 | Two dramatic poems by Menella Bute Smedley |  |
Scene III.
Enter Mrs. Vere and Lady Blanche.Mrs. Vere—Lady Blanche—Cyril—Markham—Bertha.
CYRIL
(advances eagerly)
See, mother, we are ready! Not a word—
But take her, for she will not come to me
Unless you give her.
[He puts Bertha's hand into Mrs. Vere's.
MRS. VERE
(ceremoniously)
I am glad to see you,
And sorry that your father keeps his room.
270
It grieves him that he cannot welcome you.
MRS. VERE
You will not let us miss him. Here you have
A gracious landscape, and a kindly hearth—
Two things to make home charming. It is strange
To come upon this pretty calm, so near
The roar of our confusion. I have heard
You lived here always?
BERTHA
I have yet to learn
If there are other places in the world
As tender to my simpleness as this.
LADY BLANCHE
I'll help to teach you. Must I name myself
Or do you know me? Cyril, is it right
To make me seem so bold?
CYRIL
You blame me well.
I have lost all my manners, in the deep
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We reach the things we long for, there is time
To ponder them like reasons and be calm.
The man who sees one picture in a day
Takes it to bed among his gentlest thoughts
And in the night beholds it, and at morn
Beholds it still, and grows familiar with it,
Till, seen again, it greets him like a friend
Telling no news, but coming to his heart
With itself only. So my separate loves
Ruled me at leisure; but I go perplexed
About this gallery, scarce discerning yet
Which bright appeal should have its answer first,
Passing where I should pause, at every step
Turning so soothe some beautiful reproach
With tardy homage.
[He takes Blanche's hand.
MARKHAM
Your one picture has
Companions, but no rivals.
MRS. VERE
(perceiving him)
Are you here
To penetrate this poesy with facts?
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A rein—we know it—ever scaling heights
And scorning valleys; covering half the world
For each neglected mile of beaten road.
CYRIL
Aye, mother, is my daily waste so great?
Yet are there rocks about my daily path
Which need a stronger blast than poesy!
MRS. VERE
You do not move them; there's the sorrow, Cyril;
Your cause lies crushed among them, even the cause
For which you flung away your noble life,
While you go harvesting the fruitless winds
Or triumphing over clouds.
CYRIL
Not from the dust
Come the great forces which compel the world;
We build them out of fire and air, because
He that would rule earth must first rise above it.
On our invisible banners stand the words
‘Life risen, and Life hidden.’
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Mystical
As ever! Now, I wish a Seer would say
Why some draw changes from the years, and some
Carry their childhood always. He was yet [to Bertha
A slender sprite of ten, faced like a girl,
When, if you crossed him with a doubt, he straight
Would toss and tangle you in parables
Till you grew faint.
BERTHA
(to Cyril)
Were you so wise a child?
CYRIL
A pedant in that pre-historic age
Before the twilight of my beard.
MARKHAM
And still
A pedant (so your mother says), complete
With all primæval dragon-slaying arms,
Though now there be no dragons (and what tongue
Shall certify us of the time and place
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No matter! You can hurl your dogmas still
And hope for living dragons. Is it not strange [to Mrs. Vere
That all his growing glory of young days,
Which we stood by to watch, is rounded thus;
As if a great tree, breaking out in spring
With blossom-torrents, there should stay and cease,
And, in the harvest, like a giant flower
Wither unfruited?
MRS. VERE
If you speak of Cyril,
I should know more than you. I find no cause
To mourn such fruitless promise in his life.
I think you have not seen his work.
MARKHAM
Forgive me!
I meant to make you bless him unaware.
CYRIL
Mother and friend, I must beseech you, choose
A livelier theme. I am no more a child
Called to reluctant stand when strangers come
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To some half-uncle in another world
Whose shadow never touched my thoughts. I hate
To criticise my own biography,
Searching myself with hesitating eyes
To find which flaws are only in the glass,
Which in the face it mirrors. Let me rest
Like a dull book. If we should talk of Blanche
The topic has some grace.
