 | The World At Auction |  |
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ACT II.
The Triclinium in the house of Didius: an hour later. Marcia sits at the end of one of the couches, her face hidden in her hands, as if she were praying. Behind her stands a table covered with the remains of a rich feast. Manlia & Clara stand together by a window, looking out: a few Slaves move about anxiously.CLARA.
Do not look out! Mother, it sickens me.
MANLIA
(skinning a Persian apple.)
Be patient, child!
CLARA.
My father can go forth
And buy the world as simply as he buys
A slave-girl at the market.
MANLIA.
And he will.
When did he disappoint you?
CLARA.
He will wrangle.
To think those men are wrangling on the walls,
And he may lose the moment! O this gold,
To-day discovered royal! Romulus
Founded his city, and how many heroes
Have given their lives to win it, sudden tyrants
Have ravished it; and yet it shall be ours
By simple purchase,
MANLIA.
With no bloodshed, no
Long, wasting siege or misery: at last
The merchant's honest traffic with his wares,
Yielding them up to him who has most gold,
Is proved to be of service to the State.
Therefore let every man secure such wealth
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If he desire a lovely slave, the price
Is known to him; but if he have ambition
Of boundless honour, like your noble father,
He must not weary of amassing fortune
Till he have in reserve, as now, a sum
That, though the world be rated dear or cheap,
Can buy the world.
CLARA.
If I were only sure
That riches are all-powerful!
MANLIA.
But they are:
In youth, in age, and for the life to come
In our posterity; the single comfort
In sickness or disgrace; and in the hour
Of death how often I have seen the features
Of dying men rekindle as they pictured
The passing glory of their funerals,
And splendour of a timeless sepulchre.
CLARA.
Oh then, I will look forth.
Beyond your range
I see my father's figure down below,
And messengers are passing quick between
The bidders and the camp. Now he is checked,
He hesitates—they urge him, he recoils.
MANLIA.
Impossible! You cannot see so far.
CLARA.
This is the moment for rich eloquence,
The speech outstripping possibility.
Could I be there!
Why, I would say the cities they had sacked,
The temples they had plundered, the fair tombs
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My word could open to them, endless treasure
That I would bid them bathe in as a bath,
If they would straightway lift me on their shields,
Proclaiming me their Emperor. Faugh, this pause!
So children suffer, seeing fathers mar
The deeds they could accomplish perfectly
As Pylades his dance: but they are young,
Mere girls and boys, and dotards rule the world.
MANLIA.
Nay, do not be so violent. When he comes,
This wonderful, kind father with his gift . . .
CLARA.
I promise I will kiss the messenger
Who brings the news.
(Enter Narcissus.)
MARCIA.
Say that Eclectus lives.
Narcissus, speak!
NARCISSUS.
I cannot tell.
CLARA.
Be brief!
NARCISSUS.
Lady, Sulpicianus bids so high . . .
CLARA.
Back, back! Go to my father; say, except
He give me my desire I kill myself;
Say that this stake is wagered for my love,
Therefore there is no limit to the risks
That he must straight encounter. Harry him!
(Exit Narcissus.)
He would not dare to slink back to his home,
Like a defeated athlete from the games.
Mother, he dare not.
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All that is, is well.
There must be painful moments in each life:
When they descend on others' lives our duty
Is to avert our eyes, when on our own,
It is our duty to lay by the cup,
As healthy children say the draught has cured
They were too wise to drink. And should your father
Fail to succeed we will congratulate
Sulpicianus on his victory,
And win high place about his court. Success
Is always to be worshipped.
CLARA.
Flatterer
To others' happy fortune! I would give
My envy, my disparagement: but mine,
My own success, I would make boast of it
Till men should gather round me as a god.
I often say to Pylades the Bacchus
He worships so devoutly was a youth,
A boisterous youngster with thick hair that curled,
Like his, across the fillet, and a colour
To drive men mad, who tripped down to the towns
Drunken, and singing of his great success.
If we will take the highways with our voices,
We all may be divinities.
(Enter Eclectus.)
MARCIA.
My husband,
Safe, safe!
