 | The Race of Leaves |  |
iv
ACT I.
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Enter Fadilla & Lucilla.
FADILLA.
How BLUE A NIGHT TO HOLD THESE BLOSSOMS.
SPRING AS FULL OF SUMMER AS IF DREAMS WERE REAL!
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LUCILLA.
Can you ask?
You too have watched with worshipping, faintheart
The love-star dawn on sunset, you have tasted
The breath of coverts.
FADILLA.
Ah, how many times!
But now I do not court my happiness
Among the gem-like petals full of bloom,
And rich with twilight; no, my love requires
The fortunes of the world to be as branches
Platted for Eros' hiding-place; my lovers
Are generals or statesmen; and for pastime
I need the zest of politics.
LUCILLA.
I too.
FADILLA.
No, no, unsay it. You must reach my age,
My forty years, before you own the right
To leave all bosom-loves for this hard joy
That the head takes in loving. Little sister,
You have our mother's childlike agelessness,
You are Faustina, save that you can frown;
And owe it to your face to live as she
For candid passion, impulse of an hour.
You who have been the wife of Lucius Verus,
Co-empress with your mother in her pride,
Though now the mere wife of a senator,
You have your honours still. Why should you strive?
Meddle no further with the dangerous world
Where Eros knits his brow, a politician,
And changes dart for axe.
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Then you suspect . . . ?
FADILLA.
Whom, what? Why are you restless? Turn your head!
It holds a plot.
LUCILLA.
To spring on such a one
When he is blind with heavenly cloud of flowers.
But in your politics, Fadilla, say,
Why do you favour Commodus?
FADILLA.
I love
My brother; he and you and I are all
The children of Faustina—I alone
Have something of my father, and can pity
The lot that made us his. He forced our brother
To obstinate recoil. Philosophy,
That smiles on life, till life is made ashamed,
And sunders from each end for which it throbs,
Praise, glory, pleasure, how should it direct
Youth through its awful rapine? By the gods
Marcus is held as good and our fair mother
As evil . . . yet our father poisoned life
In each of us from childhood, for his voice
Withered illusion, and our urgent youth
To him was nothingness, to us a lie
That could not prove the truth it made us feel.
He spoke of us as leaves within a wind,
Leaves shaken diversely: and so we are,
Unhappy children! Be Faustina, sweet,
Be our fair mother with untroubled brow,
And a babe's faith in pleasure.
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That is vain
I envy Commodus.
FADILLA.
What snake is this
That strikes out from your eyes?
LUCILLA.
He has his bent
In everything, can ponder till he covets,
Then shape his own desire. I envy him
His crescent manhood, crescent majesty,
The entrancing terror of his yellow locks,
Emitting as he passes, sparks of light,
So quick, men deem them supernatural,
The settled beams of deity. Oh, look!
(Enter Commodus.)
FADILLA.
Great Emperor, here is one who envies you.
COMMODUS.
How charming!
FADILLA.
Says that you enjoy and freely
All that men sigh for, all that pleases them.
COMMODUS.
Philosophy, Lucilla! You forget
The lessons of our childhood, when, to mock him,
We stole upon our father with his books,
And then must listen; for he closed the scroll,
And spoke it out in homily, caressing
As if with phrases if he touched our cheeks.
He told us every joy was hollowness
That did not spring from reason, and besought us
To seek our praise from virtue. Ah, Lucilla,
My beauty, 'twas the mirror taught us truth!
We stroked the flashing thing, and then fell back,
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Our heavenly images. You courted love,
Won worship; while for me—how easily
The care of what an after age would say,
Buzzing about my name, slipped from my thoughts,
When I could hear a veritable shout
As every beast I aimed at took the arrow
Just in the mortal part and roared acclaim
To me as new Far-darter. I have made
My pleasures, never found them, never met them
Upon the highway, and what pleases there
For me has no concern. I am divine:
And when endowed with power unlimited,
As Emperor, I was met by multitudes
Poured forth, with boughs of laurel in their hands
And every kind of flower in bloom, I savoured
The spring-tide of a god.
