University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene. Rome. Evening. Gardens of the Palace of Lucius. At back, a colonnade of the palace, with balcony above. On one side, a place arranged for the performance of an interlude. The palace is brilliantly lighted, and sounds of feasting and revel are heard. Voconius and Voconia.
A Voice
(without, singing).
Tell me no grim tales of a surly morrow;
Wreathe me with roses.

Voconius.
That is Terentius singing; his cæsuras
Would make Catullus creep. There, look, from here
You can see Cæsar.

Voconia.
With the purple toga,
And bay-leaves in his hair?

Voconius.
Ay. ... Let me clasp
This buckle for you; there, that 's better; now
The flesh just hints it hides there, as you walk ...
You are perfect in the lines?

Voconia.
Yes. ... He is like
The statues of Antinous.

Voconius.
That's Metella
That sits by him;—she bores him now. And that's
Her uncle, Publius Metellus, who
Whispers apart with Cæsar; he and Bursa
Are Cæsar's favorites.

Voconia.
And you, Voconius?

Voconius.
But after them. I hope, my little sister,
To change all that, now you are come to court.

[Attendants pass across the scene, bearing fruits and wines. Laughter within the palace.]
Voconia.
Oh, how I long for all that life—the laughter,
The motion, the delight!

Voconius.
It is all yours
To-night, Voconia; only do not play
The frightened fool to Cæsar.

Voconia.
If I falter
It will be with the shudder of new joy.

Voconius.
A coyness, if you will; but not too far.

Voconia.
No fear, brother. I have dreamed of this time,—
And Lydia, my nurse, has read me tales
Out of your library, and poems, till
I would drink the very wine whose airy vision
I tire to lift in fancy to my lips.

Voconius.
Good; I so ordered it. Your education
Has been a care to me. ... The Emperor
Is in a happy mood. Yesterday Bursa
Defeated Galahault at Janiculum,
And captured him, with many of his men.
The captive general is here, to make
The banquet more triumphant. Now come we,
And on the crest and sprayward of his humor
Light like a sunbeam shattered into mist.
I have just come from Cæsar; he is pleased
Graciously to commend the title of
My interlude, “The Rape of Helen,”—he
Is in the vein for 't. Oh, he knows the difference
Between me and Terentius! ... Let the peplos
Loosen a little and slip down—so—as if
You were unaware. ... When Helen says, “And thou,
If I be she of whom the goddess speaks,
Take me,”—look not at Paris, look at Cæsar.
I'll yield the role to him there ... and the rest
You may improvise between you.—Withdraw yonder.
I'll back to Cæsar and conduct him hither.

[Exit.]
Voconia.
O dreams and long desires, farewell, farewell!
How beautiful is Cæsar!

[Exit.]
Enter a Monk. Various persons pass across the scene, among them, Dagonet, disguised. The Monk detains him.
Dagonet.
Have you brought the manuscripts?

Monk.

They are a mirror-snare of Satan. They have filled my ears with a buzzing of fiends. They stir up evil thoughts in the heart and make the abomination of Baal and Ashtoreth to swim between mine eyes and the crucifix. But that our holy father, the

Pope, had commanded me to copy them for you, I had torn them in pieces a dozen times and burned the fragments with fire.

Dagonet.

Why, I heard Voconius declaim the verses, and I was not prompted to so much as a wriggle. But I am not a monk. And I am hardened to bad poets.

Monk.

May the thoughts they bred in me be forgiven! I did contend stoutly with them.

Dagonet.

Tut, man, the Pope will absolve you. You sinned for the glory of God. Give me the manuscripts, and copy this.

Monk.

Shall I put my soul in peril again?

Dagonet.

Tell me this,—do you not wish for the success of King Arthur?

Monk.

Sir, the Pope and all good Christians pray for him daily. He is a righteous man; and he is descended from the holy Empress, Saint Helena, that found the Cross, and from the great Constantine, who saw the glory of it in the heavens. He hath the better title to the empire, and the present government is a revel of Antichrist.

Dagonet.

I serve King Arthur. My business here, my true business, is the discovery of certain papers. To make my search the easier, the Pope commended me to Voconius for a scribe; and as everybody knows His Holiness has the best calligraphers in Rome, Voconius was delighted to buy me, and the coffers of the Church were enriched. ...