ECLECTUS
(embracing her.)
And there are tears across these eyes!
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To slay our good old Emperor.
I lingered
Late at the baths, when, how I cannot tell,
A rumour seemed to enter through the walls
Ghostlike that Pertinax was foully slain;
We all became aware, yet heard and spoke
As if the dreadful Pan affrighted us
Beyond control of courage. In the streets
A cry, a market cry, went shrieking up,
With trumpet-blast, that we and Rome herself
Were offered at the soldiers' camp for sale.
What shame! And Laetus—down the forum went
His long procession under lifted shields,
And high above a single pike transfixed
The head that I revere. Sulpicianus . . .
MARCIA.
We know.
ECLECTUS.
But where is Didius?
MARCIA.
Underneath
The walled Prætorian Camp.
ECLECTUS.
You mean?
CLARA.
We mean
My father will outbid Sulpicianus,
And soon will be your Emperor.
MANLIA.
What is good
Is no less good when paid for; and the rule
Of such a man as Didius will confirm
The peace and the prosperity of Rome.
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Gold has its justice, rites, and honour, all
Conformable to reason, and my husband
Observes them in his dealing.
(Enter Pylades.)
CLARA.
Pylades!
(As he salutes he reels.)
You drunken boy!
PYLADES.
But, lady, this is sleep's
Own drunkenness; I cannot help myself.
Long veils, so hot and delicate, are drawn
Across my eyes, and then I nearly fall.
I had no sleep last night.
CLARA.
Sit down and feed;
You must be hungry.
PYLADES.
No, except for sleep.
MARCIA.
There is a rug; lie down.
(He salutes her & throws himself on a Babylonian carpet at her feet.)
PYLADES.
I came to dance,
But pray to be forgiven a little while;
I am so weary.
MANLIA.
Rest!
CLARA.
You know the news
That Pertinax is murdered?
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And his head
Is tossing on a pike for all to see,
Up hill, down street.
ECLECTUS.
You can rejoice?
PYLADES.
I must.
CLARA.
You have good reason, you!
PYLADES.
For he was grim;
He never gave a feast, and the whole city
Was kept so ordered and so still, no music
Outside the doors, no laughter in the night;
Dull streets and order—every one at home
Ready to die of virtue.
ECLECTUS.
It is well
You have no duty to the State.
PYLADES.
Not I!
The State! I only know our guards have done
A most illustrious deed.
ECLECTUS.
Your patron, boy!
PYLADES.
He never was my patron. Willingly
He would have sold me, had I been a slave,
With all the chariots and the golden plate,
The robes of silk, the pages, dwarfs, and girls
Of my true patron Commodus. I long
To have the good times back again—of crime,
Full feasts and luxury; the palace mine,
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And company. We artists almost starved,
Within my house I had but twenty slaves,
My fortune fell to half; the men I care for,
While Pertinax was reigning, crept away
To sport among the gods.
CLARA.
The women?
PYLADES.
Oh,
Their place is with the artists, and they lost
Their beauties one by one.
(He shivers, and Clara throws a leopard-skin over him.)
Thanks; you have wrapped me
Divinely as Nausicaa.
MANLIA.
Ah, you name
The daughter of a king. Good augury!
For, listen, Pylades, within an hour
She will be regal: the Prætorian Guards
Have put the Empire up for sale; my husband
Is bidding high.
PYLADES.
(yawning)
O pardon me, dear lady!
What, the rich Didius borne aloft on shields
And carried to the Regia! Momus, io!
I wish I were not sleepy.
CLARA.
Do not jest.
Think, Pylades, a palace all your own,
Myself your Empress, think!
PYLADES.
Nay, I will dream,
Dream the good luck. Delicious!
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He can sleep . . .
Crossed feet, shut mouth!
MANLIA.
The boy is beautiful;
No mask he wears is equal to his face.
We soon shall be his patrons, and our favour
Will reinstate him. Shame to have him flogged!
I think we should be grateful and behave
Indulgently to those who can amuse;
They give us pastime, let them have their whims,
At least when they are famed and beautiful.