LADY BLANCHE
I'll not allow it.
I could not trust my tender qualities
To such free handling.
MRS. VERE
We seem all adrift.
Shall we have music? (To Bertha.)
I believe you sing?
BERTHA
(looks at Cyril)
I must learn better ere I sing for you;
Must I not, Cyril?
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Nay, I press you not:
Refuse me if you will. Dear Blanche, I think
Your voice is always ready. Let it flow
To smooth this ruffle of uneasy talk!
BERTHA
(distressed)
I did not mean—
LADY BLANCHE
(kindly)
I will but lead the way,
Use having made me bolder.
(Aside to Mrs. Vere)
Oh! be kind;
See how the tide of blushes ebbs and flows
At every word you speak! I am sorry for her.
MRS. VERE
(aside to Lady Blanche)
For him! For him! Why picked he from the ground
This shred of homespun? Links of virgin gold
Were ready for his neck.
LADY BLANCHE
(aside)
For shame!
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Enough.
I will constrain myself to softer ways.
BERTHA
(aside to Cyril)
How childish was I not to sing at once!
How shall I please her now?
CYRIL
Sing afterwards!
Be brave—this voice is nothing beside yours.
A dancer's paces on the polished floor
To the airy poise and passage of a nymph
Across the woods!
BERTHA
You cannot make me think so,
But you may think so always if you will.
MRS. VERE
(aside)
Mark her appeals! That way she won him, Blanche!
O to divide this knot!
LADY BLANCHE
I will not hear you.
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What have you done with my flower, my flower,
That lay on your heart so gay, so sweet?
I wore it there for half an hour
Then I cast it under my feet.
Fade, flower! Fade you may,
Now, for you have bloomed your day!
That lay on your heart so gay, so sweet?
I wore it there for half an hour
Then I cast it under my feet.
Fade, flower! Fade you may,
Now, for you have bloomed your day!
What have you done with my ring, my ring,
That was on your hand, so close, so true?
It clung too close, the weary thing!
I have dropped it into the dew.
Break, ring! Break you may,
Now, for you are cast away!
That was on your hand, so close, so true?
It clung too close, the weary thing!
I have dropped it into the dew.
Break, ring! Break you may,
Now, for you are cast away!
What have you done with my heart, my heart,
That lay in your hand so safe, so still?
I let it fall in field or mart;
You can look for it if you will!
Break, heart! Break, you must,
Now, for you are in the dust!
That lay in your hand so safe, so still?
I let it fall in field or mart;
You can look for it if you will!
Break, heart! Break, you must,
Now, for you are in the dust!
CYRIL
A bitter song. Have you dropped many hearts
To whisper all their wrongs about your feet?
You should tread lightly.
279
'Tis a woman's song.
This kind of crime is only masculine.
CYRIL
Indeed!
MRS. VERE
(to Bertha)
You do not speak?
MARKHAM
Her face speaks for her,
Being full of praise and wonder.
BERTHA
I could listen
Hours into minutes. Will you sing again?
LADY BLANCHE
No, no—your turn is come.
MARKHAM
(to Bertha)
Then let me choose;
Do me so much of honour. Sing for me,
That—nay, I cannot name it—which you sang
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A murmur from one mourning in the woods
Ere she goes home; when the lamp came, we looked
To see who had not wept.
BERTHA
That little ballad?
Is't not too sad? Well—bear with it, and me!
BERTHA sings.
‘They came together to see me,’
The old woman said, and sighed,
‘One was tall, and the other small;
‘I think the little one died.’
She had a trick of sighing,
And she knew not what she said,
But O! how could she say to me,
‘Is the little one dead?’
The old woman said, and sighed,
‘One was tall, and the other small;
‘I think the little one died.’
She had a trick of sighing,
And she knew not what she said,
But O! how could she say to me,
‘Is the little one dead?’
For strange to me seems any doubt
Of that which did betide,
Because the light of my life went out
When the little one died;
And every leaf on every tree
Since then to me has said,
And will for ever say to me,
‘Is the little one dead?’
