 | In The Name of Time |  |
1
ACT I.
Scene: Paris. A Hall in the Royal Palace.Carloman is pacing backward and forward: he pauses by a crucifix set up at the further end of the hall.
CARLOMAN.
Thou sayest truly that I am—a King
He said Who laid His life down on the Cross:
So will I be, a King. I will possess
The great reality. I war and govern,
I can strike hard as Charles the Hammerer;
Men say I have my father's qualities,
And in the brief months of my sovereignty
The infidel has recognised my blood:
But this is nothing! Phantom-Emperors
Have made the throne phantasmal. I have felt
In Zacharias, the great Pope, a force
That spreads like spring across the world. No more
Will I be petty marshal to a crew
That hack and murder, while the royal faces
Of wandering martyrs scintillate and thrill.
There is a glorious Betterness at work
Amid the highways and the solitudes;
I would be with it—in obscurity,
No matter!—with the river as it shapes
Its cisterns in the hills or where the wind
First draws its silver volumes to a voice:
Behind, at the beginning, from within:
A cry, a pang—what shall respond to it,
2
I would attempt Him. In the wilderness
Maybe He will unbosom.
[Enter a Servant.]
SERVANT.
The Archbishop
Of Mentz would see you.
CARLOMAN.
Blessèd Boniface!
He brings me my enfranchisement.
[As Boniface enters the Servant withdraws.]
Great Angel,
My spirit leaps within me to be born,
Beholding you.
BONIFACE.
My son, the Holy Father
Receives you joyously.
CARLOMAN.
[kissing Boniface]
To go to God
Living, unscathed, to give Him everything
One has, to pour one's soul into His lap,
To let Him play upon one as the wind,
To feel His alternations . . .!
BONIFACE.
Carloman,
Your childlike transport shall be surely blessed:
Yet in the convent there are bitter hours
Of exile from God's presence, penances—
CARLOMAN.
But will they choke my solitude with prayers?
BONIFACE.
The holy brethren chant in unison
3
About the cloister like a hive of bees.
CARLOMAN.
There have been hermits! Might I live alone,
I could breathe unrepiningly the while
It pleased God to keep silence. I would tame
Some wistful, kingly beast to roam with me,
And we would wait His pleasure. Boniface,
Oh, tell me of His coming! It is plain
He has been with you—You became His friend?
BONIFACE.
His servant rather.
CARLOMAN.
That I cannot be;
I am a Knight free-born; I come as those
Great nobles of the East, and all my service
Is adoration. You may have some converts,
Brute-tribes, who give allegiance to His name,
As those who do not speak the Emperor's tongue
May rank his subjects. I am not of these.
BONIFACE.
Thou speakest truth, my son; there are some souls
Loved of the Lord as Paul in Araby
With whom one must not meddle. In good time
You will exalt the Church; meanwhile your brother
Who has a tighter grip of circumstance
Than you—
CARLOMAN.
He is short-sighted, politic,
External in his bent. I lead the charge
In battle, I foresee the combinations
Of foreign forces; he is good at siege,
And all the hectoring process of delay.
He is not like my father. That great fight
At Tours! I feel the onslaught in my blood;
It never can run sluggish.
4
Had you seen
King Chilperic's flower-wreathed waggon in the street!—
You should have looked a last time on the world
Ere you renounced it.
CARLOMAN.
Scanned the heir of Clovis
Drawn like a senseless idol in his car!
You judge unworthily. God bade me come
Up higher to Him on a battlefield
Where I was victor. It was in the night—
I moved about among my sleeping men,
I heard them shout for triumph in their dreams:
It was enough!
BONIFACE.
Yes, all is vanity;
The pride of life, its splendour, vanitas!
CARLOMAN.
There is no vanity in life; life utters
Unsparing truth to us,—there is no line
Or record in our body of her printing
That stamps a falsehood. Do not so confound,
Father, life's transience and sincerity.
What makes the show out in the streets so vile
Is that it blazons forth the lie that youth,
Kingship and power are ineffectual.
A show of death where life should radiate
Is vanity. And if I now fling off
The honourable titles of my state,
Consul and Patriarch, it is not because
I have not nobly borne them; by my sword
The Church has been defended, and the corn
That bows in shocks about your monasteries
Bows down above the battlefields I won.
You misconceive.
BONIFACE.
A sweep of piety
Beyond my censure! [half-aside]
Will he thrive at Rome?