Yet, Juno! it was shocking indiscretion
To flout the Prætor, though it makes me smile.
ECLECTUS.
These dancers are the mortal pest of Rome:
They sap its honour and its ancient strength
Like fever from the plains. Our populace
Applauds the din of stamping to a flute,
The wanton jumpings of a lunatic,
Who takes all sorts of colours like a fish,
And in one body keeps so many souls
He cannot claim his own. This recreant boy,
Who has no loyalty, to think he sways
The blood of thousands, drawing to his side
Our men and women of supremest rank
Whenever his white tunic and white shoes
Are seen along the street! Tho' Pertinax
Was resolute to have him taught his place,
It was in vain; you flatter and console
And crown the rods with bay.
MANLIA.
Fie, you are strict!
Cornelius comes.
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CORNELIUS.
My Empress and my wife!
Pardon, my Clara, I must join my hopes
To my deep homage, or in yielding it
My breath would fail. The glory does not distance
Or drive me to despair, for all my worship
Is of your beauty, and as woman you
Would wish that worship constant. Long ago
I gave you Venus' apple.
CLARA.
Pylades
Is sleeping—hush!
(falling back into her mother's arms.)
O mother, it is sweet,
This life you gave me . . . now I breathe the world.
What ecstasy!
Cornelius, greet my father,
Go to him quickly, say his daughter lives
To serve him as a god.
CORNELIUS.
What gratitude!
Lady, your lover, your affianced husband,
Opening the sluices of this glory, looks
For recompense, a lover's recompense.
CLARA.
Have you then bought the world for me? I know
A crowd of suitors press round every throne;
But leave me for a little while in peace.
Kings do not think of those that clasp their feet;
They think of the great stretches of their rule,
How far their sentence travels. Let me be!
Cornelius, you chafe yme!
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Gently, child.
A youth of noble birth.
CORNELIUS.
And birth alone
Can save your majesty from ridicule . . .
I wooed you for your beauty, 'tis your beauty
Keeps me a suitor: if we wed, my race
Ennobles you. An old, patrician house,
You cannot bid for that.
CLARA.
Mad arrogance!
Birth—the tradition of an energy
The world has washed out ruthless as the print
Of horseman on the sand! What, do you boast?
Some scion of Olympus? But my father
Creates me Empress, as Jove's self created
A goddess on the instant. I am his,
At his disposal: he will hesitate
Long 'mid my kingly suitors.
CORNELIUS.
You are rash.
Your father took another tone; he knows
Intruders must be prudent: as his son
I bore these tidings; but I hesitate,
Finding you guardian of a pantomime . . .
Meet office for the lady I have sought
To rule my household, to maintain my honour!
Between us just this slave, whose precious sleep
(slightly kicking Pylades.)
I do not fear to break! Ho, there, Eclectus!
Have you no manners? You were chamberlain,
If my young memory serve, to Pertinax.
Conduct me to the Regia.
(turning toward Clara & Pylades.)
Magical!
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So deeply he is drugged. Are these your spells?
Love-philtres for a dancer, fie! My Empress,
My sometime bride, farewell.
(Exeunt Cornelius and Eclectus.)
CLARA.
He couples names
How far asunder! Empress, and a wife!
But the great name sails to me as a ship
Laden with spices. To unpack the sweets,
Oh how, before old age? At last my pleasure,
Mine, mine, my will to carry through the world.
First I will wake this lad. What flush of sunrise
Will light his cheek illumined by my joy.
How often in the theatre he awakes
A woman, turning amorous to her god!
But no, not yet! I will bend over him
As full Augusta. Mother, in an hour
We shall be summoned to the Regia.
Quick, help me to array! O Pylades!
(Exeunt Clara and Manlia.)
NARCISSUS.
Now she will claim her minion; he is doomed . . .
And such a dancer, with a body firm
And supple as an athlete's. Have you seen
How on the instant he can check himself,
As if my art were his, and yet each gesture
Can plead beyond the power of oratory;
For he has learnt his skill from Heracles,
And Maia's son, and Pollux?
MARCIA.
Oh, to save him!
NARCISSUS.
