University of Virginia Library

THE DEATH OF EVE

A Fragment

ACT I

A rocky mountain slope rising on the left by rude stone stairs towards Cain's stronghold in Nod, dimly discerned above. On the right and toward the rear the scene falls away to a wide desert country. In the foreground, on the lowest level of a terraced plateau, is a rudely sculptured well-curb. Behind this, on a higher level, a stone seat, known as the Seat of Supplication, faces the Mercy-Seat, a throne of the same primitive type, carved from the living rock. The mountain stair, which rises behind the Mercy-Seat toward the distant city, is barred, at a higher elevation, by a stone gateway.
On the Seat of Supplication sits Eve, shrouded. Her hand rests on the shoulder of Jubal, who sits at her feet. As the scene progresses, the sky gradually fades, then flushes with the colors of a tropical sunset.
Eve.
Yea, Jubal?

Jubal.
Nothing, mother.

Eve.
Thy lips moved;
The hand upon thy knee rose as in question,
And fell as in reply.

Jubal.
I slept; I dreamed.

Eve.
Sleep yet; the heat is strong.

Pause.
Jubal.
I dreamed he came
At sunset here unto the Strangers' well
To know us and our errand.

Eve.
Soon or late,
They say; his custom.

Jubal.
Aye, they say it is.
But why should travelers seeking to great Cain,
Wayfarers, weaponed only with their hands,
Or come, as now, in love and duty to him—?

Eve.
I know not. 'T is his pleasure.

Jubal.
And 't is thine,
Being, O mother, even what thou art
And hast been what thou hast been—'t is thy will
To hide thy name, to wait obscurely here,
Where at Cain's feet the desert suppliants
Kneel to unload their wrongs!

Eve.
Question it not.

Jubal.
But I must wonder.

Eve.
Wonder not either.

Jubal.
Nay,
I will not then.
Pause.
At home 't will be the hour
When the parched flocks climb faster as they feed,
Scenting the upper cisterns. Downward again
Toward folding time.

Eve.
Gazing at the sky.
I think the sun at home
Sits not in such a shoulder of the heavens.
We fetch him all about and overtake him.

Jubal.
So do we.
Pause.
Is it well that we do so?

Eve.
We make our journey; if the lights of Heaven
Move from their ancient places as we move,
Let the Heavens look to it; it is none of ours!

Jubal.
Thou sayest; and Jubal rises to thy words.—
At home Eve never spake so.

Eve.
Jubal, Jubal,
I know not what is in me! I am changed
From all I was. Or am I back-returned
Through life's deep changes to my changeless self?
Look in my face, and say.

Jubal.
Thy face is changed;—
And that behind the face, which looketh through,
Peers like a stranger.

Eve.
Since our latest guide,
Standing upon the red cliffs yester dawn,
Pointed and said, “Cain's City!”—

Jubal.
Longer ago
The change came.

Eve.
Murmurs.
Know'st me.

Jubal.
O mother, since the night
When thy loud whisper startled me awake,
And following thee in wonder from the tents
I found our camels houseled for the start,
And the wide moonlit stretches calling us,—
Since then, through desert perils, famine, beasts,
More ravenous men, and thirst the crown of terrors,
Thou art Eve, not that bowed soul we knew,
Not that great worn and patient majesty;
But like an angel going on an errand
Not for his lord but for his longing self,
Who burns from morn to morn and deep to deep
Toward his place, so Eve is, since the time
She fled, by night and stealth, from Adam's tent,
And took the wilderness.—To what purpose took,
She keeps from me too long!

Eve.
Have I not said?
To look upon my first-born's face again,
And know him what he grows to.

Jubal.
I am content.

Eve.
Jubal believes I scant him?

Jubal.
I am content!
There is no scanting in thee. Silence, speech,
Giving, withholding, doing, and letting be,
Sit on thee lovely as a change of jewels
And bounteous as the River of the South:
Forget my lips that they were troublesome.

Eve.
Why do you hold my words for less than truth?

Jubal.
Nay.

Eve.
Say on.

Jubal.
Freely?

Eve.
Say right freely on.

Jubal.
Eve knows ere Jubal speaks, yet he will speak.
At home lies bed-rid Adam in the tent,
With wasted hands and slow blank eyes agrope
To find the sole things they remember plain,
The hands and eyes of Eve, who never failed
To meet that need till now. And Eve sits here,
Within her eyes a high and thirsty light,
Brighter than burning Adam ever stilled
In that far storied morning of their loves;
Within her hands—Alas, I speak too near!

Eve.
Speak on.

Jubal.
And in her hands—I know not how
To say my meaning.

Eve.
Say, though.