5
Why should you look so fearful? I have chosen
The path of life, choosing to be a monk,
And I have wisely chosen.
BONIFACE.
Ah, beloved!
CARLOMAN.
Now I must face my brother. Would he come
By chance! I dare not crave a conference.
I am arrested at the lips if ever
We speak of anything beyond affairs.
He will not understand—at least to-day,
When fresh from the procession of that cursed
Do-nothing Chilperic.
BONIFACE.
Set your purpose forth
At once, and let him freely misconceive:
You must not cloud for that.
CARLOMAN.
These mighty thoughts,
Mingled with God, how put them to the shame
Of the world's censure! What you call my soul
Flees as a shy girl that escapes pursuit.
BONIFACE.
Take your shame meekly. Do not let your eyes
Grow wild and hostile!
[Boniface, who has seen Pepin approaching, withdraws to the back of the hall, stands before the Crucifix in mute prayer, and then passes out, looking back at the brothers. Pepin is a short, stout man, with florid complexion and much vehemence of manner. He wipes the perspiration from his face and addresses Carloman without looking at him.]
6
Woden, what a sight!
This Chilperic is an idol that the people
No longer worship as his car rolls on.
Contempt, indifference! A few more months
Will rid us of the calf. We pull together
In right good part, fraternal, taking pride
Each in the other's excellence: ere long
The Pope will pour his oil upon our heads
To nourish our short curls.
CARLOMAN.
He has the power
Of making Kings?
PEPIN.
Liutbrand the Lombard winced
Before him and resigned the Exarchite:
And he who can impoverish may endow.
CARLOMAN.
[with a sudden movement]
Pepin, we have not looked upon the face
Of Zacharias: I am bound for Rome.
PEPIN.
A pilgrimage? Stay where you are! Tut, tut!
Wait till he seek us. Frankland is his hope
Against the Lombard: when he seeks us then
We twain will offer him our dutiful,
Strong swords, and keep St. Peter's realm intact;
While, in return, that gracious influence,
That something that we lack to give our strength
Supremacy, shall be poured down on us.
CARLOMAN.
Something we lack! I dream of a possession—
Pepin, the world if I became a monk
Would recognise that I lay down my rights,
None wrests them from me.
7
Are you clean gone mad!
Become a monk, you, Consul, Patriarch!
Our mother had been Christian scarce a year
Before your birth, and haply took the priest
Too much into her privacy. By Thor—
CARLOMAN.
[taking him by the throat]
No, but by God Incarnate, you shall swear
You own me son of Christendom's great guard
Ere you again draw unimperilled breath!
I, Carloman, your elder, the first-born
Of Charles Martel, of my own choice renounce
My portion in his honours. Own my birthright!
PEPIN.
Plague take you!
CARLOMAN.
Own it!
PEPIN.
Give a fellow breath,
Don't . . .
You have your father's temper, that's the test!
I loved you as a boy and set my teeth
Against a rare, sweet craziness that takes you
In certain moods—you need a keeper then:
You need one now. Hold fast your birthright, man;
Don't trust me with temptation. Geneviva
Will relish this new folly less than I—
Chuck her beneath the chin and threaten her
With your design! She is too young a widow
For me to govern.
CARLOMAN.
[apart]
Deaf down to the soul!
8
That flush across your forehead like a scar
At mention of your wife! Her lovers!—Think
If you withdrew protection . . .
CARLOMAN.
Purity,
In woman the ideal and the dream,
Has its firm seat amid the altitudes
Of manhood's nature—There alone are seats
Of holy contemplation, sexless thoughts,
Love that in God finds goal, a loneliness
That truth, not sympathy, can cure. 'Tis vain
The hope that woman, made to minister
To momentary passion, can provide
Solace and inspiration to her mate.
She breeds no hope; she cannot offer us
A clime for our ideals and our dreams,
Or plant a footstep soft as memory's
Across futurity's unimpressed sands.
PEPIN.
You speak from fact, I own.
But Boniface,
What does he say?
CARLOMAN.
He aids me.
PEPIN.
[slapping him on the shoulder]
Carloman,
'Twould be cold work without you.
CARLOMAN.
But my son—
PEPIN.
Nay, nay, no substitute! You are my brother,
I know the secret how to humour you,
I weave your projects in our policy,
9
Of an archangel . . . but no substitute!
CARLOMAN.
Yet love him for my sake; give him free training
In war and letters.
PEPIN.