Now I learned letters enough of the Glastonbury monks to read what is writ plain, if I be not hurried; but a scribe—! They would take my pothooks for ancient Chaldean. The Pope's reputation would be gone forever; and I should be flogged for a dunce or a cheat, or worse, the plot discovered and— (making a gesture as of a noose about his neck)
the Lord have mercy on my soul!

Monk.

Give me the new manuscript. I will speak to the prior.

Dagonet.

Do so; and to the Pope himself, too. ... Now, be off; they are coming.

Monk.

Dominus vobiscum.

[Exit.]
Dagonet
(looking at the copies brought by the Monk).

Marvellously chirographied! Dagonet, Dagonet, who would have thought thou hadst this art in thee! Who knows what he can do till he tries?

Enter Slaves, with torches; then Lucius, Voconius, Metella, Publius, Galahault, Senators, Knights, Courtiers, Ladies, Attendants, etc.
Publius
(To Galahault).
Though Bursa get the glory of your capture,
I cannot be persuaded but that you
Were your own conqueror. When a veteran
Dares a defeat like a foolhardy boy,
He means to be defeated,—he's a reason ...

Lucius
(to Voconius).
Well, more of this again.
I do not question,
Mind you, but art may wring a compelled beauty
Out of the very meanness of its means.

Voconius.
I grant my judgment weaker, but meseems
Rhyme is no meanness but a charm the more
The ancients knew not of.

Lucius.
The charm 's too simple,
Too obvious; but our decadent art
Must have its cymbals. Come, your interlude ...
You present Paris ...?

Voconius.
And my sister, Helen;
I crave your gentle judgment for us both.

[Exit.
Lucius.
I did not know Voconius had a sister.

Metella.
A school-girl,—come to court for the first time
To-night,—a nun-bred miss. A proper Helen!
Helen the vestal! Helen the ingénue!

Lucius.
Sir Galahault, pray you, be not withdrawn
So far from us; a word with you. [They talk apart.]


Metella
(to Publius).
Where 's Bursa?

Publius.
He left the palace not an hour ago.
Some news that came by sudden courier
Put him clean from the matter here in hand.

Metella.
What can it be, I wonder?

Publius.
I suspect,
Some news of Guenevere's itinerary.
I cannot think what else should stir him so;
He knows her capture is a thing that Cæsar
Makes much of.

Metella.
Is it so?

Lucius.
—a merry ... Publius!

[Lucius and Publius converse.]
Metella.
Sir Galahault, in your far Britain what
Are the chief sights you boast of?

Galahault.
Truly, madam,
I think the fairest sight that Britain boasts
Is camped before your walls.

Metella.
Nay, but I meant ...

[They go on conversing.]
Lucius.
It is not that. We have known for several days
The route she follows. If she change it not,
Our ambuscade is sure. Perhaps she—Well,
We'll know anon. Here comes our interlude.

Enter Voconius as Paris.
Paris.
Sea-born and subtle and fair and mighty as the sea,
Changing and changeless Aphrodite, unto thee
I lift my voice in praise and my palms in thanksgiving;
Who hast brought me, witless of the port I sailed for, giving
The helm to Chance and thee, hither to the Argive shore
In my black ships, and folding me about with more
Than earthly mist hast led my steps, divinely dazed,
Hither; and all the blind night from my soul is rased.
For surely now I am aware that I shall see
Her whom thy divine kiss-wise lips have promised me,
The fairest among women. ... Are they nymphs that yonder
Rise from the roseate waters like the dreams that wander
About the tranced woods of young vision? Lo, they stand
Naked and naiad-haired upon the river strand
And the air flushes with their bodies and the morning.
I tremble, and my heart swells with a divine warning;
No water-spirits these,—human and kindred-sweet,
For now they gather up strewn garments at their feet,
Such as the Spartan women wear; and now they cover
The beauty that has had the winds and waves for lover.
One only, lordlier, lovelier than the others, still
Stands rapturous of the air. They wait upon her will
As on a queen's. Their beauty in her beauty merges
As the dim stars at dawn founder in luminous surges.
I cannot see her face, but all love's splendor slips
Down shoulders like the moon and the music of her hips.
Now at a sign they bring her saffron peplos to her;
And now ... she turns—Cypris! if it be not to woo her,
Her, daughter of desire and mystery and joy,
Why hast thou led me hither from the towers of Troy
Across the winy sea? Surely none other fairer
Than she in all the round world might the furthest farer
Of all earth's wanderers find; but I, beholding her,
Praise thee, O Queen of Love, and am thy worshipper. ...