Jubal.
On her hands,
That lie so quiet and so empty here,
A look as if they seized the hands of God,
And dragged Him with her through his holy mountain
Unwillingly to do her glorious will.

Eve.
Draws him to her.
Nearer. Bend back. Now by sweet Adah's pangs,
It is a goodly boy's face. Is it strong
As it is fresh and goodly?

Jubal.
It is his
Whom Eve chose out, a boy, and left unchosen
Others, firm men.

Eve.
What if she tried them first,
The others, the firm men? Seth, Enoch, all?
Thy father Lamech, too, and Irad, too?
Firm men, firm men! I shook them from their firmness!
Sinews and blood and heart-strings, at a word
Melted to water! At a woman's word,
Touching far off her cloudy enterprise!
Pause.
One more is left to try!

Long pause.
Jubal.
Mother, I saw
When thou did'st speak with Seth.

Eve.
Startled.
Saw'st? Thou saw'st?

Jubal.
I saw but heard not. Am no eaves-dropper,
No peep-thief neither, but mind eyes had looked
Before I knew 't was secret.

Eve.
Low.
When was this?

Jubal.
Early the third night ere we fled away
From Adam's tent-place. In the camel-close
I sat among the beasts, for one was big
And near her time. 'T was star-dusk, very still;
Only the beast groan'd low and human-like,
Or nosed my stroking hand and held her peace.
Thereby, over against, a voice, thy voice,
Never the words, only the naked voice,
Heavy and scant, as if a half-dead tongue
Fashioned its meaning stiffly. Then the moon
Stood all at once her height upon the hill
And showed thy form and Seth's within the gate.
Thy face I could not see, but saw thy hands
Raised unto Seth, pleading or threatening,
And saw the face of Seth, with mortal fear
Disfeatured,—updrawn forehead, loosened jaw,
And staring eyes gone empty.—Then, as one
Who shakes the night-witch Lilith from his breast,
He came into his manhood, took thy hands
And drew them down, kissed thee, and spoke thee small
As one bespeaks a trance-awakened child,
Softly and small, until it knows itself
And its familiar things. So went ye hence.
And next day and the next Seth's eyes were on thee,
Frightened and vague; but Eve walked straight her ways
Not heeding him.

Eve.
Who heeds a broken staff?
—Nay, nay, that wrongs him! Broken not, but bent,
No more but bent a little.—A good son,
Tender and meek and patient with all men,
And most with me, child, most of all with me!
I blame not Seth. Let him look to it, then,
He blame me not. O would't were by with blame!
When has the oak been proud against the willow?
Or the light aspen shook her jeweled hands
In scorn of the removeless mountain pine?
To every soul his stature, girth, and grain,
Each sovereign to its end: the use is all.—
And yet, and yet—Look you, he thought me crazed!
So did the others, or were ripe to think.
Some day they would have risen and stoned me forth,
To be like those banned women of the rocks,
Who haunt the savage summits of our land,
Aye, you have seen them! They were human once,
Daughters and sisters, mothers and right wives;
And now they sit there, high up in the sun
On noon-steeped crags, naked but for their hair,—
She-satyrs laughing with their satyr mates:
I might have sat aloft with them by now,
And thought not strange to be there.

Pause.
Jubal.
Eve must know
Another thing, ere I have cleared my life.

Eve.
Clear thee!

Jubal.
I saw her speak with Abel too.

Eve.
Looking fearfully about.
Thou sunlight shelter us! Abel?

Jubal.
His ghost.

Eve.
The night we fled away?

Jubal.
Thou know'st 't is so.

Eve.
How know? Albeit I blench to hear it said,
Yet I do talk with Abel, my lost son,
By night and day, forever!

Jubal.
Day and night,
Life, death, the hid, the shown, are in thy knowledge.
In his simplicity hath Jubal spoke,
And now his heart is free.

Eve.
Not yet! Not yet!
Abel? Thine eyes saw Abel? His risen ghost?

Jubal.
The thousand eyeballs of this flesh, they saw,
What time my crowding spirits, wild and pale,
Made all my curdled blood from head to heel
Their tower of outlook.

Eve.
By the altar? Was it?

Jubal.
Yea, yea.

Eve.
Cain's altar?

Jubal.
Abel's altar mound;
Though both be eat to nothing with the years.

Eve.
Aye, aye, the eating years! At first I thought
I was mistook; 't would be the farther mound.
After these years they should let something grow there.

Jubal.
Though salt were sown not, nor the stones not flung,
No plant would spring within the awful vale
Where murder first was born.—I followed thee
Scarce hoping to come thence again alive,
And crouched apart while Eve did call on Abel;
Thrice did she cry on him.

