The Fountain of Youth A Fantastic Tragedy in Five Acts. By Eugene Lee-Hamilton |
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| II. | SCENE II. |
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 | The Fountain of Youth |  |
SCENE II.
(A dungeon in the Rock Temple.)Rosita.
How dark it is! how cold these temple crypts!
They might have given me a little light:
And yet it matters little; can a soul
Not grope its way to heaven in the dark?
Perhaps God sees us better in the blackness,
As we see fireflies. I am free to think
The agony is over; I am ready—
The martyrdom of spirit is gone through;
There waits me but the martyrdom of flesh.
But oh, the struggle has been passing keen:
I wonder if my hair has turned all white
In these three days: I hope to God it has.
I fain would go to Heaven with the badge
Of holy Age pure snowy on my brow,
Not in the livery of loathèd youth;
Since I must die before the time of wrinkles,
Oh, let me die white-headed.—I feel calm
As the most peaceful and contented eld
That ever died at ninety, and should smile
If but I knew that he is safe in Heaven
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That he is out of reach of Indian torture!
For if he is not dead, they surely hold him,
And I shall never know it upon earth.
How nearly he succeeded in the rescue!
Why, in that frightful struggle round the litter,
There was a moment when he grasped my wrist,
Just as the javelin struck him.—O God, God,
Let me not think of it; it shakes my courage,
And I am bound to die with decent strength.
I must not flinch beneath this great black vault
That holds me like the concave hand of Fate.
This is the very temple of my dream—
The temple with the spirit-crushing columns
Hewn in the living rock. I know each step
I have to take; I know the hideous end,
And now the quicker that I die the better.
How rosy seem the summits of old age
From this dark gorge of young and violent death!
I who had thought to climb them hand in hand,
And sitting in the sunset—he and I—
To look upon the plain of life beneath,
And on the path that we had slowly climbed.
Strange; every now and then I seem to hear
A faint and distant echo of his voice:
Perhaps he calls me from the other world.
Oh love, I come!
Juan.
To drink.
Rosita.
O God, O God!
His earthly voice.—Uphold me, God—I stagger.
(She gropes her way in the direction of his voice, lays her and upon his face, and kisses it.)
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(very faintly).
Each time I speak it makes the blood well up.
The wound is through the lung; my minutes run.
Rosita.
O God, again uphold me.
Juan.
Is this Hell?
And art thou come from Heaven?
Rosita.
No; this place
Is neither earth nor Hell, but Heaven's lobby;
Nor am I come from Heaven; but we go there.
The door of Death which is about to open
Has still to be passed through. I cannot see thee;
Oh for a little light to see his face!
Is this great pain, or is it boundless joy?
Juan.
There is a jug of water by my side:
I have not strength to lift it.
(She finds it, and gives him to drink.)
Rosita.
I have found it.
Where are thy lips? Drink; it is almost full.
Juan.
This is the Draught of Youth, for those who drink it
Ne'er reach old age.
Rosita.
And I am come to share it.
Is this the bitterest or the sweetest draught
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But whether it be bitter or be sweet,
Better this brackish water here in common
Upon the border of the land of shadows
Than that great lonely draught for which he thirsts.
Juan.
If he were not thy father, I would curse him
From all the deep abysses of my soul
That he has brought thee here.
Rosita.
Oh, curse him not,
Oh, curse not what I love, upon death's brink;
He knows not what he does.
Juan.
O love, O love,
If only thou hadst suffered me to save thee
When all was ready planned!
Rosita.
It might not be.
Juan.
O God, to think that we should now be both
Half-way across the ocean, with the helm
Turned full on life.—It is too horrible.
And if Hell holds—
Rosita.
Hush, hush, thou must not speak,
Or thou wilt burst thy wound. A little more
Of this existence or a little less,
'Twill all be one in some few fleeting years.
It would have been surpassing sweet, no doubt,
To walk life's path together hand in hand.
I think I should have made thee a good wife,
Perhaps have been the sunshine of thy house,
The soother of thy cares, thy loved adviser,
The mother and the trainer of thy children,
The thrifty ruler of thy growing fortune,
Until the time when thou and I, at last
Grown white together, by the dim wayside
In life's long winter twilight, would have sat
And talked about old memories sweet and dear;
Or else to the low humming of my wheel,
With all the little grandchildren about us,
Close to the crackling logs and leaping shadows,
I should have let the vital twilight creep,
And told them fairy stories as I spun.
Or thou wilt burst thy wound. A little more
Of this existence or a little less,
'Twill all be one in some few fleeting years.
It would have been surpassing sweet, no doubt,
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I think I should have made thee a good wife,
Perhaps have been the sunshine of thy house,
The soother of thy cares, thy loved adviser,
The mother and the trainer of thy children,
The thrifty ruler of thy growing fortune,
Until the time when thou and I, at last
Grown white together, by the dim wayside
In life's long winter twilight, would have sat
And talked about old memories sweet and dear;
Or else to the low humming of my wheel,
With all the little grandchildren about us,
Close to the crackling logs and leaping shadows,
I should have let the vital twilight creep,
And told them fairy stories as I spun.