Fie, fie! Geneviva
Will put you from this project. In the cloister
What would you see but men who dig and pray?—
No royal pageants.
[King Chilperic is borne in a litter with great pomp. His golden hair sweeps over the sides of the litter; his face is nerveless and exhausted.]
CARLOMAN.
[with an ironic smile]
Such as this. The King!
Tell him I have transferred the Mayoralty
To you, and do not taunt me any more.
PEPIN.
[to Chilperic]
Sire, you are weary, yet we crave the grace
Of a brief audience.
CHILPERIC.
Business! I can brook
No more of these distractions. Your good brother
Relieves me of all business. I can hear
Scarcely the people's clamour when they shout,
And I am shy at facing them. To know
There is a god indifferent to its whims
Gives the world courage of its natural awe;
So I expose these curls; that duty done,
Leave me at ease, an idol in his niche.
PEPIN.
But, sire, my brother has persuaded me,
10
His duties and his honours; being summoned,
He holds, by God to a monastic life.
CHILPERIC.
[with passing animation]
This interests us. After so brief a term
Of dignity! But I applaud his sense:
The convent is a place for peace of mind;
One has no interruption, one may watch
The gold-fish in the fountain half a day,
If so one will; and, though the prayers are long,
One grows accustomed to them as to meals
And looks for their recurrence.
[suspiciously]
But, my Consul,
With you it cannot be the luxury
Of doing nothing that attracts. For us
It is the happy and predestined lot;
But for an untamed youth whose pleasures still
Are running in the current of his blood,
Such choice is of ill-omen.
CARLOMAN.
Courage, sire,
Is constant industry for happiness.
When I become a monk—
CHILPERIC.
Nay, no confession,
No putting reasons to your Overlord.
[to his nobles]
You need not shake your spears so stormily,
We leave you a stout leader for your wars,
[to Carloman]
And you, your liberty. What use of it
You make is of no moment to the world,
And does not raise my curiosity,
Who for myself have found in meat and drink,
In sleep and long, long abstinence from care
The pleasure proper to me. Pepin, come!
[Exeunt Chilperic, Pepin and the Frankish Nobles.]
11
He has no sight of God, is imbecile
And dropping into clay. I should not let
This show dishearten me; but I have suffered
A vulgar tongue to tell what from my lips
Alone is truth—that as the hidden spring,
Restless at touch of the diviner's rod
Is dragged through to the surface by his spells,
I am discovered and borne upward, made
The answer to some perilous appeal:
And for my folly I must be dismissed
By a mere dotard with a passing sigh
Of envy, who forego the battlefield,
The Council-chamber, the sweet clang of arms
For just a pricking wonder at my heart,
A knowledge I would give to secrecy
Plunging it headlong in the ear of God.
Oh for the cloister! I will make escape
At once, in silence, without taking leave:
My joy is in the consciousness that Time
Will never draw me back to any wish
To any fondness I am flinging off. . . .
[Enter Geneviva.]
My wife!
Is Geneviva come to me?
GENEVIVA.
Now the dull monk has left you. Rouse your head!
I have been taking thought how best to trim
My beauty for you. Boniface was slow
In giving counsel; slowly I took up,
Handled and dropt my jewels. Of a sudden,
When Pepin's voice was heard upon the stair,
I laid these blossoms in a ruddy knot
Thus hasty on my bosom. Come to me.
My lord, you owe me many hours of love,
So many hours I have been beautiful
In vain. You do not see me when I sing,
You miss the marks of music in my face,
12
Ridden beside me in the morning light.
You see me but as now when I am vexed
And haughty for caresses.
CARLOMAN.
[after a pause]
Geneviva,
You are a Christian?
GENEVIVA.
Dear my lord, you speak
As if I were laid sick.
CARLOMAN.
You were baptised?
GENEVIVA.
Assuredly, but the cold font has left
No chill upon my heart. Think not of that,
Think of our marriage-day. You leave me lonely
While Boniface enthralls you.
CARLOMAN.
[with hesitation]
Women even
Have put aside their pomps and vanities . . .
GENEVIVA.
Oh, leave me, you are insupportable!
You bring me word of kingdoms and of monks,
And thoughts of things that have not come to pass,
Or should be quite forgotten. We could spend
So sweet a moment now, for you are loved,
My Carloman—What need is there of talk
Concerning other matters?—loved of me,
Dreamed of when I am dreaming, when I wake
Wept for, sighed after. I have never cared
To listen to the minstrels, for the praise
13
How wild they look and solemn!