LUCILLA.
When I was empress
I made my bliss myself; but now!
COMMODUS.
I yield you
All honour, every ensign of the past,
The sacred fire, the purple, for my mother
Smiles through your beauty when I give it sway:
'Tis so I honour her. This rippled hair
Holds to the temples just as hers, this chin
Knows nothing but of homage. You are sore,
Lucilla, that you cannot keep your throne
Beside me as sole Empress; but consider,
Who is this wife, this rival? A mere form,
To ornament my empire, a blank shape,
To wear abundant tresses of pure gold,
And live unthought of. Do not envy her.
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She has my throne.
COMMODUS.
Not in my heart. This wife,
Crispina, holds no place and finds no honour
Where, with my kin, a single regnant woman
Triumphs above all strangers.
(Enter Marcia.)
Love, the jewels
Flash round your brow; it is not framed for flowers.
MARCIA.
They fade. I never wear them.
COMMODUS.
You will come
To the arena?
MARCIA.
Pardon me, my lord.
Spring lies too vast and sweet before my thoughts
For sight of carnage, and I bent my steps
To this soft, murmuring place to gather calm.
I will be ready to receive my lord,
Ah, exquisitely ready, in an hour.
Grant me but that. I do not need the mirror,
The unguent for renewal half so much
As the touches of the air.
COMMODUS.
Then, if we part,
We, when we meet again, must lavish welcome
Inordinately full of joy. Lay on
Your breast all stones of azure and of green,
Meet me as Juno's bird. My Marcia, hear!
The amphitheatre's challenge! Te saluto,
Marcia!
Slaves, heigh! Conduct me to the games.
(Exit Commodus.)
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Fair lady, will you pace with me? I too
Would feel the stroking gentleness of eve,
When flowers and birds and winds are young together,
And Eros loves them all. Lucilla, listen,
My pious, star-ensnared conspirator,
To anything that love with Maia's voices
May whisper to you. Let the hour appeal,
And all the hour enjoins.
MARCIA.
Your servant, princess.
(Exeunt Fadilla & Marcia through an arcade.)
LUCILLA.
Venus, the nightingales begin to sing
Behind their footsteps; it is safe to call.
I die . . . The boughs are shaking. O Quadratus!
My throat is dry, he cannot hear my voice.
Quadratus!
QUADRATUS.
(Among the boughs.)
Love, your clasp!. . . The judas-tree . . .
Behind this branch! Give me your hand: a pulse
Is throbbing through the palm.
LUCILLA.
Speak of the deed,
Speak coldly.
QUADRATUS.
Peer down through the blossoms, sweet.
You torture me.
LUCILLA.
Not now. I will not stay!
You shall not drag my arm.
QUADRATUS.
(Stooping forward.)
Down to our secret,
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You light, you glisten. I must have you swear,
Swear by the hilt . . .
LUCILLA.
You speak so noisily!
Be silent; oh, be swift! I suffer torments,
Stung by a need, a wish so obstinate,
While all beside revolts.
QUADRATUS.
Your oath: but first,
Your brother will return—be certain, sweet—
By the dark, eastern passage?
LUCILLA.
I am sure.
QUADRATUS.
He never will arrive. Swear by your eyes,
Your empire, that you love me and will love
And crown my love and when the days are safe
Make me at last your husband.
LUCILLA.
I have sworn.
My fate is yours. We cannot now draw back,
Can we, Quadratus, from the coiling deed
That holds us to it?
QUADRATUS.
Are you false? Draw back!
Half of the senate holds to our attempt,
And you have sworn you will not rest until
I rule beside you. How you damp my heart!
Each moment of delay is risk of life
To me, to you, to all who follow us.
LUCILLA.
You mean that I am taken in a net,
That none of you will loose me.
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None, my bird;
I least, your lover. By your oath, your cause,
By all the noble blood that glows for it
In youthful veins swayed by your loveliness,
We are committed to this night's attempt.
LUCILLA.
