 | Stephania |  |
67
ACT III.
C'est moi qui te rends sêrieuse; enlaçons-nous!
Scene.—The same hall of the Old Palace, next morning. Gerbert stands by the door of the Emperor's bed-chamber, to the right. He knocks, listens for a while, then drops his hands. An expression of withered agony settles on his face.Gerbert
The Emperor sleeps though Rome is in revolt:
He gives no sign. Thrice have I summoned him,
And thrice a woman's voice hath made excuse.
I did not think to visit him again,
To stoop to exhortation, but his throne
Is tottering, and I cannot see him fall.
I cannot see him compassed by a crowd
Of rebels, yet, my God! I can no more
Go forth and speak for him. A dizzy fear
Is come upon me, and within my frame
I feel strange preparations for decay—
A sickness worse than sickness, as the prophet,
68
To show his people's anguish, suffers more
Than when the destined city is become
The image of his plight.
I stand in time
At that most tragic moment when the change
Of offices begins, when he who poured
His bounty must stretch forth his hand for alms,
When he who guided must be led. I thought
Otho would take the change so graciously,
Foster as I had fostered him, recall
The way I humoured him in restive moods,
Contract the habit of my patience, break
His purpose softly to me. Is it age,
I wonder, very age that severs us?
My youth is in the future—there we met,
There we made happiness; but now he hugs
The present merely, I remain by him
A shrunk, old man.
God, if he vacillate
The city will be lost! Again I hear
Soft laughter from the room—a wanton's laugh—
O degradation! Yet it hurts me less
That he should perish 'mid such infamies
As the old Roman Emperors made their boast,
Whom men still count as idols and in secret
Still spread the fame of, than to see him swayed
By one who would invest him with the cowl,
69
Stoops to with adoration when He stoops.
(More confidently)
But if I wrong him! It may be he arms,
And will come forth a soldier, capable
Among his soldiers. Alexander thus
Was quick in love and war.
(Suddenly catching sight of Romuald's letter)
I cannot doubt
There hath been wisdom in my policy;
For here is the monk's letter torn across,
And here are fallen roses. Both old men,
Both pitted in resolve to dominate
The boy we love—while Romuald tempts his soul
To great renunciation, I have set
Simply a pleasure by him, and am dumb.
(Enter Otho and Stephania. The Emperor advances with uncertain step; he grasps Stephania's hand, from time to time gazing back at her with an expression of intense worship)
Otho
To think the dear, unpardonable crime
Hath been accomplished, that you are possessed,
And such new hopes and possibilities
Have sprung to birth! What, did you think I slept,
And count yourself forsaken? But for you
I culled the odours of a thousand flowers,
As in enchanted passion I pursued
The honey-bird that draws men to such sweets
As lie in aromatic forests far
70
In service, prompted to my task by all
The mystical alacrity of love.
You are not richly dressed, not gems enough.
(Otho draws Stephania to the foot of the crucifix, and decks her with jewels and ornaments)
Oh, how delicious are these emeralds,
This amber, and this gold. They were to mix
With dead men's bones, Saint Justin's reliquary
Was to be spangled thus. Could God intend
Another destination for His gems
Than this, and this?
(Decking her throat and wrists)
But for the dull, sweet hair
A diadem is lacking. Roses—nay,
But you shall be my empress. Do you start?
You have no apprehension of my love,
My restless adoration. All the world
I would make subject to you. If I journey
Now to the East, it will be to return
Laden with spices that you have not smelt,
With wonders that you have not dreamed, with dyes
That will enhance your beauty. Deck your robes,
And I myself will fetch you my own crown
For trial till we have these amethysts
Pressed close into a circle for your brow.
(While Otho is decking Stephania, Gerbert stands as if petrified, but angrily presses up to him as he turns from the altar)
71
(To Otho)
Come, in Christ's name, come forth. If Rome be lost—
[Exit Otho
(To Stephania)
Woman, what have you done?
Stephania
I have defrauded
Your foe and mine.
Gerbert
But Otho—think of him!
What have you done? The lovely, limpid eyes
Are as black velvet, and the tremulous,
Bright lips are stiff with fever.
Stephania
He is ill.