Shall I tell thee a fairy tale? Let me see, what shall
I tell thee? Shall I tell thee of the little maiden who
once upon a time wove herself a dress of sunbeams? and
how the wicked, envious fairies came and stole it away
in the night, and how, as she was standing in the tall
high rippling corn, telling her sorrows to the friendly little
field-mouse, a fairy prince came by and saw her and gave
her a kiss; and how he came day after day, and at last
carried her away in a fairy coach?
I tell thee? Shall I tell thee of the little maiden who
once upon a time wove herself a dress of sunbeams? and
how the wicked, envious fairies came and stole it away
in the night, and how, as she was standing in the tall
high rippling corn, telling her sorrows to the friendly little
field-mouse, a fairy prince came by and saw her and gave
her a kiss; and how he came day after day, and at last
carried her away in a fairy coach?
Juan.
I think that we are standing in the corn . . .
It rises to thy shoulder. . . . It is sunset . . .
The grain extends away in miles of gold . . .
And every now and then a great slow wave
Rolls past us as the breeze of evening rises . . .
The air is full of ripeness and of heat . . .
A million insects chirp all round about us . . .
At intervals there rises from a distance
A gust of reapers' song.—The fairy coach
Has come too soon to take us up to Heaven.
It rises to thy shoulder. . . . It is sunset . . .
The grain extends away in miles of gold . . .
And every now and then a great slow wave
Rolls past us as the breeze of evening rises . . .
The air is full of ripeness and of heat . . .
A million insects chirp all round about us . . .
At intervals there rises from a distance
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Has come too soon to take us up to Heaven.
Something is breaking in my bosom. Put thy lips to
mine, that my soul may kiss them as it flies away.
mine, that my soul may kiss them as it flies away.
[Dies.
Rosita
(crouching over his body, after assuring herself that he is dead, and after a long interval of silence).
O God! I thought that we were in the dark,
And now the light seems suddenly snuffed out.
Is there a dark that is the dark to darkness—
A dark compared with which the black of night
Is what the sunlight is to night herself?
His hand is heavy as a hand of clay.
He answers not, nor moves, nor moans, nor breathes.
I hear but my own breathing—he is dead.
What, leave thy love behind thee in the dark!
Brush past her through the narrow gate of Heaven!
O for this once thou art unmannerly,
And I will scold thee in the fields above.
Am I a little mad? There was a maiden
Who wove herself a garment of the sunbeams,
And when they stole it, went and told her sorrows
To nibbling field-mice in the tall, ripe corn.
Come forth, ye rats, that nibble in this dungeon,
That we may stand around the dead together
And do a little mourning. O love, love!
Would that I had the poppies and the flowers
That twine the wheat there in those auburn fields
Where first thy lips touched mine, or woodland bells
Fresh from the sweet wet woods in which we met,
To lay upon thee here now thou art dead.
But I can sing thee still the summer song
That thou dost love to hear, and I will make
The summer hazels wave above thee still.
And now the light seems suddenly snuffed out.
Is there a dark that is the dark to darkness—
A dark compared with which the black of night
Is what the sunlight is to night herself?
His hand is heavy as a hand of clay.
He answers not, nor moves, nor moans, nor breathes.
I hear but my own breathing—he is dead.
What, leave thy love behind thee in the dark!
Brush past her through the narrow gate of Heaven!
O for this once thou art unmannerly,
And I will scold thee in the fields above.
Am I a little mad? There was a maiden
Who wove herself a garment of the sunbeams,
And when they stole it, went and told her sorrows
To nibbling field-mice in the tall, ripe corn.
Come forth, ye rats, that nibble in this dungeon,
That we may stand around the dead together
And do a little mourning. O love, love!
Would that I had the poppies and the flowers
That twine the wheat there in those auburn fields
Where first thy lips touched mine, or woodland bells
Fresh from the sweet wet woods in which we met,
To lay upon thee here now thou art dead.
But I can sing thee still the summer song
That thou dost love to hear, and I will make
The summer hazels wave above thee still.
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The wild bee is humming,
The woodpecker drumming,
My sweetheart is coming
Through summer to me;
The nutters are nutting
Till summer-day's shutting;
And now he is cutting
My name on a tree.
The woodpecker drumming,
My sweetheart is coming
Through summer to me;
The nutters are nutting
Till summer-day's shutting;
And now he is cutting
My name on a tree.
The wood-dove is cooing,
And billing and wooing,
And now we are doing
As doeth the dove;
The squirrels are clinging
Where hazels are swinging,
And all of us singing
And playing at love.
And billing and wooing,
And now we are doing
As doeth the dove;
The squirrels are clinging
Where hazels are swinging,
And all of us singing
And playing at love.
Ah! here there is no light beneath these vaults,
No sunshine and no mercy and no hope;
And if they bury thee where thou hast died,
No breeze will whisper to thy lonely rest.
