University of Virginia Library

Scene III.—Chorus of attendant Dyak Maidens, bringing Tua-Tua bound towards the Altar of the Fetish in the black stony valley. Priests of the god, Soldiers, etc.

—Robert Campbell leaning against a rock, quiet but alert. The dead body of the lover exposed on a rock near, in the full glare of the sun. Women hacking at it with knives from time to time.
[The Dyak Maidens sing, leading Tua-Tua along:—
Chorus of Priests:—

Robert
(stepping forward, and addressing himself to the Chief Priest)—
Hold!
Is there no other way by which the oath
May be accomplished, and the maiden saved?
I know not all your customs, yet I feel
That in the subtle sacrificial rites
Which you observe, there must be holy means
By which the god at once may be appeased,
The maiden saved, the nation glorified.
Speak; is there aught that I, a stranger here,
Yet wishing welfare to the maid, can do?

Chief Priest.—
Nothing; for blood is spilt, and blood must flow.
Helpless, the maiden towards our god must go.

Maiden Chorus.—
Surely she must, with pang and wail and throe!

Priest Chorus.—
Which please the deities, laughing far below!

Robert.—
But in this godless gospel of despair
Is there no hope concealed—no latent flower
With seemly petals—though the petals be
Of livid texture, of smooth lustrous red?
A red plant better is than none at all!
Speak priests, speak maidens, speak ye clustering forms
Chanting this doleful litany i' the air!
Is there no hope? If blood must flow for blood
Why must the blood of this sweet maiden flow?
Are there no gifts that please the nether gods
Save maidens' bodies? Will not strength avail,
Power, vigour, manhood—are not these divine?
Are not divine things gracious gifts for gods?

Chief Priest.—
Yea, these are good; but woman is the flower
Chosen to deck the great god's holiest bower.

Maiden Chorus.—
Soon will arrive her last, yet glorious, hour!

Priest Chorus.—
Oh, great god, pity us; thy bounty shower!

Robert.—
It cannot be: speak priest; I see thy face
With something in it of relenting thought.

Chief Priest.—
A way there is; but never hath it been
Within the memory of our people used.
But yet 'tis written in our sacred books,
Which I have studied till my eyes grew blind
With patient poring o'er the lettered page.
A way there is; for if a man will go
(So it is written) patient to the death,
A maiden dedicate may be redeemed.
But bitter are the terms, the rules annexed!
Written it is that not by one straight blow
The man shall perish, as the mai den might
By one straight blow have perished—but that he
Shall linger three days, starving, tortured, hewn,
Stabbed—facing death in horrible mute ways,
Whereof the record tells not; and this rule
The god imposes in that no one man
Dying by common death, though he be strong,
Firm-sinewed, supple, agile, fearless, fair,
Can, like the tremulous and dying form
Of some delicious, panting, bright-browed maid—
(Praise to the god!—may all his altars gleam
With many a such auspicious sacrifice!
Praise to the god!—may his rule last for ever!)
No man can, like a quivering, slender maid
Glut the great-hearted frenzy of the god—
And stir to feverous fire of high delight,
Religious madness foaming at the lips,
His gladdened, patient-hearted worshippers.
Therefore, a maid being more than three times worth
A man—so estimates the amorous god—
A man must die three times, must die three days,
That is to say, must spend three days in dying.
Then shall the maid, if she have heart to kiss
The dead man's corpse, and heart to vow a vow
Solemn, firm-ratified by conscious heaven—
A vow to live and die unwed henceforth—
Then shall she, having vowed, be wholly free.

Robert.—
Ah! Now I know the meaning of her speech,
That short “unless:” she strangled on her tongue,
The “unless indeed:” she knew of this strange way,
She knew, but would not tell me—perfect heart.
Priest, I am English, I am not your own
To take, to bind, to do with as you will;
But yours I will be for this woman's sake.
What are three days in hell—for this is hell,
This rocky, sun-smit, devil-haunted glade—
What are three days in hell to years in heaven?
Gazing, perhaps towards the gold-haired Christ
My lady dreams of; gazing, perhaps, towards Him,
With her I died for smiling by my side.
I see it all; this rock is Calvary;
I am Christ's deputy; He is not here
But I am here—or Christ is here in me—
And I am sent to plant the blood-stained cross
Of my own tortured body on this hill.
So be it.

Tua-Tua.—
Lily!

[He turns and meets her eyes straight. They are full of tears.
Robert.—
Yes, Rose-Rose.

Tua-Tua.—
Did you quite forget
That though the others knew your language not,
Me you have taught it—did you quite forget
That, bright-eyed Lily, when you spake aloud?
Ah, even if you had not uttered speech
So clear, so bold, your eyes so bold and clear
Would have made all your marvellous purpose plain.
But I am Tua-Tua—daughter fair
Of the great king. Lily, you shall not die.
Rather will I, by cursing the grim god
And all his priests—yes, sweet, for you I dare—
Bring down his utter vengeance falling now
Swift, sudden, sure, remorseless, on myself.
Lily—you shall not do it.

