University of Virginia Library

ACT III

SCENE.—The top of Mount Merlin: a precipice on one side: rocks on the other. Hallowes is discovered lying with a note-book by his side.
Hallowes.
O noblest hour in my ignoble life!
Hunger and squalor, and delirious rhymes;
No past, no future; one unending now
Of meanest misery, most miserable
When fairest dreams gilded the starless night,
And words in choirs flew singing through my brain
Melodious thunder, for then most I knew
The yawning wants and gnawing cares of life.
To sink to that inanity abhorred,
The wretch whose early fervour, burnt away,
Leaves him, for lack of ease to smite his thought
To white-heat—since the brazier of youth,
That needs no sweat, is cold—incapable
Of any meaning, but with loathsome itch
That still essays, and still produces nought,
Or horribly emits untempered scraps—
Toads, cinders, snakes, nameless aborted things,—
The hideous castings witchcraft vomited;
Maybe to live on grudging charity
Of friends estranged; sneered at by smug success;
Called poetaster: such had been my life;
But I have chosen death. Death—and the moon
Hangs low and broad upon the eastern verge
Above a mist that floods the orient,
Filling the deep ravines and shallow vales,
Lake-like and wan, embossed with crested isles
Of pine and birch. Death—and the drops of day
Still stain the west a faintest tinge of rose
The stars cannot o'erwash with innocence.
Death—and the mountain-tops, peak after peak,
Lie close and dark beneath Orion's sword.
Death—and the houses nestle at my feet,
With ruddy human windows here and there
Piercing the velvet shade—deep in the world,
Old hedge-rows and sweet by-paths through the corn!
The river like a sleepless eye looks up.
Pale shafts of smoke ascend from homely hearths,
And fade in middle air like happy sighs.
Death—and the wind blows chill across my face:
The thin, long, hoary grass waves at my side
With muffled tinkling. . . . . Not yet! No; my life
Has not ebbed all away: I want to live
A little while. . . . . Is the moon gone so soon?
They've put the shutters to, down there. . . . . The wind
Is warm. . . . . Death—is it death? . . . . I had no chance. . . . .
Perhaps I'll have another where I go. . . . .
Another chance. . . . . How black!. . . . .

[Dies.
Enter Smith carrying Magdalen.
Magdalen.
I think now I can walk again.

Smith.
No need;
We've reached the summit: see, the circling world!
Does this seem madness still?

Magdalen.
Mad happiness:
I know we should be here. Ah! there's a man!

Smith.
My friend, the poet. He has chosen well:
The cream-white moon, this high peak of the earth—
The earth, itself the one Parnassus-mount.

Magdalen.
And have you climbed the hill only for him
Bearing me half the way? But answer not:
I only wish to feel that I am yours;
And that this knowledge may be fully mine,
Call me my name. You do not know my name?

Smith.
And wish not: you are woman; I am man.
Why should we limit all the thought of this,
Shrouding the Infinite with names? Our life
Is haunted by these ghosts ourselves have raised.
O lady, we shall never know the truth,
What man, what love, what God is, till we cease
To talk of them—which all do in the grave.

Magdalen.
How strange it seems to me and yet not strange:
Death, life, I care not which, so I am yours.

Smith.
And I yours, now, for ever.—Hallowes!—What!—
Asleep!—pale . . . . dead! . . . . This was a man too slight,
Too sweet to live. I think he has done well:
For had he stayed strung naked on life's wheel,
Broken by every circumstance of woe,
He had gone mad. This sight would pierce my heart,
But that yours bucklers mine. A girl-like boy!
He used to talk of euthanasia:
How has he killed himself? Here's blood! He said
That should he ever need to take his life
Thus gently would he ope a sluice and die.
I loved him. I shall weep some other time.
What has he written here?
While Smith examines the note-book enter Graham, Brown, and two Men-servants.
Scored and re-scored,—
Illegible.

Magdalen.
Oh!—my father!

Graham.
So, sir!
What Jupiter are you that walk away
With ladies over mountains in the night!
What radiant devil rather! With an art,
Seven times refining the seducer's dross,
You brand the reputation curelessly.
And leave the spotless sufferer to pine,
The guiltless-guilty in a hell of woe.
Or are you but a thundering, blundering fool,
Mad, not malignant? Do you understand?
To-morrow all the county shall declare,
And shortly London echo how Graham's girl—
Graham, the old fool, who never stirred from Garth,
And out of harm's way kept his daughter snug,
Filtering her reading, her acquaintanceship—
Never a man but Brown, her lord to be—
How she, when he, too confident because
She just had named the day, brought home that night—
The first time since his daughter turned fifteen—
Two men, wild London fellows—hark, away,
With both among the heather, o'er the moor!
For there's your friend, I see, sir. Do you see?
What's to do? Who is to suffer? Speak, sir!
Maudlin, he stares at you; you, at the ground—
But that is well, Brown, speak to him—to them.

Brown.
Love holds my tongue, sir.