So soon as they have taken me away
Silence and darkness wrap thee round for ever.
No sunshine and no mercy and no hope;
And if they bury thee where thou hast died,
No breeze will whisper to thy lonely rest.
So soon as they have taken me away
Silence and darkness wrap thee round for ever.
But lo! a brightness steals upon my soul.
It's light or music, or the two united?
Is there a dawn can shine through solid stone
And set at naught such temple walls as these?
Who lifts these crushing crypts from o'er my brow
To let me see the sunrise? Overhead
Is a great sea of amber, rose and gold,
Where angel-faces, numberless as bubbles,
Appear and disappear again so quickly
That scarce the eye can catch them 'mid the reefs
Of glowing jacinth and the isles of beryl
That shift and change with every passing minute
In dazzling coruscation. Is't the sea
That once we dreamt to live in evermore,
Merman and mermaid, far from earthly woe?
I come! I come! and in that sea of death,
Oh, nought shall part us!
It's light or music, or the two united?
Is there a dawn can shine through solid stone
And set at naught such temple walls as these?
Who lifts these crushing crypts from o'er my brow
To let me see the sunrise? Overhead
Is a great sea of amber, rose and gold,
Where angel-faces, numberless as bubbles,
Appear and disappear again so quickly
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Of glowing jacinth and the isles of beryl
That shift and change with every passing minute
In dazzling coruscation. Is't the sea
That once we dreamt to live in evermore,
Merman and mermaid, far from earthly woe?
I come! I come! and in that sea of death,
Oh, nought shall part us!
Chorus of Dawn Spirits.
From the amber of the sunriseWe are calling thee to come
Where the heartache ends for ever
And the sob of earth is done;
Where the soul no longer struggles
Like a bird that shakes a cage;
Where the song of Life is over
And there is nor Youth nor Age.
Leave the land of wistful gazes,
Leave the shore of pain and care,
Where the smile is one of sorrow
And the laughter is despair;
For its hum is as the humming
Of a hollow Dead Sea shell,
And its very cries of gladness
Echo like a faint farewell.
Leave the shore of pain and care,
Where the smile is one of sorrow
And the laughter is despair;
For its hum is as the humming
Of a hollow Dead Sea shell,
And its very cries of gladness
Echo like a faint farewell.
Glowing undiscovered islands
In a golden ocean lie,
Where a diamond rim outlineth
All the headlands of the sky;
And the light of peace is spreading
In a great transcendent fan,
Where the coasts of Death await thee,
Over-bright for eyes of man.
In a golden ocean lie,
Where a diamond rim outlineth
All the headlands of the sky;
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In a great transcendent fan,
Where the coasts of Death await thee,
Over-bright for eyes of man.
Come that we may greet and wing thee
With the pinions of the dead,
Come that we may place the halo
Of the martyr on thy head;
Come that we may gather round thee
On the battlements of gold,
Where the older count no winters,
And the younger grow not old.
Rosita.
With the pinions of the dead,
Come that we may place the halo
Of the martyr on thy head;
Come that we may gather round thee
On the battlements of gold,
Where the older count no winters,
And the younger grow not old.
The angel voices die away; the amber
Of the great seas of glory overhead
Dies back into the darkness of the dungeon.
But now my soul is strong again and peaceful;
The darkness is no longer one of iron,
But seems to hold me like the warm ripe gloom
Of summer woods at night; and as I kneel
And hold his heavy hand of clay in mine,
I half might fancy him asleep, not dead—
And that his head is lying softly resting
On some sweet mossy pillow of the forest.
I scarcely dare to breathe, lest I should wake him.
What trees are spreading over us? what flowers
Are scattered round us, waiting for the light
To open all their bells? what fairies circle
Around us on the grass to charm his sleep?
And he is dead—quite dead—and never more
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Dead, dead—quite dead for ever, ever more,
And I am waiting to be fetched for death.
Hark! hark! they come—I hear a tramp of feet
That echoes through the crypts. A glare of torches
Leaps red upon the arches of the valut.
They come to fetch me, and they find me ready.
(Enter Master of the Sacrifices, with many priests and Indians bearing torches. They proceed to bind Rosita with leather thongs.)
Master of the Sacrifices.
Are both her wrists well bound, and are we ready?
Rosita
(aside).
Where are the thongs to fasten down my soul?
Master of the Sacrifices.
I hear the Gong of Gongs begin to boom.
Now form yourselves in order of procession,
That we may gather as we go along
The hundred affluents of our human stream,
Until it rolls in sounding waves of men,
Like a great river rolling to the ocean.
Rosita
(aside).
Death's sea of gold is gleaming at my feet.
Master of the Sacrifices.
And as the great procession winds along
Intone a great, slow chant of `Lo, the victim!
We bring her to the Goddess—the Destroyer;
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The Flower of Cruelty, the Scented Throttler—
The wondrous executioner of nature!’
[Exeunt.
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