University of Virginia Library

ACT IV

Scene I

In front of the king's house, Jerusalem. Herod, seated on a rock, overlooks the city and the Holy Mount. Blind Babbas stands beside him, moving his hands in the air.
Babbas.
What do you see?

Herod
(anxiously).
It is not here . . .
My noblest monument.

Babbas.
What do you see,
And what is stretched before your eyes? The Temple? . . .
Look at it, look up to the little House
Of God. . . . That day you stormed Jerusalem
You spared the Temple, much as you spared me,
Blinding my eyes . . . God's House—and I am glad
I cannot see it—so you spared my eyes.
You face our ruined Temple—what beyond?

Herod.
The Amphitheatre. . . . But it is not here—
My greatest work! . . .
Could you but see! It is the distant spikes,
The turrets and the rising fortresses.
It is not here—my noblest work.

Babbas.
Beyond
The Amphitheatre? . . .

Herod.
It is yet to build.
I can see far beyond, and overarching
This petty House of God, as in mirage,
And gleaming in the air, a perfect Temple,
Costly as Solomon's. It glitters on me
With every sunset, white and glittering. . . .
[He weeps.
And yet I may not enter the fair Courts. . . .
A stranger, grape by grape,
I have enriched the golden vine that hangs
Colossal on the porch. . . .
I may not enter the fair Courts. I am
An Edomite, a stranger, and rejected.
If God would love me . . .
If God would set His heart on me! I build
Wherever I am loved a monument:
And I am filled as is the moon at full,
My whole heart in this vision. . . . Everywhere
It is myself, and where it most excels,
And where I have devised the mystery,
I may not look close on my God. Is this
A sorrow to you with your open lids?

Babbas.
I mourn indeed there is no royal priest . . .
Without a blemish . . . beautiful. The Temple
His own to enter, and he has no place!

[Herod stands with fixed eyes.
Herod.
There is no royal priest . . .
And I can never serve as priest. I mourn.

Babbas
(gently).
My son, I see your Temple. It shall rise;
You give me fresher sight.
[He lays his hand over Herod's.
What hurries you?
Your skin grows tense. What is it?

Herod.
Past that rock
A single horseman . . . no, a band of horse . . .
But one in front more urgent at the gate.
They have dismounted.

Babbas.
Leave me then in darkness.
Descend!

Herod
(who has moved forward, turns back to the old man).
We will abide these tidings.
[He seats Babbas on a ledge, then strains downward towards the rocky path of ascent.
Pheroras!
[He embraces his brother, who climbs to him.
Ho, Pheroras, your face. . . .

Babbas
(groping toward Pheroras).
Speak!

Herod
(beating his breast).
Not too sudden.

Babbas.
Speak!

Pheroras.
Antony is dead.

Herod.
Mark Antony! . . .
[He rends his garment.
But I can see him, comfortable, lusty,
And all to-morrow his. But I can hear him,
The hearty, rallying tones . . . Mark Antony! . . .
A voice that had grown soft on woman's love.

Pheroras
(nodding his head).
She died with him.

Herod.
Of herself chose to die?
[Pheroras nods again.
Then Antony
Gave no commands . . . and yet her majesty
She knew was in this action. Antony
And Cleopatra—star on star extinct. . . .
They will be buried as one king for ever;
And Antony's great error proved the truth.
Why are you waiting round? There is no more. [OMITTED]
These Romans, ah! these fellow-kings, these men
Whose breath is on one's cheek, whose eyes are level,
Who are as gods, who do not lift one up. . . .

Pheroras
(shrugging his shoulders).
There is no more? We are as fishes cast
Out of their element on the hot banks,
And like to die . . .
Mark Antony, who crowned you, in the dust,
And Cæsar . . .