Of that which did betide,
Because the light of my life went out
When the little one died;
And every leaf on every tree
Since then to me has said,
And will for ever say to me,
‘Is the little one dead?’
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And everywhere I see the room,
And all the weeping eyes;
And I hear the tender terrible words
While the little one dies;
And everywhere I feel the blank
With empty arms outspread,
Till I would give all things that live
For my little one, dead
And all the weeping eyes;
And I hear the tender terrible words
While the little one dies;
And everywhere I feel the blank
With empty arms outspread,
Till I would give all things that live
For my little one, dead
And if I hear that one is sick
I shrink and turn aside;
Ever I fear that Death is near
Because my little one died.
And if I hear that one is well
I lift a cruel cry,
Why, oh why, should any be well
And just my little one die?
I shrink and turn aside;
Ever I fear that Death is near
Because my little one died.
And if I hear that one is well
I lift a cruel cry,
Why, oh why, should any be well
And just my little one die?
And through my heart the word goes down,
There ever to abide,
Why, oh why, am I alive
Since my little one died?
While, with her trick of sighing,
Again the old woman said,
‘One was tall, and the other small—
Is the little one dead?’
There ever to abide,
Why, oh why, am I alive
Since my little one died?
While, with her trick of sighing,
Again the old woman said,
‘One was tall, and the other small—
Is the little one dead?’
MRS. VERE
Sweet but untrained!
LADY BLANCHE
A voice like a wild rose.
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O! what a pang of silence follows it!
Yet, Markham, yet, I cannot praise your taste.
Find you a charm in phantasies of pain
To soothe away the substance of your griefs?
I ever held that Art should stand by Truth
To draw the secret beauty out of it
And teach us all we miss; providing us
With havens and reposes, whence, refreshed,
We go back to our toil. Tears are not Rest;
I grudge them to my visions, being sure
My facts will need them.
MARKHAM
Reason goes with you;
But I, who shudder at the depths, can play
Among the shallows.
MRS. VERE
Time demands us now.
Come Blanche. (To Bertha.)
And you must visit me at home?
Have you a day to spare, or shall we fix
When we meet next?
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Nay, mother, you forget
Her days are not as yours—she grows i' the shade.
MRS. VERE
I should be sorry if my summons crossed
A fairer project.
BERTHA
'Tis not possible.
I am your servant, if you send for me;
Your child, if you will love me! Let me hope
It shall be so—
MRS. VERE
I never had the skill
To set my pretty sentiments to words;
I know it is a fault. Shall we say Tuesday?
Nay, thank me not, I am content with ‘yes.’ [Gives her hand to Bertha.
'Tis settled. Cyril, do you come with us?
CYRIL
Aye, to the door.
284
No further? So you teach me
My future ere it comes.
[Exit Mrs. Vere.
LADY BLANCHE
She is not well; [To Bertha.
Think nothing of her haste. But you and I
Will learn our sistership at leisure. Take
This kiss as warrant.
[Kisses her, and exit, following Mrs. Vere.
CYRIL
(to Bertha)
Look not sad, my love.
BERTHA
You did not like my song.
CYRIL
Child, is that all? [Exit Markham.
That wound finds speedy healing. All the while
It seemed as if you sang about yourself,
And that soft wailing for the little one
Came back and back again to trouble me
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Till, angry with unreasonable fears,
I blamed the strain. But, for the rest, it was
Too precious, like a picture in the street
Which we would cover from the wind and dust,
Or chill of eyes neglectful. Are you healed?
BERTHA
Aye, with a word.
Re-enter Markham.
MARKHAM
Now thank me, for I did
Your office nobly and devised excuses
(At least a dozen) why you did it not.
BERTHA
Alas, I fear I am to blame for this!
MARKHAM
You were the sole excuse I did not name.
How have you fared? Come, tell us, will you call
Your terrors treason?
286
Do not press her now;
She is weary.
