of fools. 
 
 First Citizen. Some folks around here, 
 Captain Lewis, make more trouble than 
 any river. Let me tell you — well, after 
 dinner; come on, gentlemen. (The citi- 
 zens walk on). 
 
 Clark, (to Lezvis). Why do you act 
 towards them with such respect? 
 
 Lewis. I too thought respect ought to be 
 
 deserved ; 
 Now I simulate respect out of pity. 
 
 Clark. You should attack ; you mislead 
 them into thinking their littleness affirmed. 
 
 Lewis. I am not interested in attacking 
 littleness. 
 
 Clark. Everything on earth is little, if it 
 comes to that. 
 
 Lewis. It has come to that. (They follow 
 the others.) 
 
 Scene Five 
 
 Lewis. I am Meriwether Lewis ; 
 Blood not the least in Virginia, ancestors 
 Back me up ; 
 
 Am trained to read and untwist 
 Meanings to the first strands ; 
 To outride and outshoot many; 
 Have money enough, am not like most 
 Indentured to a room, nor fenced 
 
 43 
 
Within a county; 
 
 But within the scoop of sugar 
 
 The grocer used in filling up this paper bag, 
 
 So plump and neatly tied, 
 
 Were ants. 
 
 Perhaps, the leasehold in our bodies 
 
 Is held in trust. 
 
 So many strings, 
 
 That if we fall, what else 
 
 Falls also, or what bells are jangled — 
 
 I asked for work so huge, laborious, needing 
 
 so much time, 
 That taking it away in shovelsful, 
 I might forget myself. 
 Mr. Jefferson commissioned me 
 To go through the unknown lands 
 Westward. The world has still too many 
 
 tyrannies 
 For our republic to be content 
 With narrow limits. Like a man against a 
 
 cliff, 
 I kept my mind upon the work in hand, 
 And dared not look away from the next grasp 
 
 and foothold. 
 The work is ended. 
 What is worth doing? Administer 
 The petty laws? 
 
 44 
 
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 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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