 | The Race of Leaves |  |
xxiv
ACT II.
The Central Court of the Imperial Villa at Laurentum. Marble seats among bushes of laurel; tripods smoking with healthful and precious substances. Eclectus & Laetus are heard conversing behind the laurels.ECLECTUS.
Welcome! And yet no audience, good Prefect,
If you have passed through Rome.
LAETUS.
Oh, fear me not;
(They enter.)
I am scarce landed, full of healthful brine,
Sick but for news.
ECLECTUS.
Our exile tells the worst—
Rome is plague-stricken, Tiber in full flood.
Famine is in our streets, conspiracy
Has been among us and has failed, revenge
Is now among us and is doomed to fail;
Treason is with the crowd.
LAETUS.
But this must end.
ECLECTUS.
Most surely it will end and of itself.
LAETUS.
How of itself?
ECLECTUS.
The ancient deities
Are in their place; do not inquire of me.
Is Thebes disrooted? You have seen the sphinxes,
The obelisks, the congregated kings
Huge on the painted sunshine. Power prevails;
But then how fed, how lighted! What is Power?
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Of the Sun-God and Amenophis?
LAETUS.
Nay, nay!
Religion holds me not.
ECLECTUS.
I did but speak
Of Egypt and its clear, vibrating air.
Why leave a shore so healthful?
LAETUS.
Yet, I trust
There is no peril here.
ECLECTUS.
Where destiny
Fulfils itself as in the Roman streets,
That pour their starving hosts to threaten us.
Look well to the Pretorians; they are sullen,
And if they fail we perish.
LAETUS.
I am warned.
(Exit.)
ECLECTUS.
Sight of this fellow-mortal come ashore,
Safe from the waves, to close with deadly pest,
Renews the trepidation in my veins
For her, for Marcia. Blow, Hesperian breezes,
Blow steady through her lintel, give her health,
O my rose-lotus! Let the fatal barque
Sink with its thousands, if the flower of women
Is left on earth, unrent from us. The plague,
The terror—they have taught me how I love.
(Enter Commodus.)
COMMODUS.
Where is the lady Marcia?
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Still within.
No one has seen her stirring.
COMMODUS.
You stand there
As if you feared to speak.
ECLECTUS.
(Bowing low.)
Lend me you ear;
Be patient with my loyalty. You dream
That you are safe; and from the pestilence
You have security; but through these laurels
Your flattering nobles let no rumour pierce
Of deep-revolting Rome. Your minister,
The base Cleander, keeps, as private wealth
And fast-locked treasure, corn that should be flung
As bounty to the crowd. Food for the people
Is secret of all godlike sovereignty:
The famished multitudes are flocking to you
Behind these gates; and, when they come, prepare
The morsel to their appetite—Cleander.
COMMODUS.
Another face to toss down to the void,
And turn from ruddy pleasantness to pale
And grinning horror! What is this you counsel?
Famine is but the plague in leaner form,
A visitation from the gods. Cleander
Keeps these afflictions from me.
ECLECTUS.
But prepare—
COMMODUS.
O fool, this is Laurentum and not Rome.
Here I take rest from cares—no early visits
From formal nobles; the huge day to fill
With simple pastime and the solaces
Olympus smiles at!
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Laetus is within;
Make sure of the Pretorians.
COMMODUS.
Cease this folly.
Go, give command the Bestiarii
Uncage that lion with the jutting tooth.
He shall affirm my prowess.
(Exit Eclectus.)
I am here
A true divinity, among these odours,
Among these mounting flames. Let me conceive
That they burn up to me! And let Rome perish,
Or send her suppliants hither! Sweet to snuff
The heated fragrance. But how still it is!
No lizard threads his crevice: all the air
Pauses for some event.
Lucilla lives,
Yet while she lives my heart keeps dropping blood.
(Drawing a parchment from his sleeve.)
If I should do it,
A gulf would open at my very feet,
A dark abysm, with one staring face
To hold me to the bottom of the void.
She is a traitor . . . but that opes no gulf.
It is the refuse we throw in ourselves
Reeks from the fissure up to us, or gives
Its altered visage back. I am her brother.