[Carloman folds her in his arms quietly. Then with great effort bends over her and speaks]
CARLOMAN.
Marcomir
Is restless for a pilgrimage to Rome.
I think we shall be starting presently:
And afterward . . . If I am long away . . .
GENEVIVA.
[breaking from him]
Oh, think a little! Can you leave this hair
So crisp and burnished? When the sun is bright
Across your shield, it has no livelier flash—
Confess, it has not? But you come to me
Stale, weary from your dreams and abstinence,
And tingle my suspicion.
CARLOMAN.
If these dreams
Were growing all the world to me!—You start,
You turn away, you will not understand.
The fear of hurting you has made me keep
So distant from you lately, and my eyes
You thought were worn with vigil and with books
Have burnt with tears at night for many a month
To think you have not known the tyrant-joy
That moves a soul to change and severance,
Except upon the day when for my sake
You parted from your home: but by the rapture
That made such tumult in the daughter's grief
When she became a bride, your husband now
Implores your comprehension.
All thou hast,
So the Church teaches, family and spouse,
The child thou hast begotten, thine own life
Thou must abhor, if thou would'st have new days
14
Is written in my very heart of hearts,
There is such haunting freshness deep below
The sorrow of farewell.
GENEVIVA.
[defiantly]
My God is Love—
The God who made a bower in Paradise,
Who wedded Eve and Adam, who abode
In the sweet incense of His Church to bless
My marriage.
[Carloman stretches out his hand to support her.]
Have no fear that I shall fall,
I cannot swoon while I remember it—
How in the songful hush a restless hand
Grew tight about my fingers, and a vow
Thrilled all the girl in me to womanhood,
And stung the future lying at my heart
To joy and frankness. That was years ago . . .
[She breaks into a bitter laugh]
O Carloman, you know not what you do,
You know not what I am, nor what a blank
Of mercy there is in you!
CARLOMAN.
Were I dead,
You would not be so violent: in a trance
Of resignation you would think of me,
With tears, not gasping laughter.
GENEVIVA.
[pacing the room excitedly]
Pilgrimage!
Did you say, pilgrimage? To think of you
Growing each day more cramped about the mouth,
More full of resolution in the eyes.
What shall I do? Pray for you—but the dead,
You have just told me, should be left unmourned,
Forgotten as last summer's autumn-leaves.
[facing him coldly]
My lord, I am no reliquary-urn;
There is no widow in me.
15
If you leave
Your Kingdom, there are certain things to do
Before you start. There is that Gothic King,
The captive Hermann—you must break his chains.
CARLOMAN.
Hermann is dead. Count Marcomir reports
Last night he found him lifeless.
GENEVIVA.
[gasping]
Late last night?
Marcomir!—Take your fingers from my sleeve;
But summon Marcomir, and if again
There is intelligence to break to me
Likely to hurt, give him the charge of it.
CARLOMAN.
No, Geneviva. I have little speech;
But when the secret crept into my soul
I loved you, it was not to Marcomir
I spoke: and if another secret now
Is breaking through my nature, do not think
That he will be the spokesman.
[noticing her agitation]
Hermann died
I think by his own hand; he courted death.
What can a man prize in captivity?
[as Geneviva grows more agitated]
There! I will speak no more of him. Your maids—
[turning to summon her attendants].
GENEVIVA.
Weave the great arras. They have no concern
With me, except in silence to array.
You thought I cared to gossip with my maids!
But summon Marcomir.
[She looks after Carloman, who walks out, stroking his chin].
To think he dared
To lean above me with those burning eyes
16
From him the magic that was born in me,
I learnt it when great Hermann passed in chains,
And he is dead. I promised I would go
To-day and visit him. How could he die?
[Marcomir enters.]
Why, you are deadly pale!
[She recoils, and says in a faint voice]
It is the hour
Fixed for our visit.
MARCOMIR.
But the man is dead.
GENEVIVA.
What does he look like now? Is he so changed
I must not see him?
MARCOMIR.
Death is not a fact
To touch with simile. What looks he like?
All men in moonlight mind one of the moon,
All dead men look like death.
GENEVIVA.
He lies in chains?
Are the brows restful?
MARCOMIR.
Had you been a man
You would have asked me how he came to die,
No more!
GENEVIVA.
I had forgotten . . . then he perished
As Carloman reports?
[Marcomir turns away.]
