University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Early morning, a week later than Act I. The sun not yet risen, but red rays shooting upwards from the eastern horizon into a cloudless and sultry sky. The plain of Shinar, from which the first massive storeys of the Tower arise in slowly narrowing spirals. Gangs of male bondsmen ascending and descending, carrying slime and bricks. Groups of women mixing slime.
Aran, Sidon, Eber, Korah, Peleg. Crowd of Freemen.
MALE BONDSMEN.
(chanting).
Faster, faster, ever faster,
Moves our weary-circling labour,
Whilst the close and stern taskmaster
Flogs us on with thong and sabre.
Resting but refreshens sorrow,
Slumber keeps our bondage endless;
Time forgets us, and to-morrow,
Like to-day, beholds us friendless.
Faster—Faster!

CHORUS OF WOMEN.
In anguish and wailing
Our babes see the light,
Drenched with tears unavailing
As cries in the night.
In our wombs we but cherish
A victim, a slave;
Born to suffer, then perish,
And sleep in the grave.

MALE SLAVES
(chanting).
Sweating, straining, panting, bleeding,
Upwards, storey piled on storey,
Climb we still, for lords unheeding
Aught save ease, and gain, and glory.
We are both but dust and leaven;
They, as we, are sad and mortal;
Yet if we did win them Heaven,
They would leave us at the portal,
Bleeding, panting!

CHORUS OF WOMEN.
Pile the bricks, mix the mortar.
The blinder we plod,
Life will seem to us shorter,
Less pitiless, God!
The sooner the levin
Of death will descend,
And the harshness of Heaven
And Earth have an end!

ARAN.
With what a fervent and continuous will
They seem to work, this morn, as though the fire
Of our great undertaking did infect
Even their sluggish and inferior veins.
Such is the virtue of high enterprise!
It drags along with it, as to the goal,
The wheels that bear it thither. Oh, the dupes!
Did ye hear their song? They fain would have us deem
They count upon no harvest for their toils,
And are but sickles blunted in our hands
By act of reaping. But I know them well.
The feeble ever still dissimulate,
And with a cunning feint creep underneath
The blundering thrust of strength. 'Tis their redress;
And spite their tearful threnodies be sure
They in their hearts right hopeful rebels are,
Laying no brick of this stupendous Tower,
But that they think to build our sepulchre,
And their redemption. We must baffle them.
As we to Heaven, so unto us they stand,
And 'twere a sorry issue of our work,
To dethrone God, were we ourselves dethroned.

KORAH.
There spake the tyrant and the slave at once.
What! thou wouldst hack thy gyves off, but to clamp
Their teeth upon another: strain at power,
Only to keep thy fellows powerless,
And from the clutch of the gangmaster's hand
Wrench the keen whip that seams and scores thy flesh,
To flog thy brother with! Oh, villanous!
If this but be the purport of our Tower,
Its vaunted aims thus egotistical,
May swift the rampant lightning smite its top,
And following thunder shake its selfish base,
And bury us beneath it!

ARAN.
Hark to him!
This is the folly we can hear at home,
Babbled by lips of women. There are men
Of such a sickly temper, faith! I trow
That Nature's hand shook when she moulded them,
And from that moment their affections took
Impress unstable and ambiguous.
Why, look you, man! if you have craft to look,
Some one must serve; and to emancipate
All equally, would only render thralls
Of all alike. If we should mend our lot,
Theirs may be mended too; withal, there must
'Twixt us and them be due discrepancy.
The very secret of the sky, we seek
By our assault to learn, is how to rule,
And keep weak spirits in subjection;
And though, when once triumphant, we might be
More merciful than it, our mercy ne'er
Would plan our own effectual overthrow.
Thank Heaven for this at least, it hath not made
All men mere maunderers.

KORAH.
No, nor all men blind.
Thou bidst me look; 'tis thou that canst not see.
The self-same ferment thou dost boast, and which
Excites this insurrection in thy breast,
Pervades the heart of all things. 'Tis the barm
Which saves the stuff of life from turning sad,
Heavy, and wholly indigestible.
Thou art the dreamer, dost thou think to keep
The solace of this yeasty discontent
From the bare hearths of slowly-trudging toil?
'Tis there 'tis most at home; not 'neath the roof
Of purple pomp and roomy luxury:
And couldst thou drive it from the proud man's gate,
'Twould refuge take in hovels of the poor.
But ne'er from either will't be banishëd.
'Tis the one guest that's entertained by all,
The uncomfortable comfort of our lives,
Though welcome ne'er, yet never sent away,
To-morrow's empty balance 'gainst to-day.
It is our common brotherhood that breeds
Common dissatisfaction with our lot;
And common brotherhood should bid us seek
A common remedy, to heal us all.
Ay, build your Tower, and pluck ye down the skies
From their unpitying proud pre-eminence;
But, having purged the Heavens of their pride
Keep not the foul distemper for the Earth!
Oh! I believe the time will come when men
Will be as free and equal as the waves,
That seem to jostle but that never jar,
Which climb and sink together, interfuse,
Grow smooth with meeting, interchange their shapes,
And in each other merge identity.
Blest be the aspirations of the Tower,
Hastening the advent of that day! If not,
A thousand curses on it!