See, if I look down in this fountain's bowl,
I see her brother's face, gold Commodus,
How handsome and how young!
If I should do it!
Her death is written: or is this the parchment
That grants her pardon and oblivion?
It is the parchment. Then I shall forget her,
And then . . .
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I must have idols, if I am a god!
(Marcia enters from without.)
Bright apparition! What, my Morning! Health
Stepping to meet me! Were you always young
As now, this holy lustre on your face . . .
MARCIA.
And yet the secret of it! From the caves
I come and from the spices of the tomb.
COMMODUS.
Marcia, you breathe it! . . . From the sepultures
Of your foul out-casts, from your buried god—
And this mock radiance on your face . . . You shall not!
The peril, gods!
MARCIA.
I shall not bring the plague.
COMMODUS.
Your feet have trodden it. To lose you, dearest,
To lose you! You must never pass again,
Never desert me for a single hour.
MARCIA.
I will not. If I savour of the tomb
The secrets of my wondrous shadow-land
Are left behind, and I am sprung from Hades,
Eurydice, not praying to turn back,
Praying to walk with you, to share your griefs
And lighten them, if you will give me place
Beside you—
(Commodus laughs.)
Not as Empress: as one sent,
A slave, a common hireling, but yet chosen
To guard you, O my Golden-haired, from death.
COMMODUS.
What flowers are in your voice! If I could trust you,
If you could give me love!
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A faithful servant . . .
Oh, were you fashioned to believe! . . . has something
Created in his heart, something most real,
Something most sure; and it is thus I hold you
Amid the hollow gulfs.
COMMODUS.
I loved my mother,
And when I think of her a gravity
Falls on my thoughts; then I am Commodus,
Solid and with ambition. But you cheat me.
Are you not cheated too at every turn?
You cannot love me though I give you all,
And you can pour no happiness: your heart
Is void and bitter.
(A Priest of Cybele enters & chants to his brazen rattle.)
MARCIA.
(Drawing her hand across her forehead.)
Note the spectacle!
PRIEST.
Cybele, Cybele, save us from death, Cybele, Cybele, strong to aid!
Fierce is the plague, fiercely it clears harvests of men from the light.
Cybele, Cybele, who now shall reap. Cybele, Cybele, who shall bind?
Save us from death, taming the plague as a forest lion is tamed,
Mother of all, Goddess most good, rolling in pomp through the lands.
(The Courtyard fills to the Priest's chant: Pylades is among the pages.)
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I am arrested by this priest: he clangs,
And clangs and clangs, and so the earth is ruled
By one sole iteration.
Corybant,
I would speak with you of your mysteries.
This for your altars.
(Gives a carcanet.)
PRIEST.
You would join the train?
COMMODUS.
I cannot; I am secret to myself,
I cannot join a train. You draw processions . . .
So, I would draw them.
PRIEST.
You have cast aside
Your carcanet: if you would lead the frenzy
I marshal, you must put away your nature,
Your manhood, pass a mutilated slave
Before the city. We, who are religious,
Are silent-lipped till we can speak with those
Who have put nature off.
COMMODUS.
And then?
PRIEST.
The frenzy,
The exaltation! We attain the god.
Then we can succour multitudes and bind them
Fast to our car, for then they grow confused
Between us and the power that ravishes.
You must not stay my cymbals. Rome is stricken,
I am her saviour. Give, and join the cry!
(He passes on clashing & begging; the crowd follows.)
COMMODUS.
A crowd is gathering round the Corybant,
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Ay, so I will, and then these mysteries
Will open to me. If indeed there were
A secret and a perfume at the flower
Of this wild ritual! But the priest assumes;
He is an actor merely.
Oh ye gods,
Ye gods, I am your equal; ye but dream
And dream, and dream your greatness and your blood.
That is reality. So you become
Or Zeus, or Hercules, or what you will;
All is as you have breath for in your sighs.
Marcia, you shall behold! I was about
To slay a grisly lion, as an archer
With mortal strength: now I am Hercules
Eager to rid Nemea of her pest.
MARCIA.
Ah, could you succour Rome!
COMMODUS.
That is no dream,
With that is no reality: the people
Are all illusion and their cries a painting
To rub off from the air . . .