Herod.
True!
You speak the truth: I must go straight to Rome,
To Cæsar . . . I will wear my diadem
Till Rhodes; then go bareheaded, but with state,
To Cæsar.
(Suddenly to Pheroras.)
Break the news to Mariamne.
[Exit Pheroras.
(To Sohemus, who, having climbed up, has waited behind Pheroras.)
Sohemus, lead this old man down the rocks.
When he is safe, return.

[Exit Sohemus, guiding Babbas.
Babbas
(as he disappears).
We grope about—
Eyes have we and we see not; all of us
Are groping on the earth!

Herod
(calling).
Return!
And I must give commands . . . for now my death
Is moving on, is moving down to me,
As sure as an approaching caravan.
Cæsar will kill me; it is now my end;
And looking down on Pheroras, I see him
As a black messenger
With tidings of my death to Mariamne,
With tidings of her death, for she must be
Beside me where I am, and ghost to ghost.
The solitude of the new elements
Were base without her. I should have no voice—
All quenched, drowned . . .
(With a sudden cry.)
Mariamne!
O echo, O sure answer back from all
The hills she loves! . . .
How the earth dotes on her! how the sun follows
Her path to dote on her! how her own youth
Desires her! how her blood
Wooes her as for itself! . . .
To check the changes,
Season on season, of my apple flower . . .
To snap the branch! . . .
I'll move from her in secret: I am bearing
Her life away. Should I not move in secret?

[He turns, hearing a sound, to speak with Sohemus, and faces Mariamne and her sons.
Mariamne
(presenting her sons).
These—
For your blessing and farewell.

Herod
(thrusting the children away).
Is it because
You cannot say farewell?
Or is it you are haunted for my face?

Mariamne.
My lord,
You have sent Pheroras with solemn tidings:
He says that you will journey to your death.

Herod.
Mariamne, but your face is grave—a sky
Woven throughout without a seam. What terror
Is in your heart?

Mariamne.
No terror.

Herod.
And if Cæsar
Torment and kill me—ah, indifferent
As a lotus-flower washed by a bloody current,
Indifferent to my death!

Mariamne.
Farewell, my lord;
I did but climb the hill to say farewell,
Putting these first that I might be the last.

[She kisses him.
Herod.
Cold hands, cold cheeks! Have you heard, Mariamne,
How Cleopatra is at last in peace
Entombed with Antony?

Mariamne.
Your sons, my lord—
These little ones . . . Your blessing and farewell.

Herod
(blankly staring at her).
What will you think of, child, when I am gone?
Will you be mourning for me? Will you make
Such twilight as should fall before the night?
Speak but a little. . . .
Shall I go to Rome?
Can we thus sever? Speak!

Mariamne.
But were I Cæsar should I plot your death?—
I could not, Herod. It may be he loves you,
And cannot of a sudden, seeing you
So lusty in your kingship and so full
Of joy in all your days, put you to death.
Cæsar, be pitiful!

Herod.
No, no:
You will have tidings of my death.—Begone!
This is too sharp that you so prize your life,
Your life without my love. Where are you passing?
What is there for you in my absence?—Rancour
And all malignity and sullen pangs. . . .

Mariamne
(as if dazed).
Will you be long away?

Herod.
Would you were dead!
And from your eyes you wish it back. This face
You leave me with to set up at my prow,
This till I die! Farewell!

[He leaps down the rock.
Mariamne.
A murderer!
[Instinctively she turns to her children and covers them with her hands and kisses them.
[To Sohemus, who ascends.)
The king breaks from us suddenly; his children
Be in your charge. There, take them, Sohemus!

Scene II

Masada. Mariamne's old apartment
Salome and Cypros
Salome.

Mother, I am angered against Herod.

Cypros.

It is my son's will, child. He besought
me with the same eyes he lifted
for a favour when he was small; he was
weeping.

Salome.

He has banished us to his Masada;
we are his captives now.

Cypros
(laying a soothing hand on Salome).

My son has commanded. Let us lie by, like
the garments he is not using.