Lucius.
Well done, Voconius!

All.
Bravo! Well done, Voconius!

Lucius.
What crafty Alexandrines! Poet first,—
But only less the actor.

All.
Bravo, bravo!

Enter Chorus of Spartan Damsels, and Voconia, as Helen.
Chorus.
Sparta, thy daughters,
[str.
Fearless and free,—
Behold us, how we laugh at the cold hill-waters,
Blush not for bodies brown with the sun,
Tough with the wind and rain!
The young men fear us in the footrace; we
Are not useless in casting the javelin. Swift and sane,
(Out of air, life and strife beauty born!)
The gods have made us goodly to look upon
And no man does us scorn.

What was there wanting,
[ant.
Sparta, to thee?
The touch of sky that beggars the brown earth's vaunting,
Beauty that pierces men like a spear,
Beauty divinely bright,
Not of the earth, that makes men mad to see;
Until Helen was given thee for queen and the wonder-light
Drenched the dales, flushed the peaks as with wine,—
Beauty that makes the whole world tremble and veer
And reel into the divine.
Daughter of Leda, Queen!
[ep.
What god has given thee
The splendor and the sheen
Of the dawns that live in thee?
Our praise is alien, unimpassioned, far,
To do thee honor, star
Of the flushed cast!
Sparta is not aflame
Enough to be thy priest.
Beauty is with child with Love,
And until Love be born
There is no name
By which her rite is said.
Come, then, and above
Our altars from
Lighten with morn,
Love!
He comes, O Helen; not forever
Shalt thou be mocked with undivine endeavor.
Lift up thy head,
Daughter of Leda!
[Applause.]
Lucius.
A fairer Helen never played the part.
Is she not exquisite, Sir Galahault?

Galahault.
As lyric as a throstle's song, my lord.

Metella.
Too slight for Helen—pretty, but girlish.

Lucius.
Peace!
Now Paris speaks.

Paris.
Whoe'er thou be, in Sparta's rough and rocky ways
That standest like a dream of flowers and fervent days,
Rose-wrought and clad with a diviner air, live ever!

Helen.
Hail, Prince, for so thou seemest! Welcome!

Paris.
I have never,
Save in the immortal goddesses, seen with my eyes
Beauty passing the beauty of women, till now you rise
Like a new throne in heaven.

Helen.
What word is this you utter
Of the immortal goddesses?

Paris.
Yea, for the utter
And incommunicable beauty of those three most high,
Here and Athene and Aphrodite, I, even I,
Paris, the son of Priam, prince of tower-built Ilion,
Saw naked; for they chose me, me out of the million
On million of the eyes of mortals, to behold
No borrowed feature but their very beauty, and hold
The scales of judgment, weighing to which divinest splendor
Of such the supreme three, it were but due to render
The golden apple by unbidden Ate flung,
Marked “To the fairest.”

Helen.
Tell us, prithee, then, among
Such beauty which supreme for beauty thou declarest,
O thou that judgest gods!

Paris.
Because I named her fairest,
Devious-minded Aphrodite has sworn an oath
That the most fair of women shall give me her troth
And couch with me in Troy. But thou—who is above thee,
Who of the daughters of men?

Helen.
And thou wouldst that I love thee?
Fie! this is a low thought thou pluckest from its sheath.

Chorus.
A shameless word has crossed the doorsill of his teeth.

Paris.
Shame dwells not with the gods nor in speech which the gods warrant.

Helen.
Say no more, lest the King's wrath whelm thee in its torrent.
Seek her among the maidens; I am wife and Queen.

Chorus.
Such impudence of evil we have never seen.

Paris.
No king's wrath terrifies me, but lest anger lighten
From that clear brow of thine. Those lifted lids can frighten
More than the lidless eyes of Death.

Helen.
They make not die.

Paris.
Yea, if they slay my soul, what though the limbs live? I
Am dead, no less. Be merciful as thou art mighty!