Gerbert
How—ill, and in your care? You said you had
Strange knowledge—
Stephania
Of malignant, baleful herbs,
And of their transmutations; but this boy
I find so far upon his road to death
That nothing can arrest him; Italy
Hath laid her fatal hands on him: the utmost
That I can do is to forbid his flight
To Romuald, and secure your great revenge.
Gerbert
What hope have I, what enemy, by whom
Can I be injured if he perish, if
The yellow autumn creep into his leaves?
Stephania
Your face is grey.
Gerbert
Have pity on him, think
How you can heal him.
Stephania
But it scarce becomes
A mistress to be tedious in discharge
Of the unhonoured functions of a nurse.
72
O woman, do not stand so patiently
Coiling your hair! The town is full of treason,
The Emperor is in peril, may be slain:
I have no care for man, no care for God,
Except he walk in splendour. Are you just
His leman, that you listen with those wide,
Unsoftened eyes; and would you let him die,
Die at your feet, and give no shout for help?
(Snatching her robe)
Stephania, you must bring him to himself;
I am grown old, irresolute.
Stephania
You lay
So many duties on me; yesternight
I was to vanquish Cæsar that old way
Delilah took with Samson. I have shorn
His locks, and for the Roman Philistine
I fear my hero is in sorry trim.
(Restraining Gerbert who, with a passionate gesture, seeks to reach the inner room)
You think to rule him; you are eloquent.
Old man, it is not thus that youth is ruled;
These roses, and this arm about his neck
To pull the thorns back from his wavy hair,
Will stablish a dominion you will stand
Helpless before and execrate. He comes.
(Re-enter Otho)
Gerbert
Otho!—Ah, God, his weary, roving eyes!—
The city is in tumult. Do not smile
73
Armed and yet gracious. Come, your captains wait!
I cannot help you, for to-day my brain
Lies in my skull as an impediment
To speech and effort (Clasping his brow in horror at the Emperor's heedlessness)
Otho!
(The Emperor breaks from Gerbert's detention, and springs towards Stephania, as if he suddenly recognised her)
Otho
What, my love,
Parted one moment from you, must religion
Already come betwixt us? See, a crown!
We will have truth now, utter truth, the wisdom
That is life's sunken gold. If I am Cæsar—
And now I know I am; as in a glory
I watch the multitudes that forge me arms,
The seas that make smooth pavement for my ships,
My laden dromedaries on the plains
Of sand—the wonder of it springs from this
Strange lady that I worship. Since my title
Is stablished, since I sit on Charlemagne's throne,
I need not trouble what my subjects say,
What cause they have against me, what revolt
They nourish in their blood; they are no kindred
Of mine, but strangers, enemies I sought
To love against all nature: yet this day
I will not let them spoil, this yellow day
Of sun, and knowledge of my happiness;
For, Gerbert, I have found my race. The light
74
They tell, within a virgin's tower, and made
Disclosure of the mysteries she felt
Persuading her to joy: even so, ah so,
This splendent sun reveals to me my birth,
That I am Greek—I who have never known
Until to-day what sweet immunities
Such origin accords, what joy, what freedom,
That blended are serenitude. The large,
Harmonious earth receives me, and the cloister
Gapes like an empty grave upon the rim
Of shifting fascination. Joyous forms
Rejoice I should behold them as they sweep
Along in dances, coloured lustily,
With succulent, round arms that flash with action,
When steps are lifted as the cymbals meet,
And pleasure is conferred.
Stephania
You see his state,
And I your handmaid, subject to your will,
Have brought this thing to pass.
Otho
When I awoke,
I seemed to lie within a sunny field;
My naked limbs were thrown upon the sod
To catch the sun, while everywhere around
Swept cornlands in a glitter, harvest-meadows
That stood unshorn.
Gerbert
His touch is burning hot;
He does not know me.
75
As I turned I saw
A goddess, hidden by her crinkled hair,
And prostrate in her garment: then I slept
In stillness that was full of life, and woke
Once more to hear her in another room,
That I could reach by springing. It is strange!
I tell you what I saw, I am not mad;
I know you want me in your restlessness
To speak to fancied rebels, and I know
Stephania is my mistress. Listen, Gerbert,
I see so many things, and yet not once
Have I beheld Crescentius, and no line
Of Romuald's face has mingled with the curves
Of land or of soft bodies that enchant.