An amorous prayer—by winning him yourself?
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He is my dearest friend, I tell you, Marcia,
I'll slay him sleeping.
MARCIA.
And this thirst for blood
I taught you when I prayed you, on my knees,
With your own hands to murder Commodus.
NARCISSUS.
Why did you pray? Because chance gave you sight
Of your own doom inscribed upon a leaf
By the mad tyrant who for years had proved
The marvel of your patience? Did you ask
My help to save your life? It was my dream.
In joy I put forth every muscle's tact
Neatly to end the wretch. . . . And all that while
I wrought to save Eclectus who was vowed
With you to death; it was for him alone
You slew the Emperor, using me as tool.
Well, hirelings and assassins must be paid!
How handsome you are looking—I could say
Almost as handsome as the famous night
You took me by the shoulders, whispered close,
Thus . . . Do not shudder!
MARCIA
(repelling him.)
Come, my brave Narcissus,
You raised me up from bondage into life;
You sole, not Pylades. I have no terror
In looking at the deed; I kiss your hands,
I take the murder as my own, some day
Shall suffer for it: when we least remember
We find that fate forgets not.
NARCISSUS.
I no less
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Although you flaunt now as Eclectus' wife.
MARCIA.
Narcissus, there is wrestling of a sort
You are not trained in, when strong spirits throw
Unworthy combatants. You offered me
Your services if ever I should need
This wrist of iron; and, if I claimed your strength,
My claim was your reward. Go forth a man,
A victor with the worthless, glorious wreath,
My gratitude.
NARCISSUS.
O Marcia, how you rule,
How inwardly you change me from a brute,
Even as my training fits me for the games.
There is no woman like you, Amazon!
You set me in the mood that fills my heart
When the whole Stadium shouts.
But lay your wreath
Upon my brow, touching with lips that crown.
You condescend! Farewell. Save Pylades.
(Exit Narcissus.)
MARCIA.
The will of Didia Clara must be thwarted,
This slumber gently broken. Pylades,
Look up, awake!
PYLADES.
A dull Endymion
To such a golden priestess of the light!
For I have slept a century and dreamed
Of a great palace throbbing in the sun.
Ah, I remember I was half-asleep,
I scarcely understood. But has our Crœsus
Purchased the Empire?
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Manlia and her daughter
Are busy sorting out imperial clothes.
PYLADES.
Or what they think imperial. Venus check
Her chariot with its incense and perfumes—
Paint the new beauty slowly! You are here;
You waken me, we are alone, together,
Your thoughts are with me, Domina.
MARCIA.
Fair boy,
For I would save you.
PYLADES.
How? And from what harm?
I am no longer sick, no more unhappy,
Save that you do not love me, whom I love
More than my feet the music of the reeds,
More than my blood applause. Why should you give
Eclectus all your love?
MARCIA.
I do not, child.
I love those Christians rescued from the mines
By just a word to Commodus; I love,
Ah, almost any face where I can set
A smile on the dark features. You are puzzled?
And yet the gods for many thousand years
Have loved by blessing: it is so I love.
PYLADES.
Then you speak falsely. Love is but a wound
To suffer or inflict and nothing more.
You may give benefits or take them, that
Is traffic for senility; the young
Will not be sated so: but you are talking
As Marcia could not, as a Nazarene.
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A Christian.
It is idle, Pylades,
To tell you of our mysteries: your feet
Are rhythmic only to the pulse of life
That Earth herself has prompted, to the passions
She gave to men and they have reared as gods.
PYLADES.
I am the dancer to Olympus. Cease!
You would not have me break the harmony
That is my law; for dancers must have calm,
Unclouded thoughts of all things. As for me,
When once the motion of the music stirs
My questionless response, I have no care
For anything but beauty: all men do
And feel and suffer is unblameable
In that large, beating sway.
MARCIA.
Beloved of Rome,
You who are wit and grace and playfulness,
The glory of the Roman theatre, waking
Its tears, its sighs, you who are all the gods
And goddesses in one, unknit your brows!