Helen.
What god burns in my veins? Is it thou, Aphrodite? ...
Counsel me, girls; the man is fair to look upon,
Persuasive, and a goddess urges his cause on.

Chorus.
Surely the man is goodly, and the gods not to be thwarted.

Helen.
A goddess also hinders me, the Queen of wide-courted
Heaven, lady of marriage-beds, and sets my soul at odds.

Chorus.
We counsel that thou give due honor to both gods.

Helen.
When each gives each the lie! Your counsel profits little.

Paris.
The will of the goddess is not weak nor her words brittle.
Knewest thou ever an oracle that went unfulfilled?
If thou deny me, then needs must be what she willed
Other, and thou art not the fairest among women.
Who shall say that, with eyes that sight grows not yet dim in?
And since thou art the fairest, as all men may see,
Be pious to the gods and pitiful to me.

Helen.
No; lest men say I make myself to be the foremost,
Too eager for the doom ordained. And men adore most
Those who exalt themselves not. If the fairest indeed,
Let her declare me so by no ambiguous deed.
No word nor will of mine her oracle fulfilling,
Let her put forth her power and master me unwilling.
And thou, if I be she of whom the goddess speaks,
Take me despite myself, and despite all the Greeks.

[Voconius, stepping out of his part, turns to Lucius and recites by way of Epilogue the lines that follow.]
Voconius.
I have dared higher than the Muses will,
A song too splendid for my simple skill.
I am not Paris, to see beauty bare;
Not Ovid I, such visions to declare.
Forgive, Apollo; let some greater bard
Achieve the raptures proved for me too hard.
Is there not here a poet with a lyre
To end my broken song with thine own fire;
A greater prince than all the line of Troy,
And dear to Venus as the Dardan boy?
If such there be, a new-born god of day,
Let him, compassionate of my feebler lay,
Assume the rôle too heavy for my hands
And take the gods' best gift: there Helen stands!

Chorus.
For the gods that brought Helen to birth
Gave to Cæsar the rule of the earth.

[The doors of the palace open and Guenevere appears between the pillars, attended by Bursa.]
Lucius.
There Helen stands!

[A pause. Sensation.]
Bursa.
I come late to the feast;
But bring a forfeit makes my fault seem golden,—
Guenevere, Queen of Britain.

Guenevere.
Which is Cæsar? ...
Since Cæsar wars on women and his arms
Have made me prisoner, I sue to Cæsar
For leave to guard one royal privilege,
My privacy.

Lucius.
Guards, slaves, attend the Queen!
Be her desires commands!
[Exit Guenevere, attended.]
Break up the feast!
And each one to his house!

[Exeunt all except Galahault, Metella, Voconia, and Publius.]
Metella.
Sir Galahault!
At midnight, by the ilex! It may be
That I can find a way to set the Queen
At liberty—perhaps yourself as well—
I know not. I must set my wits at work.

[Exit.]
Publius
(approaching.)
Fear nothing for the Queen, Sir Galahault.
I know not what Metella said to you,
But I have a shrewd guess. Well, do not heed her.
I have her interests at heart, and yours,
As well as mine,—for hers and yours are mine
In this. Believe me, 't is the prudent part
To be of my advice. If 't please you come
To my apartment in an hour from now,
I'll give you weighty reasons.

Galahault.
Very well.
[Exit Publius.
Lady (approaching Voconia, who is weeping)
, our northern masques are rough to yours,
And I perhaps no critic; but methought
Your Helen had a grace, a charm, like April
When she comes up with lilies from the south.
If not the Helen that the minstrels sing,
Standing upon the battlements of Troy,
Great with having much lived, no less a Helen,
Such as she might have been ere she had loved,
Sweet with the bud's life, wistful, incomplete,
And beautiful with unacquainted eyes.
I am much beholden to you.
[Going.]
Enter Voconius.
Sir, your comedy
Was worth a better epilogue.

[Exit.]
Voconius.
Indeed
It had an epilogue not on the bills.
Perdition! To be beaten by a fluke!
All my art jangled by a brutal fact!
Well, why do you stay here? You make me wait.
I must come back for you! ... And this barbarian,
Who proffers sentence like an amateur ...
My comedy—a better epilogue ...
What was he saying to you?

Voconia.
The one word
Of kindliness in my humiliation.
Oh, I believe it is another life
They have where he has lived! He has an air
As if he saw a world we overlook.