So all is well.
(He sinks down on the cushions of a seat; Stephania stands behind and above him. She addresses Gerbert)
Stephania
I was Crescentius' wife.
I would not have him (Pointing to Otho)
haunted by my dead.
Not unavenged shall he again inflict
Dishonour on my husband. Is it well?
Gerbert
(To Otho)
Ay, well that Rome should find you thus, who are
Co-equal in my dignity?
Stephania
(To Gerbert)
You stand
Superior? At my foot one victim lies
Prostrate, the other in a living mesh
Strives, he can never extricate.
76
(To Stephania)
How sad
And grave you look! Come, lift me in your arms,
My love; I hate this sadness. Get away,
Old man, and set in awe the restive Church.
Your dreams are full of childishness; I need
No dreams now I enjoy. Let us alone;
We are so happy. Men have never set
An hour-glass in a room where there is mirth,
Music, and revelling. Your glances seem
So full of time, of summons, reprimand,
Reproach, dissuasion.
(Leaning back on Stephania's bosom)
This I think must be
The Angel swearing time should be no more.
O Love,—but over me such wonders sweep,
Almost hallucination.
Gerbert
It was thought
A while ago that soon I should be blind:
You prayed for me—Oh, when God answers prayer
It is to punish. Would you had been damned
The way you chose!
Stephania
(Looking up)
What is there to regret?
The boy dies happy.
Gerbert
Is he then to die
Dishonoured on your bosom? What of that—
The church, the future! I remain a Pope;
Within me there are perfect powers of rule:
God helping me. . . . Why should God give me help?
77
Toss me as infamous from hand to hand.
(To Otho)
'Tis pity that you were not made a monk
To live in lewdness, safe from sound of war.
I thought once we should cleanse the monasteries,
I thought—but now I must go forth and watch
Your ungirt soldiers open to the foe.
(Moving away)
Otho
(Springing after him)
Gerbert, come back, come back. O my beloved,
What is this evil thing? (Detaining him)
How cold you stand
Across the sun, like stone!
Gerbert
(Stooping down—in a hurried whisper)
Bid her depart.
I knew the words so well—anathema—
That day the great archheretic was stripped.
(Softly stroking Otho)
Curse her, breathe on her, breathe!
Stephania
I shall remain,
The execrated harlot.
Otho
Peace!—O shame,
O misery! You brave him in my sight.
Do you not see that he is dying? Go!
Frown not thus stubbornly.
Gerbert
(With firmer voice)
Breathe on her, breathe!
The wanton!
Stephania
I have never blenched from truth,
Truth cannot curse me.
Otho
(To Stephania)
Would you trouble him,
78
Begone!
Stephania
But if you summon me again
I will return.
(To Gerbert)
Old Pope, the prostitute
Is mistress of the palace. You grow dumb,
Are cut from argument. In penitence,
By prayer and such poor signs as you can make,
You shall restore me to my sovereignty.
Gerbert
Breathe on her, breathe!
(Exit Stephania)
Otho
O Gerbert, I am faint,
And you misjudge her. Lay me on the couch.
What is her sin? I dare not be alone
Without her. Are you come as Romuald came
To tell me I am damned—I had forgotten;
And if you think me dying I had liefer
Lie on her bosom than against your head.
Why did you bid her go, when there is nothing
Of interest to impart to me? I know
Your story bit by bit; while all is new
She says to me, all new and wonderful,
With little speech in it, a mystery
That soothes me as it opens. Call her back!
Gerbert
At least come forth in armour.
Otho
It is vain.
More visions crowd upon me; let me be.
Gerbert
And let the people press into your palace,
79
Otho
So, as I hanged Crescentius. Do you dream
That anything will goad me any more?
But I am thirsty, and there is no drink
Left in my room. You cannot wait on me,
And I am sick to death.
(Caressingly)
Will you not call
Stephania? Do not vex me with report
Of these rebellions; go and hush the noise.
Now call her to me!—Tell her how I hate
Her people, hate the multitude of slaves!
And I had led their legions far beyond
The habitable lands, the furrowed main,
The hot trench of the desert; Lombardy
And Greece had been mere subject provinces.