We must put nature by, her cries, her qualms,
Leave her to perish as a wailing child
Far off behind us.
I shall lead a train;
You will be here to greet me. 'Tis not love
I ask for: be my echo through the hills,
Answer me back with softer voice, and I
Will ravish and undo you. Ecstasy!
(He goes out.)
MARCIA.
(Wringing her hands.)
He is beside himself! To see him borne,
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It is as I were calling to the dead.
(Pylades creeps up to her & touches her.)
Who is it plucks my sleeve? Ah, I remember!
(To Pylades.)
I think I freed you; that should be enough.
PYLADES.
It is for freedom
To give you counsel. You must recollect
I am the substance of which kings are made,
Ajax, the vexed Atreidae: all they suffer
I feel down to the quick, not from without,
As you are feeling.
Think! Lucilla's knife
Is at his bosom still; and you are cold.
You wring your hands. Lady, it is a gesture
Of pity for yourself.
(Marcia remains silent.)
He is a god;
Is—ah, we know the truth, he dreams it so;
And in a dream all must be of one piece,
All woven in one spell. Build him an altar,
Burn roses to him; then arrest his eye
In some great moulded action: if he change,
Change too, as, were he ocean-deity,
You would become Leucothea.
You despise
This acting?
MARCIA.
It is very pitiful.
PYLADES.
You cannot choose: it is the parts we play
With most similitude! If Venus call
And we can answer lightly as her doves . . .
MARCIA.
The counsel of a pantomime. Go, seek
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(Enter from without Cleander & Slaves bearing arms & garments.)
PYLADES.
(Shrugging his shoulders.)
Yonder pageant
Arrests the pantomime.
MARCIA.
Cleander, stay!
What dazzling beams you throw against our faces.
This panoply . . .
CLEANDER.
Dear lady, a new gift
For your imperial lover. Gifts and gifts.
MARCIA.
Obsequious bounty, the mere residue
Of hoards beyond all count.
CLEANDER.
An unkind thought,
The oyster must be nacreous in its mould
To offer you a pearl.
MARCIA.
I do not need
Excuses for your private opulence:
I am not a Provincial you have robbed,
Nor a Patrician rendered poor to flush
Your coffers and provide gratuity
For Emperors. Spare me!
(Arrested by the panoply.)
But is this your gift?
The vizored helmet . . .
CLEANDER.
Steel and beaten gold.
MARCIA.
A base secutor's outfit. And you take
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Even the apron . . .
CLEANDER.
Silk!
MARCIA.
To Commodus!
CLEANDER.
I meet his craving
By liberal fulfilment. Lady Marcia
Is less a neighbour to his aspirations
Than poor Cleander, though she lay her head
Against the subtle heart she fails to know
In every turn of fancy.
MARCIA.
Many years
The Emperor has been skilled in archery:
Such practice is not infamous; his gods
Have sped the dart with scarce diviner skill.
But such dishonour as your treachery
Would flatter in him is a crime that sullies
The universe he governs. If you love,
Cleander, if you love him, as you boast,
Spare him this fatal tribute, turn the slaves
Back with their servile burthen.
See, I breathe
As if he were in peril of his life.
CLEANDER.
No, lady Marcia fears her perfect sway
Should suffer some abatement, her profession
Should lose heart-swelling virtue by the side
Of the gladiator's magic. I will stir
The strife and watch its issue.
Slaves, proceed.
MARCIA.
Most wicked demon!
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(To Pylades.)
You shall earn twelve pieces
Of gold to-night at supper, if you dance
Your Pyrrhic dance for one.
And let your flutist
Be at your side in readiness, my sweet.
(He pulls the dancer's ear caressingly & goes out with his slaves in the opposite direction.)
PYLADES.
(Breaking into laughter.)
Secutor!
MARCIA.
Hush, you laugh! There is no evil
Not to be looked for, but if this befall
All things are overthrown. The darkness closes
Around me, and I feel that torrent powers,
As I defy and promise to arrest them,
Are eddying me away. Ah, Pylades,
What is your counsel now?
PYLADES.
You need no counsel:
Forget it all. Be but the thing you are,
Sightless, and full of ruin. Weep and weep,
But not for Rome.