[In a low chant to herself.
Void we are as the palace that he frequents not,
Void . . . but how sudden an outbreak of gems and colour!
Say, can there be a woman so girt with gladness?
Cypros, safe from his foes thou shalt clasp thy son!

Salome.

Mother, mother, but you are free in
your thoughts!

[A eunuch comes and addresses Salome.
(To Cypros.)

From Egypt; the message is
not from Rome.

Cypros.

Egypt is no land . . . he does not
even travel by Egypt. You may talk
Egyptian while I am singing to myself.

[She is heard as she goes away.
Great is he, undiverted, cruel to torture,
Wrenching the truth from his tortured; soft to my bosom,
Soft to the cries of my bosom as when he sucked.

[Meanwhile an Egyptian woman has entered. She salutes Salome, then presents her with a box.
Salome.
Who art thou?

Anake.
Charmian's sister.

Salome.
And thine errand?

Anake
(pointing to the box now in Salome's bosom).
I am Anake . . . Charmian is dead.
My sister Charmian! She, too, touched poison.
They say it is the same.
[She points again toward the box.
I am Anake;
I tended Cleopatra in the tombs.

Salome.
How fared she there? She wept for Antony?

Anake.
She wandered up and down and took no rest,
And then she spread her prayers upon the tomb;
And it was like the lion round the desert
To hear her—I was frighted, for the noise
Was never in one place—now near, now far.
. . . My sister Charmian gave this to my bosom.

[She bows and turns to go.
Salome
(detaining her).
Anake, you have looked upon her dead.
How did those wonderful and perfumed lips
Fall into silence? Was her splendour slow
In ebbing, as a sunset or the sea?

Anake.
O Princess, she was marvellous disfigured,
For all the fair array she had put on
To dazzle Cæsar when he should be brought.
Her eyes were sunk far back into her head,
For she had wept so sore; her cheeks were cut
And frayed up with her nails, as I had seen her
Striding her chamber when the fury drove.

Salome.
For Antony—was this for Antony?
Then wherefore was she careful of her promise?
Why does she crave the death of Mariamne?
[Holding the golden box before her eyes.
It may be there is poison here for both,
For Herod too . . . He shut us in this fortress;
It may be he is whispering our death . . .
But she shall die the first. If I remove her,
And put her beauty from his eyes, perchance . . .
There is but one delight—to live with him
Again and sole as in our youth together.

[A great cry is heard through the passage, followed by wailing. Enter Pheroras and Cypros with a crowd of attendants.
Pheroras.
Salome, evil tidings.

Cypros.
He is dead!
Herod is dead.

[She falls, as if shot. Salome with a sharp cry lays hold of Pheroras.
Pheroras.
They are come from Rome, just landed. . . . They report
That Cæsar tortured him.

Salome
(looking down at Cypros).
She has not heard!

[She stoops down and chafes her mother.
Pheroras.
Killed in revenge, by Cæsar.

Salome.
Pheroras,
You are as in his place—our Governor.
Swift to Jerusalem! Leave us alone.
Put out the women. Swift!

Scene III

Shipboard. Herod and Nicholas of Damascus at the stern of the vessel
Nicholas.
Dear king, but why so fervid in your gaze,
And why this backward strain? The land is Greece.

Herod.
The land is Greece—your land, philosopher,
Your race, all people's race, the land of gods.
[Nicholas moves away sternly.
These coasts!

Nicholas
(passing the king as he paces).
We land by Strato's Tower, the earth
Still Greek, idolater!

[He passes down the deck and becomes involved in talk with a group of seamen.
Herod.
The earth still Greek!
Then I will build on it, adorn it. Temples,
There shall be Temples;—ay,
And the great stronghold, Cæsar's fort.
[He falls into deep musing.
Mariamne—
Her Tower . . . O Mariamne! it is childish
The love I bear her, inexpressible.
Mariamne! In my palace she will greet me,
At my palace door; or rather she will stand
And wait for my approach still as a flower.
Children should run to greet you; but a woman
Should wait upon your coming as a flower.