I find corruption in my very dreams,
They crumble at a touch: I have foregone
All honour and all hope. I cannot reach
The East, I cannot reach the Holy Tomb;
It were a drunken insolence to think
Again of that great enterprise. Last night
I seemed to lie within the Soldan's tent,
Silken and chequered, half in cramoisie,
And half in green and gold; the balsam-hedge
Was fragrant round me, and I knew at heart
I was a cursèd Paynim. . . . Is she here?
(In an almost extinct voice)
Go, summon her—you stumble at her name,
80
To the sweet service of the devil. Haste,
Fetch me some help.
Gerbert
God, I must start alone,
And face them and make signs. I will appease
Their treason in some manner, and return
To comfort you. O Otho, my beloved . . . .
(Otho falls prone on a couch. Gerbert goes out, and his voice is heard in a hollow cry)
Stephania, come!
(She re-enters with a straw-laced wine-bottle from which she gives Otho drink)
Stephania
My lord, what illness clouds
The northern eagle's eyes? Doth Italy
Consume you with her fever?
Otho
Fatal love,
Your face has laid me waste, you are so lovely,
So insupportable. Your kiss!—your kiss
Hurts as once conscience hurt me, and your eyes
Draw glory forth of me and leave but shame,
As in the summer every stream is dry
In this south country. O be pitiful,
If you conceive your loveliness!
Stephania
You ask
Of me compassion?
Otho
As I ask my Greece
To pity me, born northern, as I pray
Your cruel sun to spare me, as I turn
81
That never will come down from their high seat,
As once I called for mercy on my God.
Stephania
Hush, hush!—You have possessed me.
Otho
Never speak
Such blasphemy again. I can possess
Nothing I love: the empire that I wield
Reaches my hand from others, and by others
In turn will be enjoyed when I am dead.
Stephania, O bright jewel, I am fading;
Our ways have almost parted: all my powers
Are growing older 'neath my yellow hair
Than if my head were grey. You must not smile;
There are strange terrors in me, strange revolts
Of youth against itself, and avenues,
That end in darkness of unstable depth,
I come on when I think.
Stephania
Yet at a word
From Gerbert you dismissed me with a curse;
You had been very humble at my feet,
As now, an hour before; but when he came
I was a thing to taunt, to set at nought,
And put away. Recall the memories
I come from, what a past is in my blood:
I have endured base handling, but from you
I will demand humiliation such
As kings take from their prostrate enemies,
Ere you again shall move me to receive
82
Otho
But I am ill; you must not speak to me
Of love or passion.
Bid the Romans come!
Do not block up the doors, I need the air.
O Italy, ensieged about my heart,
I yield and make no terms! There is a noise,
A pressure in the streets. Is Gerbert safe?
It may be I imperilled him.
Stephania
(Looking out)
He comes
As one that hath been baulked; derisively
The people eye him as he moves, his mien
Hath nothing of success.
Otho
He is not hurt?
Stephania
Nay, nay; he holds himself erect as if
With power to imprecate. Before he come,
I tell you, you must choose betwixt us twain:
Either dismiss him, or a second time
Look in my eyes forbiddingly. I scarce
Conceive a Pope is necessary now,
Seeing that you are damned—you told me that,
And then I bade you take the pleasant way
Of going to your doom; in my compassion
I offered you my beauty to caress.
This Pope intruded; he has spoken words
A woman may not hear; he is my rival,
A bleached, old hypocrite!
(She unveils her dazzling breast with a scornful laugh)
83
Beloved!
Stephania
That name
You use to him; and since he has your heart
I will not linger.
Otho
(Rising with a cry)
In your eyes is love
At last—oh, if you love me I shall live!
These jealous flames are hot, unlike the glances
That flowed as radiance out of ice or facet
Of diamond when you took me to yourself.
My Empress!
Stephania
Will you never any more
Give Gerbert place?
Otho
Nay, let him find us now
Thus royal, thus enclasped. We will receive him,
And tell him of our pleasure as two kings.
You shall be crowned; I need no diadem
Who have been blessed with oil. Mount, mount my throne,
And sit above me queenly!