You think I scorn your art; but in its name
I make appeal, beseeching you to keep
In simple accord with those harmonies
That lead you know not whither. Oh, believe,
I see as in a crystal how you lie
Entangled, a mirmillo in a net,
I see you helpless in a woman's toils,
PYLADES.
Then you see true.
MARCIA.
For the young Empress loves
Your beauty to distraction; she will claim
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Will rule your leisure, as a Gorgon freeze
Your inborn gifts, and draw you from the stage
Where life for you is shrined. By discipline,
Frugality that is so hard in youth,
You hold your body under absolute
And gracious empire: why? That you may give
With force and suppleness and soft discretion
The images that haunt you. If you yield
To Didia Clara, as to Messalina
The lovely Mnester yielded his dear art,
Then you are hopeless, then you are undone.
PYLADES.
The lovely Mnester! Why these fatal thoughts?
Our Empress has some honour.
MARCIA.
You have loved,
You have been loved again, how many times!
Those bonds were light, were broken by a sigh,
A fit of weeping or a cruel word:
This bond would be of death.
PYLADES.
How can it matter
What any woman feels? I do not swerve.
I never loved but once, and that is now,
And that is always. Though I am a Greek,
And Hermes often makes our lips his own,
I cannot tell my love. I hear the songs
Of nightingales in spring, the breathless hymns
Of those who tread the vats in autumn-time,
And still I find no language, but the dance
That almost is myself, mute music, one,
The sages tell me, with the eloquence
Pythagoras enjoyed among the stars
That silent met his eyes. I cannot speak
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As sweet as Ariadne and as clear
In majesty as Artemis.
MARCIA.
Hush, peace!
You rend my heart, you open up my shame.
I was, what you must never be, the slave
Of an imperial lust: and, oh, the death
That smothered my young heart, until I learned
To love of my own nature that new way
You cannot understand!
PYLADES.
O dæmons, yes . . .
And married your Eclectus. Nothing serves
Until one loves and hears the echo back
Deep in the soul that one is loved again.
I have a great, exasperating love:
Marcia, that freedom, would you give it me!
MARCIA.
I will. I know your secret, prize your love,
Return it: I will be your Artemis,
Your Ariadne of the stars . . . (repulsing him)
Not so,
Not so! Ah, I mislead! An Amazon,
With breast annulled and freely brandished spear . . .
So you have seen me, so I can express
My joy in my religion. It is joy
To rise each day invincible, as sure
As the great sun of glory at the close.
I am too bold! Still to the youth of Rome
I am the courtesan; where honour is
My name can never be.
PYLADES.
You have forgotten,
You surely have forgotten what I am:
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Because I give men pleasure openly,
Where all can see, applaud, and have their fill.
The gold-haired women woo me with their smiles,
Their coin, their flatteries, and have their way
Or not, 'tis all the same . . . and afterward
I dance them as Pasiphaë or Byblis
Or Cyprian Myrrha, and the judges own
My women are seductive.
MARCIA.
Leda was.
Why should you speak so lightly, with a face
No longer quite the boy's, you who have suffered
And wept and borne the rods? I do not flinch
From hurting you; I would not have you fear
To suffer; life's great futures come by pain:
My God has borne it on His shameful Cross,
A malefactor's Cross, and it is fabled
That your own god of wine and revelry
Was poured as a libation for life's sake,
That men might have his joyful benison.
If Didia Clara tempt you with her love,
Be fearless and be willing—do not blench—
Be willing in the last resort to die.
PYLADES.
To die! Oh, you are mad! What, give this body,
That I have made a perfect instrument
For gods to play on, to a den of tigers
To mangle at their pleasure! You forget
I am an artist, and become all creatures
On the instant with my art; no influence
Can touch me; I put off this Didia Clara,
When I am weary, as I loose a mask:
But you, you have the very Pylades
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When I am just myself.
MARCIA.
Then promise me,
Rather than be her minion you will die.
PYLADES.
So that is all your love! While you are happy
With your Eclectus, you would have me promise
That I will leave the pleasant light because
You grudge your rival even one golden hour.