We are. Then loose me. Give me back my empire,
Give me my throne! We must not speak together
Till we are joined by . . . Oh, spur on the deed!
Its issue is our freedom: we shall laugh
And kiss and chide and trifle, when 'tis done.
Leave me and do my will.
(He lowers the dagger to her, hides it and goes out, while she watches him motionless as in a trance. Turning suddenly, she starts at the sight of her mother's statue.)
What stable whiteness!
I would that I were human, she a ghost;
But I am marble too; all things are done
Round me as if round marble. Some events
Come thus, while we are stone. Fadilla thought
That I was here for pleasure, tender aim
Of grove and sky, I cannot share!
(Pylades enters through the flowering trees.)
The sounds
Of spring, each one a little, separate joy,
Self-gratulating, strike me envious.
The world is filling so with love.
(Perceiving Pylades.)
Ye gods,
A messenger?—with face like Ganymede's,
Enticing kisses through the roseate pendants
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One, a million,
(She catches & kisses him.)
For each is perfect, and the blossoms press
So softly to my forehead. Apparition
From Paphos, it may be I take farewell
Divine of love and happiness. You struggle,
Shame-faced and downcast, a mere mortal boy,
A slave, no matter if to me a god.
Nay, I will loose you. You have had the kisses
Of a sad, desperate woman. You may go.
There, take your liberty!
(Exit.)
PYLADES.
It was the Empress
Herself who kissed me; I am half afraid,
And the great wonder too! What did she mean?
She said I was slave, yet her embrace
Thrilled me as if with freedom. Oh, for that,
For freedom! And he sighed I was a god
To her . . . Apollo, make me god to all,
When on the Emperor's birthday I shall dance
The presence of thy deity 'mong men,
Thy servitude in Arcady, thy folding
Of flocks to music!
I will practise it:
For I can bring to mind the canticle,
So often having heard it to my steps.
(He sings, moving in pantomime to the words. Marcia, coming unseen by Pylades down an alley, watches him.)
Climb with me, Laomedon's white fleeces,
Upward to the hill-tops, up to Ida,
To unshaded dews and earliest dawning.
Young and lustrous, god and yet a servant,
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Raise your heads erect, ye flocks, and listen
To the note I strike from off my lyre!
They have heard, they stand each head erected;
Thus they wait the Grazing-Tune that woos
Slowly to the ridges and the sky.
I have struck it: all submissive listen,
Till they feed in mystery, advancing,
Drawn to solemn paces by a spell;
Then to sharper strains one way they hurry,
Fleece by fleece around me, till I strike
Sweet, soft notes that lay them down to slumber,
I beside them, where the sun no more
Falls across us, but the chilling moonlight:
There we sleep, my flock and I together,
I, a god, though servant of a king.
(He dances the folding of the flock again, mutely, as if not satisfied with the gestures & attitudes he had taken.)
MARCIA.
(Apart.)
He sees his god,
Ay, as he is and in his native land;
Can show him to the crowd. I envy him.
It is my vileness binds me to the Cross,
My bartered beauty, my disgrace. For outcasts
My awful outcast Deity, with birthright
Even to the throne of Zeus.
The song again.
PYLADES.
Climb with me, Laomedon's white fleeces,
Upward to the hill-top, up to Ida,
To unshaded dews and earliest dawning.
Young and lustrous . . .
(His voice dies away & he again tries other gestures.)
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(Apart.)
Ah, the Nazarene
Will never draw the flower of men, or breathe
Warm on their flowering days. For innocence,
For the prayers that youth makes, speaking to itself
Or kindled by bright gales, He has no ear.
(Pylades suddenly approaches the statue of Apollo.)
PYLADES.
O Genius, O my Patron, thou that guardest
My tireless feet, the singers and the flutists
Who sing and play, while I am dancing thee,
Receive thy gifts of music and of verse:
Dower me with thine own life, breathe through my motions,
Act in me bodily, and fill all eyes
With presence of thy godhead; for thou can'st,
O Delphicus!
(Enter Eclectus with a scroll.)