Eve.
Ere I cried once
I knew 't was vain. He would not let me go.
Living and dead they failed me!

Pause.
Jubal.
Lamech too!

Eve.
Ah, for thy father Lamech, honor him!
Good father, and good husband to his wives!
They point him and he goes, what man would not?
Both fair, and one right good; Adah is good.
Loves not much farther outward than her door,
But that is well for women,—narrow love,
Narrow and deep.

Jubal.
Then 't is not well with Eve,
Who loves as wide as life, though deep as death.

Eve.
Once, once! No longer now, these years of years!
They would not have me so.—Great years of years
Since Eve in anguish called her wild heart in
And taught it what to do.—Yet, yet, thou sayest—
What said'st thou of me?

Jubal.
What thyself said first,
O mighty Eve! Thy soul is back returned
Through life's sad changes to that joy it was
When first it soared into the new-made light.

Eve.
Seemeth almost it is so.—Years of years!

Pause.
Jubal.
Hark! Heard'st thou?

Eve.
Women coming to the well.

Jubal.
As the voices approach.
Mother, beseech ye, be as if we slept!
For they will mock thee as before they did.

Eve.
I care not for their mocking.

Jubal.
Be besought!

Chorus of Water-Bearers.
Two groups, one of young, the other of old women, sing in alternation.


Old Women.
Like a hunter in his mountain walks the purpose of the Lord!

Young Women.
O, the prey alert and little, be its littleness its ward!

Old Women.
Like a linnet on the lime-twig sings the bow-string on the bow.

Young Women.
O, the serpent when he sitteth on his coils singeth so!

Chorus
(in unison).
Even though, even though!
Be it ours to flee and double, be it His to bring us low.
Blessed she who tastes his arrow and lies broken in the wood.
She has fled, she has fallen: it is good.
They fill their jars at the well.

First Woman.
What makes the witch-wife hither? Have ye heard?

Second Woman.
What makes they all, who sit on yonder stone
To wait Cain's coming?

Third Woman.
The old tale.
Some sons of jackals, loping sharp-set by,
Have sniffed her hut, and stopped unbid to meat;
Some neighbor hath put sheep's-bane in her well;
An idle whirlwind, rising up to play,
Has wantoned with her little patch of dates,
And left it bleeding.

Second Woman.
Has none spoke with her?

Fourth Woman.
Aye, to much purpose! She is sullen dumb,
Sun-crazed, or hath a spirit. 'T was my son
Who found her in the gates. “Cain!” would she cry,
And “Cain!” again. By what she mumbled else
She will be outlandish.

Fifth Woman.
By raiment too.
And then the starveling camel, did you mark?
Longer in limb and muzzle than our breed,
The pelt more reddish.

Fourth Woman.
Let us stir her up!

Some go toward Eve and Jubal. Abdera, a young girl, puts herself in their path.
Abdera.
Ye shall not mock them!

Fourth Woman.
What! Weaned since, swaddling-clout?

Second Woman.
The maid says well. They are all travel-spent.
They sit like souls foredone for weariness.

Fourth Woman.
They feign! They feign! Saw ye? The stripling peeps
And lowers beneath his arm!

Second Woman.
And let them feign.
Take up your jars, and take your singing up.

All except Abdera mount the path behind.
Fourth Woman.
Looking back.
Look yon! Look yon! The little harlotry
Stops for her hire.

Third Woman.
'T will be the lad that pays!

Chorus of Water-Bearers.
As they ascend the slope behind, and pass through the gate.
Till the coming up of day,
Till the cool night flee away,
Till the Hunter rises up to pursue,
O my sisters, we will laugh, we will play!
Though He wake and walk anear us,
He is mused, He will not hear us;
Though He wanders lone and late,
He will never hear how mate whispereth to darkling mate.
Yea, and though He hear, and though!
Will He judge us, even so?
He is mused, He walketh harmless. In the shadowy mountain hid
We will lure our lovers to us, even as our mothers did!
When He cometh forth at dawn, and His anger burns anew,
As our hunted mothers did, even so we will do:
Flee and crouch and feint and double, leap the snare or gnaw it through!

Eve.
Who art thou? Tell us.

Abdera.
Abdera.

Eve.
Whose daughter?

Abdera.
Till now the daughter of captivity,
A leaf blown in by tempest of those wars
Which crushed the stem I grew to.

Eve.
And from now?

Abdera.
Kneeling.
If thou art earthly and hast need of love,
Thy servant and thy daughter.—O receive me!

Pause.
Jubal.
Mother, she waits. Wilt thou not speak to her?
Her countenance, that was so bright, is fallen.