MARCIA.
I cannot weep for him.
Secutor, oh!
(Sound of voices & laughter.)
And it may be even now—
I hear his voice, the honey in its tone
It breathes when soft in triumph. He is happy,
And yonder is Cleander.
PYLADES.
Shroud yourself.
MARCIA.
Is he accoutred?
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You must pass within;
I will observe in secret.
MARCIA.
A secutor!
But I will seek the Princess; she will feel
The ignominy slip into her blood.
PYLADES.
Pass quickly.
(Exit Marcia, Pylades hides in the laurels, while Commodus, dressed as Hercules in a lion-skin, Cleander & a bevy of pages & women fill the enclosure.)
A brave troop of revellers!
And now I catch the theme. 'Tis Hercules,
And all his little handmaids buzzing round
With kisses and with praise. A rich diversion,
To watch the Emperor playing pantomime.
And what a rose, that Sagana!
COMMODUS.
(To Cleander.)
You fashion
My dreams to my own liking: that is greatly
And truly to be served. Before to-night
I shall be Paulus the secutor; now
Your Lucius Commodus is Hercules,
The slayer of a lion, such a beast,
An old and brindled sire, whose belly sent
Its hungered bay up that had been a roar
But that I cut it silent. From the conflict
I come to rest. How exquisite a dream!
I breathe Olympus, and, my labours done,
My burning sweat washed off, I am exalted,
As mortals ever must be to enjoy
Things perfectly celestial. Scatter flowers
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Crowned with dawn-fabling roses to the brim.
Be goddesses beside me, be as gods;
Let me create my creatures deities,
As I endue myself, my strength, my beauty,
With Herculean honours and the name
Of Jove's unconquered son.
(Pylades slips away among the laurels.)
CLEANDER.
You need a goblet
Worthy divineness of so high a reach.
COMMODUS.
And such you can present? Go, fetch your marvel,
My little, own Cleander.
CLEANDER.
With six pounds
Of the best perfume of Niceros, worthy
The nostrils of a god!
COMMODUS.
Gifts, ever gifts!
And always gold to meet expenditure;
That is the one solidity of dreams.
(Exit Cleander.)
And his last thought, the perfume! Sagana,
Soft as the spray, soft-bosomed as the rose,
Give me your hair for cushion. I am weary;
Fall round me and in concert hymn my toils.
(Closing his eyes.)
How slumbrous in this land of cooler air,
Abounding with the laurel, in the smell
Of the sweet laurels, in the pleasant shadow
To hear each valiant act on women's voices,
As if it donned queen Omphale's attire.
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Great Hercules in the Nemaean vale
Threw down his weapon on the sedgy grass,
And strangled the red lion with his hand.
SECOND SEMI CHORUS.
And Lucius Commodus before the world
Struck dead a hundred lions, dart by dart;
Laid them in order on the drunken sod.
FIRST SEMI CHORUS.
Great Hercules from fresh Arcadian woods
Bore the gold-antlered stag to Tiryns home,
The stag of Artemis with feet of brass.
SECOND SEMI CHORUS.
And Lucius Commodus struck down in death
Camelopardalis, the stag with neck
Tall as a fir and spotted as the plane.
FIRST SEMI CHORUS.
Great Hercules through dazzling Psophian snows
Chased the tusked boar, and chasing mid the cold,
Caught him at last o'er-wearied in a net.
SECOND SEMI CHORUS.
But Lucius Commodus had rarer sport,
For with one aim he felled rhinoceros,
Of bulk gigantic, armed with hideous tusk.
FIRST SEMI CHORUS.
Great Hercules slew the Stymphalian birds
Beside the lake's swift-sliding waves; in vain
Were brazen claws and beaks and arrowed plumes.
SECOND SEMI CHORUS.
And Lucius Commodus with crescent darts
Struck Mauritanian ostriches, in flight,
That skim the ground on wings like swelling sails.
COMMODUS.
Five of my dozen Labours! Oh, this chaunt
Rises an odour from those flowers—your lips!
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Great Hercules . . .
(Fadilla & Marcia enter like mourners.)
ALL.