(In a scared voice, after he has yielded to her all his state, and thrown himself at her feet)
As I kneel,
I see you motionless 'mid wakeful gems
That nod and comment; yet it cannot be
That you are Charlemagne's self, for where his beard
Fell down as cobweb is a rounded chin—
How firm in contour!—where the injured dust
Of eyelids marred his face, beam heavenly eyes
In which are juvenescence and delight.
84
Of spectral marble, bound with iron clamps;
I never looked on anything so cold,
So of the grave, and kingdom of the dead;
Its back and flanks were toneless, and its steps
For pressure of still feet—its charnel-steps,
Old, loosening, full of atoms. Many a night
I have gone down them one by one, until
I lost them in the softness of a gulf,
And strove to shudder. O Stephania, sit
Thus firm above me, living, eloquent
To every sense, lest that dead Emperor rise
Behind you, looming like a misty pile.
I took from him this carcanet; from you
I snatch your chain—a pledge that I shall live
Lord of the realm you govern: his was pain
And yours is pleasure.
(He takes from her the golden amulet that a while before he had given her from the midst of the dedicated treasure)
Stephania
But an absolute
Supremacy?
Otho
Beside you is a wreath
Of twisted grape and rose; it shall not fade
Till it be token of my joyfulness.
(Crowning himself with leaves and flowers)
Love, here is wine; drink, drink! I did not dream
You could be jealous. Put away this state!
85
Dull months around the palace? I will live
To see you witness the great spectacles
In the arena; you shall wear my crown;
But all its angry cusps and notches must
Be blunted by fresh leaves; and we will listen
To music—there is spirit in its sounds
That makes all free within: we will not dance
As courtiers do, but spring extravagant
As Bacchanals, the impulse unallayed
By any circumspection; we will laugh
For hours with open lips. Your hands are cold;
Are you not happy yet? If that grim Pope—
Ah, ah, behold him, sanctimonious, slow,
And wry of face! Now you shall see me choose;
Embrace me, cling about me.
(Re-enter Gerbert)
Excellent!
O Gerbert, you look grave. So conjurors look
When one who has admired their arts laughs out,
For he has learnt the method of their skill,
Can mix the magic and enchant the world.
I thought I wanted God; I was not happy,
Not for a single day; they never are
Who think of God. You bade me be like Him,
But I have learned that He has missed the mark,
And is most wretched, as a governor
Stemmed by His people's hate, and full of plans,
Striving for others. I will be myself,
86
How tired you look! That comes of taking vows;
But when one has a paramour, one breathes
Her sweetness as one breathes the Maytide air
Without misgiving, confident of June
Beyond, and more, more summer.
(Seizing Stephania's hand, and with her descending the steps of the throne)
We defy
Your curses! Oh, I think that Paradise
Was entered underneath the flaming sword,
When those God punished put away the thought
Of pleasing Him, and in each other's arms
Found they were lapped in pleasure.
(To Stephania)
He is dull;
Your beauty has transfixed him.
(During this speech Gerbert stands with folded arms following Otho's movements, as one under operation follows the doctor's hand)
Stephania
Guiltiness
Keeps him at pause, my lord. Look on him, look!
Is he not withered of his own malign
And rancorous nature?
(To Gerbert)
You would thrust me forth;
But I will keep my sovereign place until
You have declared my crimes. Your accusation!
We will be patient. Have I ever wronged
My country, have I ever wronged your friend?
87
Give me my mantle.
(She sweeps the coronation mantle round her)
He collects his thoughts.
Why this is tedious: all his answers rise
And fall upon his brain and disappear,
As waves that heave and die and are not heard.
My gracious Emperor, must we not conclude
That I am guiltless since he has no speech.
At such an age paralysis will come
To men, like ice, close up their faculties,
Thicken their apprehension. He has drunk
But once of my elixir, and one draught
Hath not perchance sufficient energy
To thaw the sullen freezing of disease;
And yet I must interrogate.
(To Gerbert)
If now
You can deny, if you dare give a sign,
Or make a movement of denial 'gainst
The questions that I put, I will retire.
(To Otho)
Let me have justice.
(To Gerbert)
Were you slow to mark
My beauty, were you slow to counsel me
To use it with a woman's guilefulness?
You give no signal of dissent, and therefore
I may affirm unquestioned—narrative
Is easy where none dares to contradict.