MARKHAM
Ah, you should be satisfied.
The lilies that you missed are here again.
BERTHA
Am I so pale?
CYRIL
White as a dream of angels.
BERTHA
I'll rest.
CYRIL
And so farewell. At evening time
I will return.
[Exeunt Cyril and Markham.
BERTHA
(alone)
O yes, at evening time!
But never since I knew of waning lights
Have I so longed for evening. When it comes,
I shall be happy. What a thankless soul!
Now will I set my joy before my soul
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First then, he loves me. Next—but no, there is
No second to that first, it covers all.
I'll think of it before I fall asleep
That all my dreams may be astir with hope
Of bright awakening. If his mother grieves
That he should look so low, I blame her not;
Yet am I sure of something in myself
Which answers and aspires to what he is;
And if on that sweet upward slope of Time
At which I gaze, she sees me by his side
Giving such comfort as a woman may
To him who loves her, she will pardon me.
But shall I walk beside him? I am tired
And all the Future seems too difficult;
Only at evening-time, when there is light
Shall the way soften and the distance shine.
Goodnight, my love. Come back at evening time.
[She lies down on a couch and sleeps. A pause.
Re-enter Cyril
CYRIL
Now steadfast Day, before she meets with Night,
Stands still and tries her strength; not soon to yield
Her fair defences, but, with many a charge
Into the shadows, many a shining pause
On cloud, or mountain vantage, where she waves
Banners of gold, and ranges scarlet plumes
For last encounters, beaten inch by inch
With drifts of gloom and passages of wind
And mustering of dark multitudes, at last
To fall like a good soldier at his post
O'ermastered, but not conquered. I am come
Before my time. The dumb sting of a thought
Drives me, though I despise it. I must see
That face which is my only face on earth
Smile once, and scatter all my haunting sighs.
Why did she sing that song?
[He perceives Bertha.
Stands still and tries her strength; not soon to yield
288
Into the shadows, many a shining pause
On cloud, or mountain vantage, where she waves
Banners of gold, and ranges scarlet plumes
For last encounters, beaten inch by inch
With drifts of gloom and passages of wind
And mustering of dark multitudes, at last
To fall like a good soldier at his post
O'ermastered, but not conquered. I am come
Before my time. The dumb sting of a thought
Drives me, though I despise it. I must see
That face which is my only face on earth
Smile once, and scatter all my haunting sighs.
Why did she sing that song?
O, here she sleeps,
As tranquil and as easily disturbed
As light on summer water. Shall I touch her
To her sweet life again? I am a coward
Before this semblance. When, upon my knees,
Daily I offer her to God, my heart
Condemns itself for falsehood, knowing not
If it could give her, praying that its prayer
Turn not to sin. How motionless she lies!
That curve of golden hair across her neck
Is still as sculpture, and the white hand drops
Like a forgotten lily, when no breeze
Troubles the lawn. Her face is very calm;
She looks at something blessed in her dreams
And those shut eyes are satisfied. I think
I could not wake her, if the lightest care,
The faint first whisper of uneasy thought,
Awaited her—one shred of passing mist
Shows like a stain upon a cloudless sky;
But out of this contentment of her sleep
I rouse her into fuller joy. So thus! [Kisses her forehead and starts back.
Ah! That was cold. Awake, my love! I know
The music of my name upon your lips
Will sound in a moment. You are pausing now
Before you smile. Then, for the first time, here! [Kisses her lips.
Ice to me! Where's your hand? Cold too—no grasp
In these slack fingers! What has fallen upon me?
Is not the distance full of cries? I think
They call me mad. Not death—madness—not death;
No one said death—Not this death! Ah, I knew it!
Help, help! she cannot be so far from life
Without farewell! There is time yet—my Bertha,
Do you jest with me? Open your sweet eyes!
O, Bertha, Bertha!
[Throws himself on the body.