See, see!
(The women scream.)
COMMODUS.
'Tis rash to steal
Like ghosts upon my dream, 'tis a fresh murder.
To wound me now will draw the thunderbolt.
Away, or learn
That visions crush like mountains when they fall.
Vanish together! . . .
Marcia, you draw close;
Marcia, your eyes—the murdering, white light!
Leave me, fair boys; more room, a wider circle,
My wreath of coloured petals!
Marcia, speak,
Or die 'mid this god's feast!
MARCIA.
'Tis you must die,
My lord, unless—
(To Fadilla.)
But tell him, Princess, all.
He will believe a lady of his blood.
Tell him of ruin, tell him he has lost
The Roman people, tell him he has lost
The moiety of his guard, that he must dread
From his own subjects what could never chance
By hand of barbarous nation.
(Re-enter Eclectus.)
ECLECTUS.
All is lost;
Your Guard is broken; you are now defenceless,
And on the brink of slaughter.
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Save us!
FADILLA.
Save
Yourself, my dearest, for we speak but truth:
Outside these walls a fiery hatred marshals
The citizens. They have a single shout
Of hunger after justice, and one name
For all they hate—Cleander. Every voice
Demands his head.
COMMODUS.
An execrable plot!
I cannot listen any more to words;
They are the language of conspirators.
(To Marcia.)
But you have put your beauty quite away,
Made yourself hideous, distasteful. There,
Again I catch design; my sister too—
Cleander smote her lover. Envious, ha!
That was Lucilla's keynote. Agony!
I will not give him up.
MARCIA.
He is a traitor.
I say this in Truth's name.
COMMODUS.
And through your eyes
I look as to the bottom of the well.
Marcia, come nearer! You are deadly sure . . . ?
MARCIA.
Eclectus!
COMMODUS.
No; swear to me by your eyes . . .
MARCIA.
Cleander is a traitor. He has brought
A host together, he has armed your people
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He fraudulently bore the public grain
To private granaries, till famine raged,
And still it rages on. Although I tremble
To move you with the sorrow worst to man
Of finding falsehood in the services
That fashioned every day, I, who must die
So soon beside you, yet proclaim with Rome
Cleander is a traitor.
(She gazes into his eyes.)
COMMODUS.
So you doom him,
So! Woman, how I hate you. From his youth,
When every office nearest to myself
Was his, and he familiar with my pleasures,
My needs, my health, my privacy, my sleep,
Even then he was a traitor? All must end
If such a hollow, such inanity
Gape round me as existence.
(Re-enter Cleander.)
Let him die!
CLEANDER.
The cup!
COMMODUS.
He promised me
To bring it; it is brought. A poison-bowl!
Drink, drink, Cleander; pledge me!
(Cleander, startled, drops the cup & crouches at his feet.)
CLEANDER.
I am lost,
Crushed by your sudden anger. Could I drink?
'Twas an oblation. Are you not a god,
And through my service? Dare you cast me off?
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Gods do not so desert.
ECLECTUS.
You are condemned,
The crowd impatient.
CLEANDER.
Master, by our youth,
By all my fond devotion . . . If I erred,
It was for you. I twisted circumstance
For you, I stole, I lied . . .
MARCIA.
Laetus!
CLEANDER.
Her voice—
The harlot, my accuser!
MARCIA.
Laetus!
(Laetus enters with soldiers.)
COMMODUS.
Take
Your victim, offer him!
(Cleander is dragged away. Commodus wraps his face in his mantle.)
I shut my ears.
Truly I am a god; 'tis on this wise
The gods abandon, deaf to circumstance.
(A long pause.)
You cannot rate him. Why, he kept my rooms:
A little Phrygian slave, the cryer offered,
They bought him for me, and he jigged a dance
Of the mountain-loving Mother the first night
He placed my pillow.
Marcia, cling to me!
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My lord!
COMMODUS.
Cling, cling as to a drowning man.
O Veritas, I loved him. Do not weep.
(A distant cry & shouts are heard.)
For me I must. A ghost cries after me;
And at the little bloodless Hades-moan
My heart grows soft.
MARCIA.
Oh, steel yourself. Cleander
Has fallen justly.