Eve draws Abdera near and bends over her.
Abdera.
To Eve.
Why weep'st thou?
Pause. To Jubal.
O why weeps she? At my words
She looked beyond, with thinking, sightless eyes,
As I have seen my father's gods to look
Out of the dreaming stone; and then—alas,
Tell me what 't is you weep for!

Eve.
Lifting her head.
Sweet my child,
My fair new daughter, 't is for thee I weep.

Abdera.
No cause. See, I am glad now; all is well.

Eve.
Therefore I weep, that we all three are glad,
And all is well, thrice well.
She draws Jubal to her, also. To Jubal.
What say you, boy?
Hearts change! Here is a stranger in thy place.
—There is a wondrous vine called Jealousy;
It springs between this pulse-beat and the next,
And hangs the roofs of heaven with bitterness.
Does Jubal feel it growing?

Jubal.
Nay,—I know not.

Eve.
To Abdera.
He knows not. Then, alas, we know too well!

Jubal.
Touching his heart.
Mother, the Vine! I felt it springing here
Even as thou spakest, and hanging as it were
The roofs of Heaven, but not with bitterness.

Eve.
There may be other seeds I know not of,
That spring as fast, and load their trellises
With leaves of light and lovely fruits between.

Abdera.
Some I have seen with fairy vans outspread
Sail high, and yet no wind, or good as none.
And some have hands and finger they will cling
To sheep or goat or ass, all one to them
So they be carried where they long to be.

Eve.
Aye, where they long to be! Winds of the world,
Blow as ye will and blow what seeds ye will
If this kind mingle in.

Jubal.
She wonders at us.
Speak to her.

Eve.
Wonder'st thou? Are we so strange?

Abdera.
I was brought young to Cain's fierce citadel.
And since, day after day, season by season,
Now stark alone and now in bands of trouble,
The hurt and hungry people gather in,
To crouch upon this stone. Some I have feared,
Yea, hated for the wickedness in them,
Being myself made wicked by that hate;
Some seemed to fade to nothing where they sat,
Scarce there at all, and hardly gone, forgotten;
Of some I asked in wonder, “Who are ye?
What countrymen, what errand, and what cheer?”
My heart not beating till the answer fell,
And long, long wildly beating to remember.—
To-day I came, and lo, nothing to wonder,
Nothing to question of! Two trees of life
Planted from always unto everlasting
By the still waters; and my quiet soul,
With outspread hands and upturned countenance
In the bright shadow, saying, “Glory, glory!”

Jubal.
Low.
One tree.

Abdera.
Low to Jubal.
Thy parable?

Jubal.
Indicating Eve, who sits in reverie.
She is the tree;
And I with thee stand singing in her shadow.

Eve.
Rousing.
What think the people of their master Cain?

Abdera.
That he is master; that he is lord and king.

Eve.
No more?

Abdera.
Some mutter darkly and apart.

Eve.
What should they mutter of?

Abdera.
Looking about as in fear.
That Cain is old;
That as he grows more weak he grows more cruel.

Jubal.
Cruel? To thee?

Abdera.
The storm that breaks the tower
Roots not the little hyssop from the chink.
Nor do I hold him cruel of his will,
But in his withered blood a poison works,
Distilling wrath and panic.—Long ago,
In his hot youth, upon some jealousy
He slew his brother. Then the angry gods
Set on his brow a sign to know him by;
And since, in hopeless visions of his bed,
Or when the priestesses rave round his car,
Gashing themselves, and to their frothèd mouths
Setting the adder's mouth, or when he lairs,
His madness on, with demons of the waste—
The patient gods, the unwithdrawing gods,
Dropwise and piecemeal wean his soul from him.

Eve.
Old? Madness? Withered? Girl, can'st thou not speak plain?
Mutter not thou, whate'er yon rebels do!
To Jubal.
Did she say “old”?

Jubal.
What has she said amiss?
—She shrinks with fear.

Eve.
Old!

Jubal.
Seth, though the later born,
Thou knowest, Seth too—

Eve.
Seth too? And what of him?
Yes, yes, all's clear. Seth truly! That is well.
Children as ye two be! To the dropped lamb
The yearling from the father of the flock
Stands not a hair apart in reverend time.—
And cruel, say they? He was never so!
Hasty and hot, a blood where rage would run
As swift as sun-fire through dry prairie grass,
But cruel—never that.—Thy shoulder, Jubal.
A faintness is come on me. 'Twill pass, 't is passing.
Old—old and cruel.
She rouses again.
Girl, girl! What else was't, then?
Weak? As he grows more weak? Why I have seen
The young oak shudder in his wrestling arms,
And its torn roots come groaning from the hill,
When for a sport he did but breathe himself.
—Ages of years!—Thrust from his gate like dogs!
Weak, weak, indeed, to be afeard of us.