You cannot bear
That I should mourn him?
17
[facing her again]
Oh, a lifetime, if
It please you! I am going to a place
Where love is held of little consequence.
GENEVIVA.
Then you are bound for hell.
MARCOMIR.
[between his teeth]
But you are safe!
GENEVIVA.
Keep me recluse from love, as men from war,
You spoil my faculties. Where will you go?
MARCOMIR.
To any coast you have not trod, wherever
The flowers are different from the flowers you wear,
To some Italian convent. Geneviva,
I am not framed to see you minister
To other men; but when long years are passed,
It may be in a fresco, I shall find
Some figure of a lady breaking bread
To mendicants, and kneel and pray to her
That she may bless me also: but till then . . .
[covering his eyes]
O God, you shall not tempt me, though I feel
Just how your hair burns in a fiery wreath
Above your brow, and how your eyes are soft
With blue, and deeper blue, as through the hills
The valley stretches azure to the close.
You shall not tempt me, though I almost hear
Your bosom taking record of your breath,
And I could sit and watch that tide of life
Rising and falling through the lovely curves,
Till I was lost in ecstasy.
GENEVIVA.
Oh, hush!
But then you love me. It was in a fit . . .?
18
Of devilish malice.
GENEVIVA.
In a jealous fit?
You shall remain.
[She goes up to him: he takes her hands in his, kisses them coldly, and puts them away.]
MARCOMIR.
I did not answer you—
His face was drawn.
GENEVIVA.
And I had given you charge
Of the great restive soldier.
MARCOMIR.
True, I swerved;
I have confessed my sin, and now must bear
The settling of my spirit on the Cross.
GENEVIVA.
So many favours!
MARCOMIR.
But you kissed his brows—
What need was there of that?
GENEVIVA.
You love me then,
You love me! Would you murder him again
If I again should touch him with my breath?
MARCOMIR.
Again, again.
GENEVIVA.
And Carloman complains
I am indifferent to him!
19
He forgets;
But, Geneviva, if a thousand years
Broke over me, when Time had cleared his storms
I should look up and know your face by heart.
GENEVIVA.
Then stay, stay, stay with me!
Have you once thought
Through the long years how it will fare with me—
Nothing to watch except the sullen waste
Of my own beauty? Marcomir, I hold
If there be judgment it shall be required
Of women what delight their golden hair
Has yielded—have they put its wealth to use,
Or suffered it to lie by unenjoyed?
I rather would die spendthrift, nothing left
Of my rich heritage, save memory
Of the wild, passing pleasure it conferred
Than keep it untransmuted. And you choose
To take from me the only eyes that care
To mirror mine! I have so often thought
That some day I shall drown myself: the water
Reflects me with desire.
MARCOMIR.
[bitterly, as he turns away]
A soul so wide
In innocence, so regal, on the day
He wedded, he appointed me your squire!
GENEVIVA.
[following him]
He keeps you with him, you can read his heart,
You know what way he travels, when his soul
Flies homeward. Tell me—'tis the only knowledge
I crave for in the world—does Carloman
Still hold me in affection? I beseech,
Tell me the truth. He loves you—
20
Yes, he loves,
He does not use me for his purposes.
[perceiving PEPIN]
Not Carloman—his brother on the stair
Laughs at your light behaviour. So you lose
One last poor opportunity.
[Re-enter Pepin.]
PEPIN.
Good even.
Well, my fair sister, you have heard the news,
Wept [glancing at Marcomir]
and found consolation.
But to think
The son of Charles Martel should be a monk!
GENEVIVA.
A monk!—a pilgrim?
PEPIN.
No, a cloistered monk.
MARCOMIR.
What is his crime?
PEPIN.
Oh, no impiety;
A crazy fit: he must get near to God,
So puts away all intercourse with man:
And while I rule he thinks to thrill the world
With some convulsive movement from his prayers.
Ha, ha! But you shall queen it as before.
GENEVIVA.
Go fetch my husband and remain without,
For he alone can speak to me of this.
[Exit Pepin.]
[turning to Marcomir]
You are a murderer: this act of yours
Will leave me very lonely.
21
I repent.
GENEVIVA.
There is no sin like that of looking back
When one has sinned. Whatever one attempts
If perfected in patience brings reward.
My Carloman will prosper: his whole heart
Is gone away from me.
Why there he is,
Passing in zealous talk with Boniface.
[Carloman and Boniface cross from right to left at the back of the hall. Geneviva intercepts them.]