No, Marcia! Ease my senses, let me be
Your very lover, and no other woman
Shall touch my lips, shall ever fire my thoughts.
You will not . . . ?
I shall be more merciful.
If Didia Clara languish for my love
I shall not let her die. It is forbidden
Of all the gods mortals should die of love:
Soon as they hear a maiden's secret sigh
In any grove, they mingle with the trees,
They part the rushes . . .
(Re-enter Clara.)
Exquisitely fair!
I greet my Empress.
CLARA.
Pylades awake!
Did Marcia rouse you? I had given command
None should disturb your rest. I had the thought
Of waking you myself.
PYLADES.
You are resplendent.
So bright an apparition . . . and this scarf
The purple of your roses!
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Marcia, go;
My mother is uncertain what to wear
Befitting her new honours. You have been
Almost an Empress; you can counsel her
How she should wear her ornaments.
(Clara is before a mirror, still arranging her purple folds of drapery.)
This laugh!
Who laughed?
MARCIA.
Not I! Poor lady, I despise
So utterly the things she holds of worth:
But I will be her servant.
(Exit.)
CLARA.
Then you laughed!
You must not.
PYLADES.
An imperial decree!
CLARA.
Is it a gauze that I have chosen wrong,
A jewel set awry? Where is the fault?
Mine are the finest shoulders in all Rome
For Berenice's pearls, and yet you laugh,
You mock me . . . and that woman! Oh, I dreamed—
PYLADES.
And Marcia stopped the dreaming? By the gods,
We will dream on. Come, whisper in my ear,
As if it were a secret, what you dreamed.
CLARA.
You looked so beautiful
Lying asleep, and when the messenger
Saluted me I thought how I would bend
Above you like Fortuna with her helm.
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As glory from Olympus. When I came
My mortal was not sleeping.
PYLADES.
But the gems!
Fair goddess, there is welcome in my eyes
At any hour for beauty. And this opal . . .
CLARA.
You see, it is a hazel-nut in size.
PYLADES.
A world of sky in variance.
CLARA.
An estate
In price. You touch the beryls: they are fair.
PYLADES.
Deep-sea-like in their strangeness.
CLARA.
And neglect
My emeralds, these from the mines of Egypt,
These from the Ural mines. And look! my robe!
The finest wool of Po, the deepest purple
Of Tyrian murex; owned by Commodus,
A thousand deniers bought it, and perchance
It once was worn by Marcia. But you find
That I am fresh in beauty, with the right
To make old splendours new. Why do you tremble?
PYLADES.
At life, at all these changes of attire,
And everything to pass from us, the praise,
And all the glory.
CLARA.
Yet you are not thrilled
That the great moment of my life is come;
That has no meaning. In an instant, think,
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Nothing denied me.
PYLADES.
You are eloquent.
A glorious gesture! It will serve my turn
For Midas praying from his bower of roses
To Dionysus for the golden touch.
CLARA.
O despicable! so you use your friends
To help you in your art. You never feel
Giddy and sick and drunken all at once;
You only represent, you do not suffer.
PYLADES.
Oh yes, I suffer like the rest, be sure;
More, more acutely: so much from revolt
At all that I must suffer in my eyes,
My hearing, my whole soul. But in my sorrow
There is no barren pain; all comes to birth,
All ends in triumph.
Every tragedy
Ends so, in fuller wine-cups at the feast,
More music, wilder dances!
CLARA.
Pylades,
I turn to you, I am so mere a girl:
Do not grow stony and disdainful; think
How mere a girl I am, how great it seems
To compass all the world. I tell you first,
For these wild, sweeping dreams would murder me
If no one felt their greatness. You are young,
And I have often heard you say how wicked
It is not to have joy enough to enter
Into another's joy.
PYLADES.
O horrible!
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Then stay beside me: there is little time;
At any moment we may be surprised . . .
O Pylades, I love you. I should die
Were you to leave me here with all this clinging
And hideous wealth—no rapture; for the world
Is only mine through you.
PYLADES.
And what the price
For this last bauble? You must bribe me high.
CLARA.
I own you, I exact you.
PYLADES.
But the sum?