Her head sinks on Jubal's shoulder; her eyes close. Abdera kisses the hem of Eve's garment, rises, and takes up her jar.
Abdera.
She set me in the garden of her love;
At first I grew, as ne'er by so sweet clime
A tree was told to prosper and put forth;
But at the last not so.—Sour were my fruits,
Apples of ignorance.

She turns to go.
Jubal.
Where wilt thou go?
Stay yet! I thought—O ye two spake such things!
I thought—and thou wilt leave us now again?

Abdera.
Let me not leave you! Whither should I go?
I know naught else.—I have been always here.

Jubal.
He draws Abdera to him.
O never leave us more!

Abdera.
Yielding to his embrace.
Fair, fair my brother.

Jubal.
—Know'st thou nor guessest nothing who she is?

Abdera.
She is the tree 'neath which we sing together,
Herself in all her boughs to Heaven singing.

Jubal.
She sings not to the Heavens, but to the earth;
Once hoarsely, like a look-out overwatched,
Now in a new voice, battle-songs and birth-songs.

Abdera.
When first I looked on her I seemed to sit
A child and sleepy in my father's tent;
The wandering prophet sang, and 'neath my lids
I saw great shapes rise out of elder time;
Beginning earth, with other beasts and birds;
Æonian forests where winged serpents flew;
Seasons not ours, and long since fallen gods.

Jubal.
She saw creation's morning; she will stay
To watch the everlasting twilight fall.—

Abdera.
Hush!—

Jubal.
Looking about.
None to hear.

Abdera.
Pointing in fear.
Look where above the sand
The hot light dances. Should it dance for naught?

Jubal.
Know ye more gods but One?

Abdera.
My fathers knew;
And sometimes I—Hush! Bow thee! They walk, they hear!

Jubal.
Looking upward, toward the citadel.
Not gods, but men, come from the eyrie town,
Slow down the mountain stair! One walks between,
And two that stead him upon either hand;
And some before with singing, and yet some
Behind, with spears and banners.

Abdera.
Whispers to Eve.
Cain, he comes!

All three rise and gaze upward. The procession descends. Cain, aged, and broken, seats himself in the throne-seat surrounded by his armed men, while Eve, veiled but for the eyes, stands supported by Jubal and

---

425

Abdera. The chief officer at Cain's side lifts his hand.
Chief Officer.
The king is come into his judgment seat—
If any in this presence have a cause,
The time is gracious, and the king gives ear.

Eve.
Gazing from Cain to one and another of his men.
Seek not to try me, who am overtried!
Is this the king, or sits one in his room?

Cain.
What says the woman?

Officer.
If thou be the king.

Cain.
What should be answered?

Officer.
Mock not thy servant, lord,
Nor thy great self.

Cain.
Mutters.
Still king, or not yet wakened
From dreaming such a matter.
To Eve.
Unveil thy face.
Uncover thee and speak.
Eve drops her veil. Cain stares with slow gathering terror, then rises.
Thou hag of hell,
Glare not upon me with those caverned eyes!
To his officers.
Whoever has done this, his life shall pay.
Do ye spread out your nets among the dead,
And toll them here out of the earth and air
To daunt me, and to shake me from myself?
To the priests who advance.
Try her if she be human! Speak the word!
Make the dread sign!

Eve.
Make not your sign on me!
For on your bloods and bodies ere the birth
Myself have made on you a mightier sign.
—Cain, Cain, dost thou not know me? Look again!

Cain, gazing at her stupefied, makes a sign to his men to leave him.
Cain.
As they linger.
Back to the city! Away! Go, every one!

They mount the steps, with backward looks. An aged warrior lingers. Jubal and Abdera, clinging together in awe and fear, slip away down the desert path behind.
Warrior.
By one who in suspicion has grown grey,
And all to shield and warn thee, lord, be warned.
Many and subtle are thine enemies.
In many shapes they hunt thee for thy soul.

Cain.
Leave us alone! Go, go! Alone, alone.
The old man mounts the steps. Cain, with averted head, mutters to Eve.
God knows I know thee not.

Eve.
Approaching nearer.
Cain, Cain, look up!
Grieve no more; pity my grief. Eve knows thou knowest.

He draws her to him, and sinks on the bench,—she at his feet, her head buried in his knees. Song above, distant.
Cain.
As the singing ceases.
The first that I remember of my life
Was such a place, such a still afternoon,
I sitting thus, thy bright head in my knees,
And such a bird above us as him yonder
Who dips and hushes, lifts and takes his note.
I know not what child's trespass I had done,
Nor why it drove the girl out of thy face,
Clutched at thy heart with panic, and in thine eyes
Set shuddering love.