Robert.—
Stay me not.
For all the wind of England in my hair
Is playing cool and sweet—'tis not the draught
From yon dark cavern fringed by emerald fern,
It is not that, but the cool, perfect breeze
Scented with July grass from English cliffs—
I see the cliffs, and all the cliffs are lined
With women watching how, beneath the sun,
I, English, for their sister-woman act.
Watching—I hear their voices silver-sweet,
I see their eyes of beautiful sea-grey,
Sea-blue, sea-green, or tender loveliest brown;
I hear their voices, and I see their eyes,
And all their waving, wondrous, lily-hands
Bowed gently to the English breeze that sweeps
The cliff, do point me one way—towards my death.
Oh, Tua-Tua, sweet, implore me not.
I could not look an Englishwoman, dear,
Not one true Englishwoman in the face,
If I, a coward, fled my proper doom.
These are the breezes where is duty high,
This is the cool wind; if I e'er returned
Coward to England, I should surely find
The sun, the scorching heaven, the hot wind there.
The breeze in summer would be hell's hot fume—
The smell of grass the savour of the fires
Of hell, and every woman's glance, unknowing,
Would stab me like hell's dagger to the bone.
For in their every glance, unconscious quite,
I should see that last glance of yours, O Rose,
Which, when the priests—if I shall give you up—
Drag you away, will o'er your shoulder seek—
Yes, love, you cannot help it—seek out mine,
And seek it with a last imploring look—
The look that only a woman can bestow,
And which once seen—be eyes that cast it dark—
Or light—yea, be the woman's body dark,
Or white and splendid—so it be but thrown
Into the eyes of some pale man behind,
Must haunt and scourge and purge him till his death—
And perhaps beyond death, through the meadows red
Of hell, or snow-white asphodel in heaven.

Tua-Tua.—
I feel all English, and I feel all love!
Now first I understand how love is fair,
And how the perfect English heart can speak.
Thou hast lifted me, my lover, by thy words,
In this short space of time unto a height
That all my girlish yearning never knew.
Alone I wandered through the lonely woods,
Amid the blossoms red and blossoms white,
Pining, desiring—through the early days
Before your face, a gleam of moonlight, came—
Pining for something, but I knew not what;
Desiring something, which I saw not how
To reach; the gift is now within my arms—
'Twas love I needed—lo! my love is here!
Now am I standing higher than e'er before
I, Dyak maid, the daughter of a king,
Have stood; for I have stood upon the hills
Of this our island—low, and topped by trees—
And watched the waving leagues of sultry blossoms
Stretched far before me—now I stand else-where—
I stand with thee upon an English cliff,
And gaze not over blossoms, but the sea;
I stand with thee upon an English cliff,
And feel the cool wind lifting all my hair,
As just now in thy thought it lifted thine.
Far, far before me stretches the grey sea
That thou hast told me of—the sweet grey sea,
Grey as the eyes of maidens thou hast loved
In England long before thy quick glance fell
On dark-eyed Tua-Tua; but I am English;
Lo! I am English; thou hast made me so!
And, being English, being loved besides
By thee, the English gold-haired ruddy Christ,
The chains of all these gods, though I am bound
In body, fall like snapped reeds off my heart
And off my leaping spirit. I hold the Christ
For lover now and king—I scorn these gods.

Chorus of Maidens—
She “hath spoken blasphemy;” drag her away
Beyond all blossoms, beyond the day.

Chorus of Priests—
To regions fetid, far from the ray
Of the light, where black fiends revel and stray.

Chief Priest.—
Hear us, O great god—hear us, I pray.

Tua-Tua.—
Before me stretches the wide sea's grey.

Robert.—
From a cliff we glance o'er an English bay.

Tua-Tua.—
But I am true.
If thou wilt die, why I will die,
And, with thee, on swift pinions fly
Through the stars, through the sky
Of blue.

Robert
(To the Chief Priest)—
Take me lest she curse thy god—
Take me speedily.
Lo! thy deity lusts for blood,
Longeth greedily.
Flesh and bones I give thy god,
Give them readily.

Tua-Tua.—
Curse—

A shout—Enter English Sailor;—The Boatswain sings:
[Boatswain]
Strike the blackies right and left—strike them down;
Hit their god up in that cleft—smash his crown;
Take those jewels—'tis no theft: go it, Brown.

Chorus of Sailors.—
Hit them hard and scatter them, English tars—
Black backs shine better for crimson scars!

Boatswain.—
Come, my hearties, with a song—come along;
Loose the girl—have a care—give her air;
Seize the priest. How the blacks show their backs!

Chorus of Sailors.—
Hit them hard and scatter them, English tars—
Black backs shine better for crimson scars!

Boatswain.—
Hit them hard—damn their talk and their chatter
(Set the Captain free—is he free?—no matter!)
Now three cheers for the Queen, and the girl.
Wipe your faces—hottish work, Thomas Earl!

Chorus of Sailors.—
Hit them hard and scatter them, English tars—
Black backs shine better for crimson scars!

Tua-Tua.—
Tides from the English sea have reached us here.

Robert.—
Strange how rough voices can sound sweet and clear.

Tua-Tua.—
They are no voices, but thy sea's wild cheer—
Just as it breaks on thy wild cliff-sides sheer,
So hath it surged for our deliverance, dear,
Against the human rocks that hemmed us here.
Come near.