COMMODUS.
So you will not weep!
He shall have justice in the Shadow-land.
Some parchment—quick!
(Exit.)
FADILLA.
What moves him?
MARCIA.
Something moves,
Something! When men rise restless from their tears
One must not ask their errand.
(Re-enter Pylades.)
Pylades!
PYLADES.
My master Pylades! Great lady, help!
Save him, O save my master! He is called
Cleander's friend, he is my most beloved.
You of the irresistible petition,
Who gave me freedom and Cleander death,
If what is terrible has terror for you,
The dreadful gulf, the joyless bark, deliver
My master from the teeming river-side.
Oh, he is hunted!
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Marcia, do not listen.
MARCIA.
I speak for your dear master. You, Eclectus,
Take the poor boy away; see, I confide him
To your protection.
(She pushes Pylades behind Eclectus, on whom she leans for a moment, steadying herself.)
ECLECTUS.
He imperils you.
MARCIA.
Hush, hush! Do you not hear the raving noise,
The loose, unguided step? Now if you love me,
You must not interpose. It is my hour,
And I alone can reckon with his mood.
(Re-enter Commodus.)
COMMODUS.
This Justice is a dazzling wanton, heady,
Reckless and wild as Fortune's very self,
Who gives her favours to the meanest traitor,
Denies no man her bosom, fondles ghosts!
Ah, that is novel. Marcia you remain
The statue that I left.
MARCIA.
Your will, my lord?
COMMODUS.
Most docile and most sweet, you will not blench.
I shall not see you weep! Call Laetus, call him,
As but a little while ago you called.
MARCIA.
Laetus!
COMMODUS.
He tarries.
(Eclectus moves forward, discovering Pylades.)
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Let me bear your will.
COMMODUS.
(To Pylades.)
No—here is one. Come hither to my side,
Thou hyacinth—blossom, thou most sweet exchange
For bloodshed and a god's dull agony.
You weep, you weep.
PYLADES.
My master!
COMMODUS.
Flower of Darkness,
Breathe me your sighs, and let me gaze on you,
Till grief is but a fragrance. And your sorrow,
Your suit?
PYLADES.
My master! Empress, speak for him.
You promised . . .
MARCIA.
(Her hands on Pylades' shoulders.)
Nay, he best can plead, he begs
The life of Pylades, the pantomime,
His master in the dance, a fugitive;
But cannot speak for weeping.
COMMODUS.
(To Pylades.)
Bear this sentence
Forth to the hall, to Laetus. It condemns,
One I found wholly guilty: she must die.
FADILLA.
Gods, 'tis Lucilla!
COMMODUS.
Bear the sentence, beauty;
And I will be your master. Dry your tears.
Ah, Marcia, this is well; you do not move.
MARCIA.
How could I?
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What a rigid ugliness
You stand. I hate you.
MARCIA.
(Throwing off her black cloak & veil.)
But this bitter mourning
Is past, the mourning of my widowhood;
For you are safe.
(Kneeling.)
And now, my lord, in token
You love this Marcia who has clung to you,
Who clings, will cling forever, grant this boon:
Forget Lucilla. Do not pardon her;
I cannot, but forget her.
And, to keep
Our names together, grave me on a medal
With you, your Amazon. So I am thanked
For this day's service that has guarded you,
Has kept you mine.
COMMODUS.
Magnificent! O pride!
My Empress, my deliverer!
MARCIA.
(Presenting Pylades.)
This freedman
Of mine shall be your servant. Yield protection
To his old master, he will straight forget him,
And dedicate to you the arts, the grace
Inclined you to him as a messenger.
Speed him with mercy.
COMMODUS.
(To Pylades.)
What a sob! You promise
You will forget your master?
PYLADES.
Save him swiftly,
Or he will perish with Cleander's friends.
My most-beloved!
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For that he perishes.
My fleet, young god, but you shall see the shades
Grow pale with horror! I will people Hades
Thick as the Roman-streets. But first Lucilla!
Carry the sentence!
(Marcia presses back the parchment against his breast: he strikes her heavily.)
MARCIA.
Commodus, this touch
Is new to me . . .
Eclectus, quick, your hand!
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