SIDON.
Well said, both.
But well said is not wisdom. Sense and sound
But rarely travel coupled. Life, large life,
Cannot be wrapped in phrases; they are too small.
And when of life ye would neat parcels make,
Just as ye stop one end with reasons, it
Runs out on t'other side. As for yon Tower,
'Tis a tall toy, made for the Gods to play with.
For Gods are many or none. Beyond your God,
Either there dwells another, godlier,
Or, like ourselves, they wrangle and dispute,
And half their blows descend upon our heads;
Whilst from their harmony we suffer more
Even than from their discords. They agree,
Their strifes suspended, to make sport of us,
Treating us much as boys treat cockroaches:
They prick us just to see what we will do.
Shrink, and they prick us more, to know what next.
But case ourselves in mailed indifference,
They fancy us inanimate or dead,
And leave us to our numbness. There's the cure!
'Tis patience makes us level with the Gods,
And baffles their malignity. In vain
The thong is plied on him who will not shrink,
But bites his heart through rather than concede
One cry to cheer the scourger. That is a Tower,
Which needs no building, and is ne'er o'erthrown.

PELEG.
And this is called divine philosophy,
That thinks to outwit God! Patience is well,
But not because man's burdens may not be
Shifted or lightened ever, but that the hand
Which doth impose them is a hand all-wise,
The back that bears them, foolish. Sacrifice,
Prayer, and first fruits, can still propitiate
The Being whom insurrection will not move.
Man's lot is hard, ye say? How do ye know,
It were not harder yet, did ye not proffer
Frankincense and the fragrant steam of flesh,
Entrails and caul of calves, rams without stain,
She-goats, and morn and evening holocaust?
With these we keep the thunder in the skies,
The ocean in its bed, which else would mount,
And roll a final deluge o'er the Earth.
Pile high the Tower; but when its top is crowned,
To Heaven its whorls ascending dedicate,
And Heaven perchance will condescend to lift
Some feathers off your fardels.

EBER.
Worthy priest,
Forgive me if thy words seem little worth.
For whilst among the bowels of the slain
Thou hast been pottering, or devoutly bent
Over the blood of writhing turtle-doves,
I through the silent watches of the night
Have scanned the slow procession of the stars,
In even courses moving; caught the rhythm
Of the melodious planets as they chime,
Each after each, over the measured sky.
And I have marked that in that upper world
There is continuous concord, order firm,
And a most noble discipline. The clouds
Are fitful, seeing they are born of earth;
But beyond our capricious envelope
Abides a steady sphere, serene of will,
And governed by a sovran certainty.
I chide no living heart that strives and soars,
And it may be this pile magnificent
Will yield to Aran all he hopes from it,
And unto those who build it. But, for me,
I watch with joy its scaling spirals rise,
Since by its growing summit I am ta'en
Nearer and nearer to the orbs that are
The alphabet of knowledge, whence I seek
To shape a language that shall speak to all
Of what they need to learn: how to conform
To method that ne'er wavers, and provide
'Gainst swift vicissitudes no human power
Can e'er avert, but still to be foreseen:
So that no second deluge find us bare
Of arks of shelter. Stars will teach us this,
And not libations. Thine is the one void task;
For nought is wholly impotent save prayer.

ARAN.
Right bravely uttered! Faith! I did not think
That an astrologer could be so wise.
Thou hast learned somewhat from thy star-gazing,
And art henceforward welcome to a post
Upon our topmost balcony, to watch
The womanish mutations of the moon.
There, perched 'twixt earth and sky, thou chance mayst catch
Some whispers of the jealous firmament,
And pass them on to us; playing the part
Of daring eavesdropper, under the roof of Heaven!
Thou canst not mar our work, and so mightst aid it.
But not with with Peleg's tactics do I hold,
Nor yet with Sidon's; for in scales of sense,
I find an even balance 'tween the Priest
And the Philosopher, in whom there is
A common emptiness. How say ye, friends?

THE CROWD.
We say with Aran. Long live Aran! long
May solid counsel, kin to his, prevail!

ARAN.
Even so I thought. 'Twere folly, cowardice,
Still with oblations to appease the skies,
And buy off threatening tyranny with bribes,
When grasping grows with giving. 'Twere as apt,
To quench a fire with fuel. But no less
Doth patience seem to me inapposite.
We are not all philosophers; we are men.

THE CROWD.
True, we are men, and not philosophers!
That should make Sidon wince.

ARAN.
And we, being men,
Men, and not worms more than philosophers,
Will not be trodden on by men or Gods.
As for poor Korah's unripe phantasies,
I put it to you, friends! Will ye consent
That slave and free shall ever be confused,
Or that the menial myriads ye behold
Swarming about that goodly scaffolding,
Shall with you share dominion and delight?
Why, next the steer would ask to be unyoked,
And lambs cry “Hold!” when ye would clip their fleece;
The very earth would chide the lordly share,
And fagots claim exemption from the fire;
Children would break the rod, and,—crowning freak!—
Women with men assert equality.

THE CROWD.
Good, good! There's no philosophy can stand
'Gainst logic such as that!

ARAN.
Then we are agreed.
'Tis in the Tower that our salvation hides;
And what we claim from Heaven is comely life,
Comely and pleasant; mastery over Fate,
The government of rain and wind and drouth,
Harvests abounding, honey, and wine, and oil;
Fat flocks, and herds unvisited by pest,
No fever, ache, nor ague, but an Earth
Fixed and serene as Eber's vaunted spheres,
Long jocund days, and nights in rapture steeped,
Submissive wives, children as dense as bloom,
And novel store of luscious concubines.
We ask no more; but these are what we ask.

THE CROWD.
Nought beyond these. And if we them obtain,
Aran's blest name shall through the ages live!

ARAN.
Then let us urge them faster! Each, my friends,
Each to his post, and expedite the hour
When the usurping Deity shall hear
Our thunder at His gates, and His high throne
Fall with a clash to the abyss of Hell!

CHORUS OF WOMEN.
(chanting).