Farewell!
CARLOMAN.
[arrested]
O Geneviva!
GENEVIVA.
Not my name,
Never my name again. Say, holy father—
They take new titles who renounce the world?
CARLOMAN.
[with flushing eagerness]
Then you too will renounce it? oh, the joy!
There is a strange new passion in your eyes.
Speak to me . . . but you cannot! I could take
No leave of you in your fierce, worldly mood;
Now all is changed.
GENEVIVA.
Yes, all. How long ago
It seems since we were married!
CARLOMAN.
Think the day
Is yet to come, the joy is all before.
[taking her face between his hands]
22
God has been with her, and she starts as I
Free in the great endeavour.
BONIFACE.
Do you choose,
Lady, a mere retreat among the nuns,
Or, like your husband, do you break all ties
That bind you to the earth?
GENEVIVA.
They all are broken:
Except . . . oh, I forgot! I have a son.
CARLOMAN.
[nervously]
Pepin will guard him.
GENEVIVA.
Are you dreaming still?
Fool, fool! I tell you Pepin shall decide
What robes I wear, and haply suffer me
Sometimes at entertainments to look on,
And see young Charlemagne praised. But for my child
He shall remain with me.
[Re-enter Pepin].
All is confirmed.
I shall not quit the world. How easily
A man is duped with God upon the brain!
I shall continue in my womanhood,
Giving, receiving pleasure.
I have heard
So much and suddenly; for Marcomir
Is to become a monk.
[to Carloman]
Give him no welcome.
He takes the cowl a penitent; he is not,
Like you, a white-souled wayfarer.
[to Pepin]
How strange
That we must pair together, you and I;
I know so little of your tastes and now
I must be often in your company.
23
My lord, speak to her.
PEPIN.
Come, an end to this!
Brother, if you are wise you will not leave
This woman in the world. Convents are made
To tame the pride of such and keep them cool.
CARLOMAN.
O Geneviva, for my sake, and yet . . .
Not so, belovèd.
[He turns away and covers his face.]
GENEVIVA.
Marcomir, farewell!
You will be monks together. When my husband
Forgets me, you must bring me to his thoughts
Recall that day we hunted and you fell;
I stayed to tend you; but the whole live day
My voice rang through the woods for Carloman
Until I wearied you; he was not found;
But you remember how I cried for him.
MARCOMIR.
Consul, have pity on her. I am free,
But she has need of love.
GENEVIVA.
O insolence!—
The virginal chill heart!—No intercession!
[to Carloman]
Our marriage is dissolved. How great a stranger
You have become to me! I should grow mad
To breathe by you another single hour.
[to Boniface]
And you, old man, who stand with such meek eyes,
Though you have robbed me of my name of wife,
And made my boy an orphan—go your way!
24
Dishonour motherhood, plant virgin homes,
Give to religion the sole charge of love,
And you will rear up lust of such an ice
As Death himself will shiver at.
[to Pepin]
Lead on!
Now there is hope you may become a King,
There should be some high festival to keep
To-night in everlasting memory.
Lead me away.
PEPIN.
Brother, in all—good luck!
And may the Convent's fare be angels' food.
Your wife's tears soon will dry.
[Exeunt Pepin and Geneviva.]
CARLOMAN.
The thing to do
Is simply just the sole thing to be done.
There should have been no tears, no taking leave;
A freeman can do anything he will.
MARCOMIR.
Take me along with you.
CARLOMAN.
Ah where—to God?
Why would you come with me?
MARCOMIR.
You must not ask.
Some rival slain in haste—the ebbing back
Of hatred that has left the face exposed
Of a dead foe I spared not. I have struck
On something in my nature that is foul,
That goes on breeding in me, that will taint
My fellows: I must purify my heart
With lonely fasting and continual prayers.
My hope is all in Time: though Time defaces
25
I who am just a murderer to myself,
Who close my eyes upon a sleeping guilt
And waking, answer to the bloody name,
Have some faint courage that a transformation
Will come . . .
CARLOMAN.
Oh, do not put your trust in Time;
Put on at once forever, leap to God!
Have done with age and death and faltering friends,
Assailing circumstance, the change of front
That one is always meeting in oneself,
The plans, the vacillations—let them go!
And you will put on immortality
As simply as a vesture.
MARCOMIR.
And you think
Of starting—when?
CARLOMAN.
Now: we are on the road.
| In The Name of Time | |