You eagerly besought me by all arts
To disenchant the Emperor of the cowl;
Yea, hinted it were better I should be
88
Than that his youth should pass in sterile prayers.
You owned in Romuald an arch-enemy
We must combine to crush. I played my part;
It was well conned, not new, and I attempted
In nothing to deceive. He took the harlot,
He laughed at Romuald. Is it for this triumph
That I must suffer?
Otho
(Who has risen with a blaze of passion in his eyes)
She shall slowly burn,
Burn in the fire, if she have injured you.
(To Stephania)
Stand off!
Stephania
He winked at my ascendancy,
He thought all influence lawful to exert
Against the hated Romuald and his God.
We have each hated well the cenobite,
And I have overcome him.
Otho
Strategy!
(Gazing full at Stephania)
Ah, I forget, it is your natural part—
Lies, Lies! But, Gerbert, if this come from you,
There is a word that I can brand you with,
A novel signature, for you are fresh
To infamy: if, when I call you traitor,
You bow and tremble, if you dare not stand
Erect, and throw the charge back with your eyes,
If all you did to me was done in love,
I will be gentle. Do not let my passion
89
There is a dreamy dulness in your face
As you too were past feeling. I can bear
So much if I have power to punish you,
If I can make you suffer. Do not stoop,
And stare upon the ground.
Stephania
He seeks the parchment
You tore to pieces.
Otho
Look! he takes it up,
And kisses it, and tries to make it whole.
It is all lying plain before me now,
The letters are in order.
(He bends low down over the scroll; Gerbert extends his hand at a distance over his head, and goes out noiselessly)
But they burn
As letters branded on a miscreant's cheek,
And they are written larger than before,
They change and move so that they have no form;
I cannot read them— (Looking up)
Is he gone away?—
And then the figures move along so fast,
And falter from their purpose. All I know
I think he taught me. And that dreary book
On Reason that he wrote to clear my brain!
How odd it seems to think I am his dupe,
That he was bent on damning me the while
He wrote such precepts.
(To Stephania)
Do you stand and watch
90
Fling back the doors, and let the rebels press,
Press on me dying: there should be spectators
To such a scene as this. Do as I bid;
You have been wont to execute the will
Of any soldier. Leave me to myself.
(Exit Stephania to the loggia, from which she looks out on the city. Otho sinks exhausted on the couch.)
How like a cell it is now she is gone,
And all the hills lie quiet! Mountain air,
Or else one could not breathe so easily;
And Romuald in his hut is saying prayers:
I watch the pigeons tumble in the sun,
The gold and silver feathers—Oh, this sleep!
(He drops into a child-like slumber)
Stephania
(Re-entering from the loggia)
Not yet! Bavaria beats my people back;
Their triumph is delayed; (Sitting down by Otho)
but here is death
Already at the gates. How beautiful
The full arch of these eyelids, the white forehead
So low and lustrous; but the mouth is swoln
Even now a little, just one purple spot.
Otho
(Half-waking)
Is it not almost noontide? But I feel
It is—Rome's full meridian.
Stephania
Do you ask?
Otho
They say in Lapland there is one long night
Of winter, with no check. Close up the blinds!
91
And dances on my brain. It is not sleep
To lie and watch the darkness rolling in:
I pass on to far shores, I am a stranger,
And all the sounds I hear are indistinct.
(While Otho is lying with closed eyes, Stephania rises; she stretches out her arms wearily, and disarranges the folds of her tunic. Stooping to put them straight, she looks at herself in Otho's shield, that still lies against the column where he threw it; then she turns from her reflection with disgust)
Stephania
O God, how tedious is the harlot's part,
The mimic vanity, the mimic rage,
The waiting upon appetite! I loathe
My gems, my unguents, all the fragrant lights
I scatter on my hair. To dress for him,
To garnish infamy, to give one's face
The vermeil of a flower! I have such need
Of rest, to lay the cerecloth over him!
A lethargy falls on me like a hell
Pressed inward—ah, I have such need of sleep,
The change, the peace!
What, do the roses drop
Their leaves down on him? Then his hour is come!
I may unmask.
(The roses from the garland about her crown shed themselves; she smiles, she shakes them down, then slowly strips herself of ear-rings, amulets, and golden girdle.