[Presently Nicholas returns.
Nicholas.
King, you must rouse yourself.

Herod.
Not from my dream.
[At sight of Nicholas's face.
Good Nicholas—
What is the peril? Brief!

Nicholas.
There is report
Throughout Judæa, and, it seems, through Egypt,
That you are dead. Those clustered foreigners,
Taken aboard to speed our ship, confer,
In the confusion of their dialects,
Of how King Herod has been killed and all
His lands in turbulence . . .

[Herod suddenly shrieks and tears his hair.
Nicholas.
What ails the king?

Sailors.
What sickness?

Herod
(to the Sailors).
Swift!
Swift, if you love me . . . I have intimation,
I have seen it as a spectre from the sea,
The queen is dead!
Swift! she is calling me . . .

[He stares blankly to sea, while Nicholas encourages the Sailors.
Sailors.
King Herod, we will bring him to the haven!

Scene IV

Alexandrium: a room of the royal fortress
Enter to Sohemus, Mariamne
Mariamne.
I would ride forth to-day.
[Perceiving that Sohemus gives no heed.
Prepare me
A cohort of fair camels.

Sohemus
(bowing).
I am your slave.

Mariamne.
Say rather
You are my jailer, for you do not stir.

Sohemus
(bowing again).
I am your slave—do with me what you will.

[He goes on pacing; Mariamne stands by the window and sighs.
Mariamne
(with a gesture of entreaty to Sohemus as he passes).
The air!

Sohemus.
I cannot, queen; my lord's commands!

[He moves past her.
Mariamne.
Leave off your pacing—
Sohemus, let me pace. Cease! I am weary
Of watching you so harsh against the walls;
As I should watch a spider drop his web,
And up again, for ever to and fro.
[Meeting Sohemus's eyes as she rises and prepares to pace.
Why am I here?

Sohemus.
Look in my shield.

[Lifting it.
Mariamne
(closing her eyes).
He never
Can be so hated as I hate him. Sorrow
It is that I have looked upon his face.

Sohemus.
And would you look upon his face no more?

[She hesitates.
Mariamne.
O that his life were in my very hands!

[Sohemus stands before her.
Sohemus.
Madam, there is report your lord is dead.

Mariamne.
Ay—but a vague report spread through the lands,
Carried by pilgrims, wrought into a tale,
To cover up the people in such darkness,
That their great king is dead. You are not weeping?

Sohemus.
It is report, and yet so vehement
His mother at Masada mourns his death;
His sister takes the news; and for the manner,
Report says he was tortured and then killed.

Mariamne.
Has Cæsar dared to kill him, and is Jewry
Treated so abject? Oh, a Maccabee,
And not to take revenge!

Sohemus.
But the sure message
Delays—a mere report, spread from the sea
To murmuring Cæsarea. Were it sure . . .
[He is close on her, face to face.
I have command to kill you . . .
My reward,—
If I shall spare your life?

Enter Queen Alexandra
Alexandra.
Stay, Sohemus!
Sohemus, spare my child! . . .
[She pushes Mariamne at arm's length from Sohemus and stands between them looking back at him.
My Jewish soldier—and the fierce command
Laid on you is a Gentile's!
Sohemus,
I and this slender queen before you are
The last of Judas Maccabeus left,
He that delivered Jewry from the stranger.
I loose you from strange bondage! The Lord God
Looses His servant from abomination
Of oath to Esau's offspring: the Lord God
Blessed Jacob the Beguiler. Spare my child,
My beauty of the Asmoneans—spare her!

Mariamne.
He will not kill us;
Mother, there is no fear; we are as safe
As the nesting cranes.

Sohemus.
But my reward for this?