I have rejected many noble ladies
Too poor to tempt me.
CLARA.
I will tax the earth
Until it groans: all that you covet, all
Is instantly your own. Ah, now you smile
Believing; a new look of happiness
Passes across your beauty.
PYLADES.
I consent
To be beloved.
CLARA.
My idol!
PYLADES.
So it is!
If we but have our idol, Fortune's shears
May snip just where they choose. Now you will pass
Gay-hearted to the Regia?
CLARA.
I shall load you
lii
And I myself will give the golden ring
That makes you noble. Let my father wed
His daughter to a monarch—you, my lover,
Will have more regal sway. Gods! you will laugh
When those who saw you beaten . . . how my blood
Dries up within me when I think of it! . . .
Shall watch you as you triumph, as you rule
The hopes of king and senator.
PYLADES.
How good!
Then I shall have revenge.
CLARA.
There will be banquets
Nobler than those of Commodus; our guests
Will whisper the imagined cost of all
We heap upon the tables, whisper how
The least thing in my wardrobe must have travelled
Across the world to me: and I shall shine
One glow of jewels; every eye will follow,
Not only yours, all eyes. . . .
PYLADES.
Until I dance;
Then in a moment you will be extinct,
You and your gems and boasting.
CLARA.
You must live
For my applause.
PYLADES.
You love to see me dance?
CLARA.
O Pylades, I only love too well
The mazes of your dance, the way your hair
liii
I feel the plaudits as I feel my heart,
They throb together through me, and I long
To rear as statues for enduring time
Each image of you as it comes and goes;
I long to see it cold: and that shall be;
You shall have fame for ever, marble statues
In Rome, throughout the land; but you are mine,
And I can never let you dance again.
PYLADES.
Not at the feasts?
CLARA.
Never, at any time.
PYLADES.
Not at the theatre?
CLARA.
Pylades, my lover,
You can imagine I will let you traffic
Upon the public boards; you dream a Knight
Can ply such shameful art and prostitute
The honours I confer; that I could watch
While you were dancing to the general crowd
You worship with your body . . .
PYLADES.
Earth and light!
You think that I am dancing to the crowd
When the great clamour rises!
(He starts away from her.)
CLARA.
You are gone,
You flee from me; you must not go. I cling
As a mere suppliant. You shall have your art,
Shall dance at any feast . . . I will not heed,
I will not seem to watch you . . . if in secret,
liv
Even as your imaged Leda.
PYLADES.
I will die,
For I have played that part how many times,
Died to my god in ecstasy—Actæon
Torn by the hounds, or Orpheus on the stream,
Still faithful to Eurydice, and calling
And looking after her amid the howls
Of women he rejected! Oh, the bliss!
CLARA.
Is Marcia in the palace? Is she gone?
I need some help. . . . Will you not summon her?
For if you speak of death, that is an action
We all can play. . . . There is the poison-bowl,
And I have courage.
(Re-enter Manlia and Marcia.)
PYLADES.
Marcia . . . Oh, your mother,
See, she is coming full of pride in you.
Be comforted.
MANLIA.
My dearest!
CLARA.
I am ill.
Marcia, there is a phial in my room,
Close to my little bronze of Mercury.
Fetch it, and . . .
(Exit Marcia on the right, while a Tribune enters on the left.)
Lo, a Tribune at the door!
Then I can claim obedience. Slay that man;
He has insulted me.
TRIBUNE.
But I am sent
lv
To fetch him to the banquet: while to you,
Most honoured ladies, I have brought the message
That Didius Julianus begs your presence
To-morrow at the Regia.
CLARA.
Do you challenge
My first command?
(Re-enter Marcia.)
TRIBUNE.
O pardon, dread Augusta,
I must obey the Emperor; but your wishes
Will be your father's nod.
PYLADES.
It does not matter;
What should this matter now, or anything?
(Meeting Marcia's eyes.)
I have not failed. And I shall dance to-night.
So, to the Regia, on!
(He follows the Tribune: Clara fixes her gaze suspiciously on Marcia, snatches the phial from her and breaks it on the ground, with a ringing laugh.)
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