92
How fair and white the linen
They wrap about a corpse! I clad myself
Thus secretly in grave-clothes every time
That I put on the harlot's ornaments,
The perfumes, and far-striking gems. At last
I can put by my marks of infamy,
All—save these branded cheeks, and give him sight
Of his denuded bedfellow. O death,
How dear are thy impoverishments, how dear
Thy nakedness and thy simplicity!
(She stands rigidly by Otho)
No need now of a censer; in my will
The sorcery, the charm.
Otho
Let be! Let be!
I feel that I am dying; every fear
Or trouble that has ever filled my mind
Is in my body, in my very blood,
Is massed upon my heart: it must be death.
Stephania
It is.
Otho
(Unclosing his eyes)
Stephania—God, how terrible!
Stephania
To die?
Otho
No, no! How terrible your face,
That glitters white, ironic, and but now
Was marvellously beautiful. Your voice
Is just what I remember it, all else
About you altered: you are unadorned.
93
Against my brow and neck before I slept.
Where are they gone? Your robe of flattened folds
Perplexes while it seems to threaten me,
As clothing in a dream. I am beset
By what is unfamiliar. Speak!
Stephania
You fancied
A woman had so little steadfastness
She could not mourn the husband of her youth,
So little chastity that she could give
His veritable pleasures unto you
Who falsely murdered him before her eyes,
And cast his honour to her ravishers.
She gave you bliss, but such as does not found
A perpetuity of life, a fence
Against destruction, that in essence is
Nothing, that passes on the blast of death
Into a void.
Otho
I cannot understand
What you have been nor what I am become.
There is such crash of falling in my brain,
The world, myself, and all I built on you
Are broken into dust.
Stephania
I have been pleasure;
I am as surely death. Last night you breathed
The subtle poison of slow-growing herbs
That lingers in its tacit balefulness
As if it loved to kill. You have few hours
94
Of me and by me, who deceived you not,
In whom you were deceived.
Otho
So that I told you
The secret I have left before God's sight
In silence—how my poignant, wanton love
Sought help from the entireness that it trusted
To find in yours: and all the while your heart
Was stopped against me, and you understood
Nothing I suffered, but with smiles prepared
My punishment, my grave.
Stephania
I never spoke
The least untruth to you, and at your prayer
Alone I have embraced you with a passion
Retributive, conjuring.
Otho
From your eyes
I catch the frenzy of an awful gulf
That draws me down more than the streaming sense
Of night, the vast constriction that I know
Will bring me to the tomb. There is no love,
Not any in your face—there never was—
Nor in your kisses. I deceived myself
Each time I clasped your hand; you break but faith
With my delusion. O the bitterness,
Beyond the pains of death, the pains of fire!
You seemed to give that soon you might exact;
So different from Romuald, who denounced
The moment that he doomed, whose condemnation
95
My will into its fold, whose prophecy
Remains amid the shadows of to-day
The only thing that lives—except a hope
That, if I bear with joy the uttermost
And everlasting justice of my God,
I sometime may behold upon His face
The love with which His saint looked after me
Who knew how I was judged. If it be true
I have some hours of breath, I yet may travel
To my great lover, and declare to him
My willingness to die and be condemned
As my divinest end.
My God, my God,
I must be cut away from Thee, except
Thy justice come to claim my wickedness
As portion of its rule, except Thy mercy
Stoop down to give me punishment as alms.
Stephania
Have you forgotten whom you leave behind,
And to what fate? The Pope is like to live
For many months.
Otho
Dead, dead, but he is dead,
And out of mind for ever, dead and false.
Put him within the whitened sepulchre,
Write how he tore away my soul from truth,
Keeping back half he had to give of God—
Unpardonable sin! With perfect hatred
96
And for a journey.
Stephania
Is there any goal,
Or any welcome for you anywhere
But on my bosom?
Otho
If it must be so— (He falls back despairingly)
Stephania
Were it not better you should grow a child
Beneath my hand, and own that you are lost,
That you are lost to honour, without God,
Or fame, or increase of prosperity?
Otho
And yet we soon shall part; you break the fetters,
Giving me death.