As tranquil and as easily disturbed
As light on summer water. Shall I touch her
To her sweet life again? I am a coward
Before this semblance. When, upon my knees,
Daily I offer her to God, my heart
Condemns itself for falsehood, knowing not
If it could give her, praying that its prayer
Turn not to sin. How motionless she lies!
That curve of golden hair across her neck
289
Like a forgotten lily, when no breeze
Troubles the lawn. Her face is very calm;
She looks at something blessed in her dreams
And those shut eyes are satisfied. I think
I could not wake her, if the lightest care,
The faint first whisper of uneasy thought,
Awaited her—one shred of passing mist
Shows like a stain upon a cloudless sky;
But out of this contentment of her sleep
I rouse her into fuller joy. So thus! [Kisses her forehead and starts back.
Ah! That was cold. Awake, my love! I know
The music of my name upon your lips
Will sound in a moment. You are pausing now
Before you smile. Then, for the first time, here! [Kisses her lips.
Ice to me! Where's your hand? Cold too—no grasp
In these slack fingers! What has fallen upon me?
Is not the distance full of cries? I think
They call me mad. Not death—madness—not death;
No one said death—Not this death! Ah, I knew it!
290
Without farewell! There is time yet—my Bertha,
Do you jest with me? Open your sweet eyes!
O, Bertha, Bertha!
Enter Markham.
MARKHAM
What a cry was there! [He starts back appalled.
O, Cyril, Cyril, has your God done this!
CYRIL
(rising from the body)
I think I have not seen your face before,
But you seem pitiful. Look here for me—
You weep and cannot! I am blind myself.
Will no man give a name to this cold sleep?
I want the truth. Friend, is there hope?
MARKHAM
No, No!
Alas, she's dead!
CYRIL
You must not touch her hand,
It's mine. And she—not she—but all I have
291
I was to-day the richest soul on earth—
You saw me so. What have I now—my world
Narrowed to this! An empty garment, friend.
I cannot, as some do, look calmly on it
And ask you if it is not beautiful;
I cannot cast it from me—there it lies—
My darkness and my poverty lie there—
What shall I do?
MARKHAM
It is too soon for comfort.
CYRIL
(to the body)
Dear, did you know we were to part so soon?
How could you bear me from you? You have robbed me
Of my last memories! Had I but been here,
O had mine eyes but watched this cruel sleep,
They had not suffered it to slip to death!
MARKHAM
Time lives, while all things die, and lives to soothe.
292
Time lives, and I must live again in Time;
The certainty is on me that I must;
I am afraid of it. There are the streets
Where I shall walk, the men that I shall meet,
The things that I shall do; but in the midst,
Or in the hollow times that look like rest,
Suddenly I shall feel her in my arms,
And all I see or hear shall fall from me
Like cold mists from a climber, leaving me
Alone upon the summit of my grief;
Then most alone, when I am most with her
Who was the sweetest company on earth.
O for an endless cloister!
MARKHAM
If my pity—
Nay, if my wrath could aid you, they are yours.
Why are we flung so helpless into life
To suffer what we would not? Either God
Rules not at all, and then He is not God,
Or if He rule the world He is not good
Because He makes it vile and miserable,
Vile to the vile, and dreadful to the good
Who serve Him to no purpose!
293
O, be dumb!
Her angel's here already and is grieved.
Henceforth I go to meet that touch of God
Which we call death; and when, upon my way
I faint, or shrink, or falter among men,
Suddenly I shall feel her in my arms
And all mean thoughts shall drop away from me,
The cloud shall pass, the trouble shall be calm,
The Future shall possess me (having lost
All else), till, mantled in that coming light
Which dwarfs and dims the distances of Earth,
Crowned with unconscious conquests, which she wins,
I reach the perfect Presence, where she waits!
This, this, is what my God has done for me:
I'll own it, though I die.
Enter Mrs. Vere hastily. She falls on Cyril's neck.
MRS. VERE
Oh, my dear son!
I know your loss is great.
CYRIL
Alas, my mother!
Yours is still greater. You missed loving her!
| Two dramatic poems by Menella Bute Smedley | |