Eve.
O my first-born, my child!
O herald star in the wilderness appearing,
After the nine-fold moon of dubious speech,
Proclaiming silence soon to fall in Heaven—
The everlasting silence that soon did fall,
When by me lay thy little frame of breathing,
And blind and weak thou foundest out the breast!

Cain.
There was a day when winter held the hills
And all the lower places looking sunward
Knew that the spring was near. Until that day
I had but walked in a boy's dream and dazzle,
And in soft darkness folded on herself
My soul had spun her blind and silken house.
It was my birthday, for at earliest dawn
You had crept to me in the outer tent,
Kissed me with tears and laughter, whispering low
That I was born, and that the world was there,
A gift you had imagined and made for me.
Now, as I climbed the morning hills, behold,
Those words were true: the world at last was there;
At last 't was mine, and I was born at last.
I walked, and on my shoulders and my reins
Strength rang like armor; I sat, and in my belly
Strength gnawed like a new vinegar; I ran
And strength was on me like superfluous wings,
Even the six wings of the cherubim,
Twice twain to cover me and twain to fly.

Eve.
O green tree! O the young man in the house!
A gold frontlet of pride, and a green cedar!

Pause.
Cain.
His voice changes.
I knew that you would come.

Eve.
Lo, I am here.

Cain.
And knew 't would be too late.

Eve.
In full good time.

Cain.
Look on me; look once. Is this crazed frame
The thing Eve bare in joy? Let us climb down
Unto the sheep-pools; I will sit apart,
And do thou lean thee out over the pool
And look and tell me if that face be hers
Who waited while yon silence fell in Heaven
And Cain came forth the doors.—Too late, too late!

Eve.
Late, late—but in fair time! Never too late.

Silence.
Cain.
They told me Eve was dead.

Eve.
Startled.
They told—alas,
Who told?

Cain.
Chance-comers, wanderers from the waste.

Eve.
And do chance-wandering tongues still sound this name?

Cain.
Here one and there one, never aught aright,
But every man his tale, after his heart.

Eve.
Even in the tent my people do me this.
Even in my face, almost! Yea, I have lain,
Bowed on thy father's breast, and heard them do it.
I feigned to sleep; I heard them. And look you, son,
Here is the worst. Their glozing tales once heard,
Once pored on through long watches of the night,
They rise before my soul like very truth,
As bright, as fair, as strange,—almost, almost!

Cain.
Darkly.
On Adam's breast? How long since?

Eve.
The road is far,
And hard to find. Also, the second moon,
One camel sickened, and his pining mate
Went laggard.—Son, what ails thee?

Cain.
He lives?

Eve.
Who lives?
—Aye, aye, he lives. Hast heard aught, child? He lives,
Surely thy father lives.

Cain.
And thou art here?

Eve.
But most for his sake.—Listen while I tell!
—Why do you harshly thrust my hands away,
And lift your clenched hands trembling to the sky
With wild and smothered words?

Cain.
Pushing her from him.
I know you not,
Unclasp my knees.—I thought you were yourself
Yours, therefore mine at last. It is not so.
His, his, the same as when he cursed me forth
And Eve stood stockish, never one plea made,
One wail set up, one gesture of farewell,
No more than from a stone!

Eve.
She was a stone;
As afterwards, long years, a frozen stone.
No seasons and no weather on the earth;
Sun, moon, and stars dead in a field of death;
And in her dead heart, nothing, nothing, nothing!
After long years, she wakened, knew herself,
Rose up to wring some profit from her days,
Conceived again, and once again brought forth;
Yea, saw the teeming race in circles kindle
Roaring to God, a flame of generation.
From out the tossing battle of that fire
Flashed seldom and again wild news of thee,
And one red instant, ere night drove between,
Thy form would stand gigantic in the glare,
Islanded huge among thine enemies,—
As when the ice-bear rears upon the floe
And swings her flailing paws against the pack,
Or when the sea-volcano from his loins
Shakes climbing cities.

Cain.
Better, better far
That Eve had never sought, nor Cain been found,
Than thus, being together, to be sundered
More than by ice-fields or the raving sea.

Eve.
O Cain, how sundered?—Look on me! Kiss my lips,
And feel it is not so.

Cain.
Repulsing her.
'T is not so then.
There is no gateway shut between our souls,
No watchers stationed, and no lifted sword
Flaming forever!