ECLECTUS.
(To Pylades.)
Begone! You dare intrude,
You, in this grove!
MARCIA.
(Advancing.)
Why do you strike the boy?
I heard his voice afar, and he is fashioned
To stand unchidden 'neath the dangling purple
And knots of blossom. Do not banish him.
(To Pylades.)
What is your name?
PYLADES.
They call me Pylades.
ECLECTUS.
A pupil from the schools, a pantomime,
Named from his master Pylades, a Greek,
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(Presenting a scroll, as Pylades draws back among the trees.)
I bring you message from the mines
Where in Sardinian caverns by the sea
Your Christians suffer; you can ransom them,
Such is their faith . . .
(Eclectus pauses while she reads.)
But, Domina, the means
That they propose? You are my Empress; nothing
That you effect, touching the state, is foreign
To me, your chamberlain. I hate these Christians,
I fear their subtlety, their favouring wiles,
I fear lest they bring peril on your head.
Tell me, how would they draw you to their rescue?
The means?
MARCIA.
Myself, my place. O chamberlain,
You know how I am ranked.
ECLECTUS.
You are an Empress,
My lord's Augusta. Keep your majesty.
MARCIA.
I am a Christian.
ECLECTUS.
You have no religion;
You cannot have; you are yourself divine.
Think of your worshippers, establish them,
And set yourself deep in the stars. O lady,
Let me not see you fall, a meteor,
A fickle, broken light. You are a goddess
To my great lord, to me. Sway over us!
MARCIA.
I count among the slaves.
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Is it as such
You hope to win your will? Base to my lord,
And, oh, most base to Rome, thus to betray her
To those who have no country and no king,
Who flatter and revolt.
MARCIA.
Even an Empress,
Eclectus, may beseech the life and freedom
Of chosen captives.
ECLECTUS.
You speak truth, but these,
Your Christians . . . Will you read?
(Marcia is silent.)
Not from the scroll,
From lips of their own messenger I learnt
Their infamy; they bade me seek you out
In secret, praying you would use your beauty,
Your power, your arts, your place . . .
MARCIA.
Go! Say, Eclectus,
I am a servant well-equipped to serve.
(Exit Eclectus.)
I have my power; I dare not cast it off;
For power discarded brings a great revenge:
But in myself my life is as a leaf
Wind-blown to utter ruin, carrying
Its death along with it. I wonder where
The truth is hid in me? With Commodus,
My golden athlete—for I love his strength,
The straightness of his aim, his open mimes
And the summer in his temper—or the Church,
That leads me through dark places to the stars?
Oh, I am unredeemed; I cannot pray!
But when I creep down to the Catacombs,
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O God, Thy blood—Thou offering it, not slain—
Then I have craving for the utter white,
For Thee, O Spotless!
PYLADES.
(Watching her at a distance.)
This is Niobe—
How perfect!—for she stands alone and weeps;
And yet one feels about her breast and feet
Her children clinging. Is she Niobe?
The supplication in her eyes, her tears!
(Fascinated, he draws close up to her: at the sound of his footsteps she turns, smiling, toward him.)
MARCIA.
So you desire your freedom?
PYLADES.
Past all hope.
MARCIA.
And on the Emperor's birthday you will dance
Apollo and the folding of the flocks.
I shall be there.
PYLADES.
You will!
Before I sleep
I always pray the gods to make of me
A perfect dancer, and then ask their blessing
Upon all beauteous things. Between my prayers,
I will make one for you.
MARCIA.
Sweet boy, my thanks.
PYLADES.
The Emperor's birthday!
(He runs off among the trees.)
(Marcia, seating herself, reads the scroll; the she looks up from it.)
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I will liberate
Thy servants in the mines; and for Thy sake,
Thine too, the Greek, who dances to Apollo,
Shall dance in freedom. I am chosen thus:
Though my pure God can never dwell with me,
And all my days must pass in dust and shade.
(Re-enter Lucilla.)
Empress!
LUCILLA.
My brother, will he come?