Alexandra.
Oh, excellent! A prize! You save her life . . .
Behold her beautiful. Oh, is she not
A living tree of flower before our eyes,
A living strength with living ornament
Of lips and cheek and open gaze, and brow
Of a flowered myrtle? Now she is my own;
Now she is mine again I grasp her, almost
To lift her as my son to sovereignty.
See how she pines for freedom—she is snuffing
The air . . . her nostrils! She is born again
To breath, to draw it as a right and feel it
Ungrudged to her young bosom.
(Clasping Mariamne.)
Once again
I give her to the air, my Mariamne.
No more disquiet! Ah, true, loyal soldier,
Though in her eyes there was no fear, there floated
That in their sadness the wild creatures show—
A daydream of their end . . . I have often thought
She would be happier to die—my child,
Who coldly met each day as though her last:
She of the blessing and the birthright, he
Of the surrendered blessing, the lost birthright;
She of great lineage, so slavish his;
So miserable, of his cruelty,
Her race, the kings Antigonus, Hyrcanus,
And the lovely young High Priest, your prince, her brother.
(To Mariamne.)
Do not speak, Mariamne!
Breathe on your gratitude, breathe peacefully.
[Mariamne moves slowly away and looks out over the tombs.
My daughter is no politician. Ever
She loved the dead, and now will love her husband.
Let her consume her comeliness with ashes
While we devise for her a happy kingdom!
Sohemus, hasten! Seize the courts and towers
And gateways of Jerusalem. Make speed!
Sohemus, in your life as in our lives,
The moment of our fate has quickened: Fate
Bears but few living children. Sohemus,
Make speed!

Sohemus.
It is not you that can reward me:
Your daughter . . .
Madam, I must have her oath.

Alexandra.
Her oath—my oath! I swear she shall be yours,
Here in my palace. On King Herod's sword . . .

[Mariamne comes down toward them and speaks as from a dream.
Mariamne.
First tortured, and then killed!

Alexandra.
Ay, child. Receive it!
Tortured in Rome, the city of his triumph,
Tortured among the people of his love,
Tortured at Cæsar's will, whom he has vaunted
Worthy as God of Temple-worship, homage
Of incense.

Mariamne.
But he does not suffer now.
He is at peace.

Alexandra.
In bottomless Gehenna!
(To Sohemus.)
And you are very sure of this report?

Sohemus.
Madam, it is so current in men's ears,
That if my lord return my life is forfeit,
Save for your intervention, or his coming
With a maimed power or sovereignty from Rome.

Alexandra.
My child is saved, and if she be a widow
She will herself reward you. Sohemus,
Think! I have lost my son . . .
(To Mariamne.)
No, do not touch me—
A fang is in your touch—you cannot comfort;
A man alone can comfort me, a man
Who will avenge me for my son.
(To Mariamne.)
Be silent!
You have neither mouth nor wisdom.
Sohemus,
If this report be insubstantial, if
He be not dead, why then, he shall be dead:
As the days make themselves, his doom be made.
Meantime there must be great festivity,
Pomps, dazzling courtesies, and Mariamne
Even more desirable than kingdoms.
[Mariamne makes a protesting motion.
Child,
And will you not dissemble, sacrifice
Your virtue?—the one victim we can spare,
Bred to be sacrificed; a prince's virtue,
Therefore to be esteemed.
(With sudden passion.)
Consider, child,
All I have done . . .

[A Gatekeeper rushes in.
Gatekeeper.
The king! . . . The king is at the fortress-doors.

[He rushes out.
Alexandra
(crossing to Sohemus).
Then we are doomed—
The faithful wife will now betray her mother,
Betray you, the preserver of her breath.
[Suddenly returning, she kneels to Mariamne.
But, daughter, you have found it sweet to live;
You have set your life before aught else: have mercy!
Do not destroy your mother. Let me live!

Sohemus
(kissing an end of her robe).
Queen Mariamne,
My life is in your hands, you may take my life.

Mariamne.
Bring in the king straight to me as I am.
Leave me, but take my mother to her women.