Eve.
Ere I fled to thee
I knelt in fear by Abel's altar-mound
And begged his leave to go. His spirit rose,
Or seemed to rise, and seemed to threaten me.
The same night on thy father's breast I bowed,
And spoke of this my journey. In his eyes,
If still they seemed to know me who I was,
Kindled none other knowledge.—Albeit I rose,
And fled away, and suffered much, and came,
Thy name among the nations my sole guide,
Desire of thee my strength and company.
—Be glad of me! O lovingly entreat me!
Make all my meanings good, till such a time
As these our wounds are healed. Then if, perchance,
Our hearts at ease, I something should unveil
My stranger will, my cloudier purposes—

Cain.
Yea, yea, I wondered what would lurk behind!
—Not for my sake, that were too mere a mother.
—Wills, purposes! Lo, am I taken in
Because your tongue veers off and skirts the quick?
Do I not hear the words you dare not speak
Thunder above your speech? Do not your eyes
Hover and flinch and crawl upon my brow,
Seeking, and shuddering off to turn again
In sick and deadly search?—Look then! 'T is here.
He pushes back the head-band, baring the sign.
It is not faded, though these hands have shed
Rivers of kindred blood to wash it off.
—'T was this you came for: bring your errand full.
Look and begone!
Eve, staring at the Sign, has fainted. Her head drops on Cain's shoulder. He tries to lift her head.
Pitiful God, not this!
She could not come after the endless years,
To go so soon.—Mother, thou wilt not deal
Thus much unkindness to an unkind son,
As leave him when harsh words were on his lips.
Of old, when in our rage we thrust thee out,
Thou wouldst return again, unreconciled
To harshness and to wrath. O do it now,
In pity!

Eve.
Waking.
Where am I?

Cain.
Thou living Dread,
Whose fountains yet flow mercy!

Eve.
What hath passed?—
A faintness overfell me. Often of late,
But never quite so deep, so heavy deep.
I am far come, child. Lead me to thy house.
Much must be said, but there is time for all.
Nothing in haste; nothing before its hour.

Cain.
Wait till I call my people.

Eve.
Rising.
I am strong.
We will go up together.—I have dreamed
Of this our going-in, and spite of all
'T is very like my dream, yea, very like.—
Thy people cursed me, stoned and thrust me down;
But now I walk under thy mighty shadow.—
She pauses in their ascent, and looks out over the desert.
Where will my children be?

Cain.
Thy children, mother?

Eve.
Jubal, my travel-mate, a stripling boy
But great of heart; and Abdera, thy maid.

Cain.
Mine?

Eve.
So: thou hast forgot or never knew.
Leave them; no matter where. They cannot stray.
The sun will shepherd them.

Cain.
The sun is set.

Eve.
The stars, then, pouring influence.—Lead me on.
Art thou faint, also? Two can make a strength.

They begin to mount the steps. Above, Azrael, the Death Angel, appears, slowly descending, as from the city. With his left hand he clasps to his breast the hilt of a long sword; in his right he holds a stalk of flowering asphodel. Eve, seeing him, shrinks back, drawing Cain with her. Azrael, gazing at the pair, lifts the asphodel and descends to the left by a desert path, disappearing behind the Seat of Supplication. Eve gazes at the apparition in terrified silence, points at it as it disappears, then hides her head in Cain's breast.
Cain.
What ails thee, mother? Why dost thou point and peer
And shrink away—?

Eve.
Whispers.
Saw'st nothing?

Cain.
Where?

Eve.
Pointing.
Yonder.
And there, and yonder.

Cain.
Nothing.

Eve.
Look again!

Eve stands with face averted, while Cain peers over where the path behind the Seat of Supplication descends hidden to the plain.
Cain.
Two by the sheep-wells walking.

Eve.
Two?

Cain.
Thine eyes!
Thy lips, mother!

Eve.
How many did ye say?

Cain.
Twain, boy and girl.

Eve.
Lord, Lord!

Cain.
Mother, thy face—?

Eve.
And this my son saw nothing!

Cain.
What should I see?

Eve.
Nothing.—I praise Him. Long years yet for thee,—
Fair years, till then.—Nothing. I praise Him!

Cain.
Thou hast endured too much. If in her house
And throne of rule that sovereign mind be shaken,
Yet night and sleep and the new-risen day—

Eve.
Nor night nor day can help me who have seen
The angel of the Lord, the summoner.
There, there he stood, and lifted slowly up
His pallid flower, and without speech said, “Come!”
As once before in Adam's tent he did,
And Eve, beholding, rose and fled away,
To look on thee ere darkness. Son, thou strength,
Spread thy strong hands o'er this rebellious head,
That our two strengths yet for a little while
May hold against Jehovah! My fierce son,
Thou burning flame from childhood, look on me
And say that thou wilt do it, though the skies
Open to warn us back! Thy promise, Cain!

Cain.
What would ye of me, that these opening skies
And that up-startled Wrath—?