I could be critical
Of these grey brows, so wan you look, so old;
There is so much in you of yesterday,
And nothing of forever. And this paint—
How coarse and foolish! I have been beguiled,
Mocked as great Ajax. Somewhere in the sun
At last he turned and offered sacrifice.
Stephania
(Breaking from the Emperor)
I cannot hurt him, who have made myself
A harlot to secure his infamy,
To stamp him for perdition: I am wronged.
(She walks to the crucifix, dashes it to the earth, and stands on the base of the altar)
O Voice, O Vision, smoky Covenant
In the horror of great darkness, I appeal
97
Of Thine—the rainbow arches, and the sea
Held chafing in Thy curb, by night and day,
And by the still recurrence of the stars—
I make complaint. If retribution fail,
Then must Thy fair works perish, for Thou art
Of no immortal mould.
(She comes down from the altar and advances towards Otho)
I have been slow
The way of nature; as the gathering storm
I have been patient.
(To Otho)
Is it not too late
To think of penitence, to think of lying
Royal and vanquished at the feet of God?
Are you not wrecked and damned? For you the devils,
For you—not even the wanton I became,
But womankind forbidden, and the thirst,
Hunger and thirst of lust unquenchable.
This is your portion, and no dreamy hell.
Wake, know yourself!
Otho
It is too late for dreams:
I have no hope to travel toward the feast,
The Bridegroom's voice; I do not knock or plead;
I shall have no possession, but desire
That will grow old and weary not. The joy
Is in the summons, not the destiny;
God calls me, not the devils, to His fire;
98
There will be no more pain.
(Raising himself)
If I had strength,
Since God has willed it, to abandon Rome,
And forth into the country! . . . Those blue flowers
At bottom of the hillside, cool and blue,
And the great, rugged hand to sprinkle me
With ashes—I can see it to the end.
(He bows and prays)
Stephania
How he has passed beyond me! I retain
No terror for him while these hateful clothes
Make havoc of my beauty. I have lost,
O fool, my virtue, my reality.
(She tears the shroud from her breast and pulls down her hair from the flat folds of her white hood)
Otho
(Quietly uncovering his face)
No more renunciation, failure, task
Impossible, or deep, withdrawn delight
In all the future—nothing more to dread;
For, if it may not be I shall attain,
I can set forth.
(He lifts himself firmly from the couch)
Stephania
You do not say farewell.
Otho
I had forgotten you. How lone you stand
And beautiful. Have you untressed your hair
To shear it for some sacrifice? A pagan,
A temptress! O Stephania, on your bosom
My life has gone to ruins in its youth:
99
But you have had your hour. I will not leave you
With any poor reproach upon my lips
That have received your bounty, any rancour
In looks that drained the golden light of yours,
And now must perish darkling: all my senses
Reach after you with homage, and though dim
And shattered by your poison find in loss
Of you their endless death. To say farewell
Is once again to strain you in my arms,
To kiss you with one kiss till I am mad. . . .
(As he comes to her, he draws himself back suddenly with a loud cry)
My God, have mercy and deliver me!
(He covers his eyes, trembling; with a fearful effort he passes out by the door; his footfall is heard, and the low, harsh noise of a sob. Then the steps grow distant)
Stephania
Rome's hills rise sevenfold as deadly plagues
To compass those who trample and pollute,
Who dream they can possess her. He is gone,
Great Consul, and once more I am thy wife.
Myself hath cleansed myself: so whole my love
That I can turn the wicked into hell
As unperturbed as God. My chastity
Hath never broken ice through all the lust
And fervour of temptation. . . . He has reached
The gates ere now; my Rome is rid of him,
100
Crescentius, I put on thy marriage-ring.
We will be sculptured on a monument
Together, side by side, and hand in hand,
As any mortal pair that had their part
Of joy and sorrow and then sank in death—
The wife, the husband! Though thou has not tomb,
My Consul, though thine ashes are dispersed
As dust about the Roman streets, to-night
I will sit down before Saint-Angelo,
Where I have sat so long beside thy corpse,
And while the earth goes her accustomed way,
And while the sun, far on his solemn round,
Is casting the same shadows on the roofs,
The same shade on the dial, bow my heart
In awe of the great triumph I have won
For Italy, my womanhood, and thee.
| Stephania | |