[Exit Sohemus with Queen Alexandra.
Enter Herod on the other side, his hair disordered and flying.
Herod.
Mariamne!—But you are well—
[He kneels, holding her hands in his own, sobbing. Then he rises and tries to recollect himself.
You might have aged, you might have lost your beauty—
It harried me—you might have lost your health.
I have thought of all the chances . . . all the fears,
The apprehensions that have startled me,
Lacking you in my sight. My startled sleep
Has been the watching of your ghosts. . . . Not one,
Ghosts in succession, ghosts of Mariamne.
I laugh now . . . laugh with me! Should we not laugh? . . .
The rose upon your cheek, that rose profound
In its abateless damask, not a flush,
Not deepening for me, steady as the stain
Dyed in a mummy's face-cloth . . . is it welcome?
But you are safe, and every idol-god
Shall have reward for this. . . .
Look at me, love; I live,
I am returned to you, I am well with Cæsar.

[She groans.
Mariamne.
What should that be to me?

[She falls to the ground.
Herod.
Surely she would not dare to do this thing!
She is playing with a harsh,
A cruel instrument of war, an engine
That will cut her all to pieces! We must warn her,
We must instruct her.
[He goes to her prostrate on the ground.
Mariamne,
Mariamne, you are ill-prepared!
You do not yet receive me as you must.
. . . Have pity on yourself,
For if you do not plead with me, my Dead . . .
Have pity! . . . Are you grown so ignorant,
And all I am forgot? . . . I am well with Cæsar;
But if you have been gloating on my death,
Let me whisper in your ear—it is a counsel,
A friendly counsel—you must make pretence;
You must get up from off your knees, and grieve
That you are not attired in majesty,
Giving me to excuse the wrong, such richness
And fragrance of you in your lips and eyes,
Such flash of jewels loitering into bloom
As I behold you . . . and the voice
Of the fountain as it leaps in all your speech,
Of the fountain breaking from the rocks . . .
Dissemble! . . .
You have a cause against me, a complaint?
Behold me, I am in the judgment-seat.
I will hear your wrongs.

[He seats himself.
Mariamne.
Not that—it is not that. . . .
I would warn you; there I would not fail in duty:
My mother—
My mother—she would hurt. . . .
She shall not hurt you;
Remove her from me. I would have no harm
To happen to you. She would do you hurt!

[She kneels, and rubs her head against Herod's garments.
Herod.
You love me? Say you love me with that cry.

Mariamne.
Pull down your hair. . . . Fie, it is braided false!
Who taught you this in Rome?
What crinkled hair!

[She rebraids a tress.
Herod.
Cleopatra would have taught me this.

[Mariamne smiles.
Mariamne.
My Arab
Is fairer than her Roman. How the sea
Is in your hair! And you were nearly wrecked?
. . . Remember, I have warned you there are many
Waiting about your throne to do you harm,
My mother chief. . . .
Now speak to me of Rome.

Herod
(taking her on his knee).
But, Mariamne, I have brought you gifts—
A Tyrian robe. . . .
There was a Cosian thing, a robe, a veil
Augustus chose. . . .

[Setting her free again, he goes impetuously to the door and gives a command.
Mariamne
(as he returns).
And did you choose it too,
This Cosian robe?

Herod.
The tissue was by far
The more esteemed—too fine to catch the eye.
I hesitated long, and then . . .
[An ample and heavy stole of Tyrian is brought in.
O Mariamne, will you wear this robe?

Mariamne.
There, let it be! Now tell me of Augustus,
For I would hear of every circumstance
About your life to guard you.

Herod.
Rome!
Is it your fashion to inquire of Rome
While I am feeling for your breath, so close
I listen, and so fine? Enfold me—no,
Leave me! . . . I am ashamed.

[He sits down, buries his face in his hands, and groans; Mariamne walks out, leaving the straight robe before him.