Voconius.
I half believe you are in love with him.

Voconia.
And if I said I were!

Voconius.
Bah! a barbarian.

Voconia.
When all the others left without a look
So much as if they were aware we lived,
He only took the pains to speak to me.
There was a better breed of courtesy
In this than all our fine punctilios.

Voconius.
Your country's enemy!

Voconia.
Do not be absurd.
You have instructed me in many things,
But I do not remember that to love
My country was among them. What is Rome
To you, or any Roman of us all?
A place where it is good to eat and drink.
Your country is your interest with Cæsar.

Voconius.
And who but you were but a moment since
All for this Cæsar, eager for his favor,
And hot for all this life you hold so cheap?

Voconia.
I have had a bandage taken from my eyes;
And the poor pennies that I groped for seem
As nothing to the treasure of beautiful things
I see about me. Yes, I love ... I love!
Go you to Cæsar, if you will; but I,
Although my hero take no thought for me,
Will follow him and serve him till I die.

Voconius.
This is a mere child's folly. Come with me.

Voconia.
Let me stay here alone a moment first.
It is a fancy; but I have a need
Somehow to be here quiet and not think.
I will not keep you long ... I beg of you ...

Voconius.
You are a fool.

[Exit.
Voconia.
I saw him coming back.

[Withdraws into the shadows.]
Enter Galahault and Dagonet.
Galahault.
... So many things at once I knew not of.
I had no notion you were not in Britain;
You startled me.

Dagonet.

I would I could get word to the Queen that I am here. Even a dog counts, if it is your own dog.

Galahault.
Remain you here awhile. I know not yet
What is to happen. There are plots afoot.
Publius and Metella severally
Seek to have private speech with me to-night.
Wait here, until I know what comes of it.

Dagonet.

By the mass, I cannot. I am a slave. I belong to Voconius. And it is even now time that I should be within doors. He has paid good money for me, believing me to excel in the copying of manuscripts. My function is chiefly to transcribe his verses.

Galahault.

A scrivener, Dagonet? How do you manage that?

Dagonet.

Farm it out, as his steward does his rents. The Pope being with us secretly, I stand well with the monks here. It is ticklish walking; a tight-rope is nothing to it. But I hope not to tumble until—What was that?

Galahault.
Where?

Dagonet.

Something flitting in the shadows there. ... [Starts toward the palace as if to head off Voconia, who comes forward.]

Voconia.
Sir, I have overheard your conversation;
I did not mean to ... Pray you, pardon me. ...
Oh, I will not betray you. ... 'T is not that.
I'd serve you. ... Let him stay with you to-night.
I will excuse his absence to my brother—
Say I employed him in my own affairs. ...
Hold! (To Dagonet.)
You, sirrah, I bid you serve this lord
To-night; he is your master until morning.
You have my orders to remain here.

[Going.]
Galahault.
Stay!

Voconia.
Oh, sir, my brother waits for me.

Galahault.
No less
Let me conduct you to him. You must hear
My thanks, lady, whether you will or no.

[Exeunt Galahault and Voconia. When they are well off, Dagonet whistles.]
Enter Guenevere, on the balcony, followed by Lucius. Dagonet withdraws under the trees.
Guenevere.
The air is sultry. I stifle in the room.

Lucius
(unclasping a girdle).
Pearls to a princess are a futile gift;
But note the workmanship—what craft of line!
Intractable jade carved intricately and free
As woven frondage, and the pearls in it
I know not by what miracle of art
Made part of it and better than themselves
Like berries in the mistletoe. Receive it
As earnest of the rate I hold you at.

Guenevere.
Why, would you set a price upon my head?
I cannot else be rated.

Lucius.
Nay, but as
A conquered prince may render nominal tribute,
Itself a trifle, token none the less
He doth confess the victor suzerain.

Guenevere.
Strange victor, who must ask her vassal's leave
To go or come!

Lucius.
May not a vassal pluck
His master by the sleeve and hold him so
A moment, while he has a suit to him?

Guenevere.
You hold yourself no vassal to me, Cæsar.

Lucius.
Oh, but I do. You will not take the sense
In which you are more powerful than Cæsar
And take your captors captive.

Guenevere.
Do I so?
Now this is marvellous.