MARCIA.
Not yet;
You hear the strife still clangs.
LUCILLA.
“Not yet, not yet!”
But one may clog impatience till it frenzies.
To tear up flowers be sacrifice to words
As cruel as “Not yet!” Before their hour
Let these red hundreds perish.
What, you smile?
(She strips a tree of blossoms.)
MARCIA.
O lady, at this fury kindly urged
On senseless objects. So your royal brother
Shatters his murrhine vases at a blow
If one he loves offend.
LUCILLA.
You misconceive.
Fair courtesan, what can you know of fury,
The royal thing? Your veins have never brewed
The dancing ichor. Can you know the play
Of Titans with the worlds, the punishment
That gods create for laggard destiny?
I rend these showering multitudes, with force
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Oh, I am hot with labour!
MARCIA.
Nay, take breath.
(Re-enter Commodus with Cleander & following.)
Look up!
LUCILLA.
(The rent branches in her hand.)
Why, that's my brother Commodus . . .
How tossed his hair is! Commodus, I say . . .
I cannot. He is murdered . . . Commodus!
(She shrieks & falls senseless on the ground.)
MARCIA.
(Supporting her.)
What is her terror?
COMMODUS.
That I am not dead,
That I have found her with her murderer's hands
Dangling my crown.
MARCIA.
O Emperor, she attempted . . .
COMMODUS.
To slay me in the eastern passage, sweet,
To kill me in my heyday. “From the Senate,”
Her lover cried, “and from Lucilla,” failing
Just by that cry to triumph.
Look at her,
Look at her, look! The likeness: why, it seems
As if my mother lay there on the ground
In a swoon of fast-clenched hatred. Nature, nature!
And I was disciplined to love her law,
And listen to her promptings as to truth.
Lies, lies, my philosophic father, lies!
Nature is false, or this is not my sister,
My mother in each trait. But where is truth?
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The archway-haunting spectre, safe for feasts
And love and glory and divine excess.
Crowns for the revel! In great cups of wine
Memory shall drown . . . but I must test the drink
Before I swallow: each imperial dish
Must wait its herald, the sure antidote.
Take up that woman; thrust her in a cell
Close as the grave. She is not yet unbrothered;
I will not have her slain before my eyes.
But shut her close.
(Dragging Marcia by the hand.)
And we will come away.
MARCIA.
Emperor, you cannot mean that you will feast?
COMMODUS.
All night and on to morning, on to noon,
On for three days. It is my gratitude
For having hoodwinked nature at her game.
Dish after dish!
But ere the viands cool
There shall be search for stately senators,
Dropped sudden from their place to the abyss—
Those agèd foster-parents that conspired
Together for my ruin. I will break
Each precious natural bond, and piety,
That is but nature's grand-dam, shall be drawn
Along the streets and hooted. You agree?
Why, I could think you love me, such a flame
Is in the eyes you bend upon that traitor,
Marcia, my little whore.
MARCIA.
Lean on my faith.
COMMODUS.
My pretty wanton, no.
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Drugging my cup. But do not blink! I welcome
All monstrous circumstance, all passing riot
Of vanities, since all is vanity,
Nature and faith and pleasure, fame and love,
All indiscriminate deceptions, all
Hollows to fill with lamps and laugh beneath.
(He totters toward Lucilla, striking his breast & repeating the gestures & words of Quadratus.)
“This from the Senate.” Nay, it is Lucilla
That strikes me to a spectre. How inane
The thought that I am living, how it gapes
Down to the darkness of a sepulchre.
My sister, ho!
I would not have her slain,
Kept as she is in marble.
Come away
From death, and pour libations.
Flowers and statues,
Fountains and jets of foam, my mother's statue,
Lucilla's . . .
(He comes back & stares vacantly at her, where she lies.)
Do you call this place my palace,
Or Pompey's Theatre?
Soft, Cleander, write me
A secret list of all our senators.
Marcia, around us, vanity and spring!
Leaves, leaves, my father called us. Let us dance.
| The Race of Leaves | |