Eve.
I had a son
Who questioned his own wrath, the skies thereof,
His own heart's wrathful skies, what they were prone to,
And seeing where his will went, followed it.
I came to find that son. And shall I find him
But as the rest, whose marrow in their bones
Curdles to hear Eve's whisper? Nay, thou Cain,
Whose soul is as a torch blown back for speed,
'T is thou shalt light me on that fearful way
That I must go, and that I haste to go
Ere darkness falls forever.

Cain.
Though Cain were still
That flame which once he was, how should he light thee,
Not knowing of thy way nor of thine errand?
Fearful? And be it so. My goings-out
And comings-in be fearful. Tell me plain.

Eve.
Plain will I tell thee, son.—There was a place—
There was a place—and it will still be there,
For nightly I am told so—there is a place
That once—

Cain.
Mother!

Eve.
That once I knew—

Cain.
O woman!

Eve.
Thou sayest.—A place that Eve the woman knew,
Once, far off, long ago, when she was young—
With him—

Cain.
Hush!

Eve.
Young with him—

Cain.
Wilt thou be still?

Eve.
Adam the man—

Cain.
Woe on thee!

Eve.
Him the man
And her the woman, in their ignorance—
And still it waits there, waits for her to come,
Now she has gathered up a little knowledge.—
Be patient, child.—See, I am very patient.
I tell thee quietly I would go thither;
Ere darkness falls, Eve must go back again.
She hath an errand.

Cain.
Will thy lips cease now,
Ere they bring doomsday down?

Eve.
Hast ever—listen—
Hast ever, in thy desert wanderings,
Seen, or had news? Seen mayhap afar off—?

Cain.
Once, once!

Eve.
Far off? Or near to?

Cain.
Near enough.

Eve.
Ye stood and saw?

Cain.
Yea, verily.

Eve.
How near?

Cain.
Flesh goes not nearer than this flesh went near,
Yet 't was far off.

Eve.
How far?

Cain.
Far as a hawk
Up-wind can keep his wings set.

Eve.
Very near!
—Saw'st thou—?

Cain.
O mother, hush on what I saw!
Hush, for thy life's sake, for thy reason's sake.
—Night falls. Lean on me; let me lead thee home.

Eve.
Home thou must lead me, to that wondrous home
That was and is and shall be till I come.
—Turn not away so!—Touching this same journey,
I humbly do beseech thee, look thereon,
And be well pleased to lend thy royal favor,
Thereto the needed beasts and muniments
Proportioned to the distance and the time;
This only being besought, that my twain children,
Jubal and her, go up with me along
Into the gaze and silence of the Lord,
And that our starting be by dawn to-morrow.—
Unless, by favor, thy decreeing lips
Should breathe “To-night” and do it. Might it be?
'T is but an hour to moonrise, and the moon
Is at her full, or nearly. Say'st “To-night?”
Aye, aye, thy silence cries I have a son!
—To-night! That is right royal.

Cain.
Neither to-night,
Nor yet to-morrow, nor the day to come,
Nor any day till Cain, Eve's bloody son,
Gone brain-sick as his dam—Call to him then
And haply he will hear thee where he raves
Above his moaning nation! But for now—

Eve.
Now, even now. So, I beseech no more.
But lay on thee my still and high command.

Cain.
I will not hear thee; cannot, dare not hear!

Eve.
Thou wilt not hear me? Yea, but thou wilt hear!
Thy ears be not thy ears. I moulded them.
Thy life is not thy life. I gave it thee,
And do require it back. Thy beating heart
Beats not unto itself, but unto me,
Whose voice did tell it when to beat and how.
Thy deeds are not thy deeds. Ye conned them here,
Under this breast, where lay great store of deeds
Undone, for thee to choose from.
She uncovers the Sign on his forehead.
'T is not thy head
Weareth this Sign. 'T is my most cruel head,
Whose cruel hand, whose swift and bloody hand
Smote in its rage my own fair man-child down.
Not thy hand, Cain, not thine; but my dark hand;
And my dark forehead wears the sign thereof,
As now I take it on me.

She kisses him on the Sign.
Cain.
With bowed head.
Peace, at last.
After these struggles, peace.

Eve.
At dawn, O Cain?

Cain.
Whenever and wherever.

Eve.
My great son!

Cain and Eve mount toward the gate, and pass through, out of sight. Jubal and Abdera appear from the valley, behind the Seat of Supplication, and mount toward the city. Under the gate Jubal stops and looks over the desert.
Jubal.
O Abdera, the strangeness of the world.

Abdera.
Not strange.—Strange, strange before; no longer so.

Jubal.
Look where the star leans flaming from his throne
And viewless worlds are suppliant in his porches.

They pass through the gate and disappear, climbing upward.