Lucius.
I do not think
My meaning is so dark to you, although
You make it seem so.

Guenevere.
Pray you, be content
To let it seem so, then ... You of the south
Cry out upon our northern mists and fogs,
But I have found that these make many things
Fair that I do not find so in the sun.

Lucius.
Then let this speak me to you through a veil.

Guenevere.
It is most beautiful; and a lordly gift,
Worthy of prince to prince.

Lucius.
But you refuse it.

Guenevere.
I am your captive.

Lucius.
You are Queen of Britain.

Guenevere.
And does Rome send a friendly gift to Britain? ...
Where is my throne, my state, my ceremony,
That I should give due honor to the gift?

Lucius.
Your throne is where you are, your presence state
Beyond all pageantry. ... You will not? ...
[He replaces the girdle and is silent.]
Madam, you are too proud. You are a queen,
But I am Cæsar.

Guenevere.
Our imperial cousin,
Therefore. I know the boast the Cæsars make,
That kings are but their dukes and deputies;
But we of Britain do not brook your boast.
Nor, Lucius Cæsar, were I but myself,
No queen at all, would I accept the gifts
Of any, even Cæsar, not being free.

Lucius.
Why, let the politics alone, then. Take it
We are but man and woman, you and I,
Lucius and Guenevere! I bring no gifts,
I only see how beautiful you are—
Nay, I have looked on beauty many times
But never until now on something lambent
And magical and not to be expressed,
Which is perhaps what they that dwell in Mars
Or Algol may call beauty. Mere perfection
Is cold and lacks the wizardry of charm,
The melody and moonlight of desire,
That makes you glow with something far and sey.

Guenevere.
What time is it?

Lucius.
What time is it? I know not.
Why, madam, what I speak of is not light,
Nor to be turned off with a light reply.

Guenevere.
I have been told that I am beautiful
By many men and mirrors. ... So be it;
I am more interested in the time.

Lucius.
Are you a woman or a marble goddess?
No marble, certes! Yet the gods themselves,
Or so they fable, found delight in gifts
And praise; but you recoil from these and harden.
What can I do to show you that I love you?
Just love, perhaps—ay, that is best. No price
To buy love with, but love. If you but knew,
If you would but believe how I desire you,
I think such love would breed some love in you;
At least some favor, some sweet courtesy.

Guenevere.
I will believe you love me when you are silent;
For what is my desire would be yours too,
If you indeed loved.

Lucius.
Is that love that is
So mild it can be mastered? Is it love
That cares so little it can yield its hope
Without a struggle? I do not love you so.
To lack you is a gap I cannot fill
With moral maxims.

Guenevere.
Nor with noble deeds!

Lucius.
Oh, think what we might live! The world should be
The lackey of our pleasure. Samarcand
Shall clothe our limbs in silks and India
Make sweet the rooms with sandal; wines from Crete,
Iberia, and the Rhone; the Arabian berry,
Rumored of far infrequent travellers,
Brought first to the West for us—Oh, we shall sit
Like the old gods, Olympic ... while the smoke
Of the world's hecatombs comes up to us,
The lords of the earth, the gods of it ... [Touching her arm.]


Guenevere.
Slave!

Lucius.
Slave? .. slave—?

Guenevere.
Oh! ... Throw thy crown for serfs to scramble for!
Go find some squire that loves and sue to be
His knave till thou learn what it is to be
A lover and a knight!

Lucius.
God! ... Oh, I'll wring
A bitter-sweet revenge of you!

Guenevere.
Thou wilt?
What wilt thou do?

Lucius.
This first. [Seizes her forcibly and kisses her.]


Guenevere.
Ah!—Oh! ... oh! ...
Death! thou hast dared—thou ... Gah! Wert thou a snake,
More horror would not shudder down my soul.
Take thyself hence, that like a leprosy
Infectest the foul night; go—Think not, Lucius,
My soul is such a thing as fears may stifle—
Blottest thou my sight still? Go, go, go, go, go! ...

Lucius.
Madam, you are superb. I am no tyrant,—
At least no vandal. I can no more mar
So fine a passion with an after-scene
Than chip a Venus of Praxiteles.
So, fare you well—until we meet again ...
I am more yours than ever.

[Exit.]
Dagonet
(gliding out of the shadows).
S-s-s-t!

Curtain.