Graham.
What! do you love him?
Why, now, as we came panting up the hill,
You swore he was a mean adventurer,
Poor as a rat, and friendless as a toad:
A scribbling, bibbling, fribbling, poet, he
Who takes it all so coolly there.

Smith.
He's dead.

Graham.
Dead!—O my God!—my head—my heart is split:
No hiding now. O man, man, you have done
Worse than you think! In every ha'penny rag,
Cried in the streets, the talk of billiard-rooms—
My daughter Magdalen!—my happiness,
My poem, picture, my divinity!
I haven't fired a gun, or touched a card,
Donned buckskin, made a bet, for five long years.
I've led a dog's life; done dog's duty too;
And been as happy as a faithful dog:
And all to save my daughter from the taint
That taints me, taints the world, and taints the best:
I've no fine names for it; I know it's there.
I've taught her everything—professors, books:
Made her a—what's the word?—a paragon:
And now I've got my nephew here, young Brown,
Who had a grandfather, who had one too—
An Oxford man, a wholesome, handsome boy,
Rich, well-disposed, to marry her: and here,
Safe in my pocket, is their honeymoon—
A map, I mean, where I will follow them—
I've marked in red the route they'll take, you see—
Before I go to bed. I'll have my fling
After they're married—do you understand?
My poem out, my picture on the line,
I'll dance, and sing, and dine, and wine, and shine!
My God, Magdalen, don't stand staring there!
The moon can't help you, bouncing as it is.
I'm going mad. Brown, take my daughter home.

Magdalen.
Father I cannot, now, go home to-night,
Unless he comes with us.

Graham.
He! whom? What! him?

Magdalen.
Father, for him you sacrificed yourself,
Not knowing how you wrought on fate's behalf.
Most loving and most noble father, thanks:
My heart is aching with deep thankfulness.
Never had daughter such a holy time
Of preparation: any other life
Would not have made me meet for him.

Graham.
Girl! girl!
Be quiet, now!—Brown, tell us what to do!

Brown.
Keep cool, as I am. Smith, I know your power:
You are the kind of man that healthy girls
Yield to at once, you know.

Graham.
What's this? What's this?
You've lost your head, I think.

Magdalen.
O father, look!
See with my eyes. He's worth a million Browns.—
[To Brown.]
Sir, pardon me. You are a worthy man,
And much above the common stamp, I know.
Father, this man—I do not know his name—
Is all the world to me.

Graham.
You little fool!
[He hands Magdalen over to Brown and the servants.
Now, sir, I'll pay you down a thousand pounds
To keep this quiet. . . . . Oh, the murdered man!
Ay; he's been murdered: here's the murderer:
That's the way out of it! Ha, ha! my buck,
We'll have you clapped in jail.

Brown.
That wouldn't do.
I'll add another thousand. Keep our names. . . . .

Smith.
Magdalen!

Magdalen.
Yours, only yours.

Graham.
Be quiet!
What's to be done? See you here, ravisher—
But stop a bit: we're all assuming. Brown,
Perhaps there is some satisfactory—
Some explanation, plausible at least.
Sir, have you anything to say?

Smith.
Much. First:
You are my enemy, and I am yours.
Rancorous debates, and wars, and martyrdoms
Give tolerance the most forlorn of hopes;
But with the impartial moon for ensign, here
I dare assay to make my foe my friend.
Even one who overlooked the world with me,
And saw it, as I see it, a flying shuttle,
Weaving a useless web of mystery
That shrouds itself—even he, whose piteous blood
Stains this green mountain-brow the soft clouds kiss,
And sweet wild winds freshen continually,
Had not discerned the reason of our deed:
How much less you, who never think at all!
But you must listen: you must try to think.
And see how simple is our presence here:
The way to town is five miles by the road,
And two across the hill; so this I chose,
Being shorter, and because my friend had said
He would await my coming. She and I
Are on our way to London.

Graham.
You are mad:
You've made her mad. Good-night.

[He is about to lead Magdalen away but Smith holds him.
Smith.
Not so:
We are not mad, but you—the world is mad.
You and the world would make her such a thing
As poets still cry out on. Mine she is,
Mine by the love that, as we had been gods
Meeting in golden Tempe, dawned and shone
Full-beamed at once. What is more sane than love?
The universe is chaos without love. . . . .

Graham.
Hold off!

Smith.
Be still!—Women are made by men:
The nations fade that hold their women slaves:
The souls of men that pave their hell-ward path
With women's souls lose immortality.
What station in our heart's economy—
The hidden household where our naked thoughts
Stand at the windows innocent as babes,
Or crouch in corners shamefaced and undone,
Though none may pass but he whose thoughts they are:
What home, or what foul den we keep them in,
These complements of us, these plastic things
Our fancy fashions to the shape we please—
That is the test of sanity. Behold,
Your daughter, being throned within my heart,
Has straight become a queen!

Graham.
What noise is that?

Smith.
A cry within the wind. Have you ne'er heard
Prophetic voices muffled in the blast?
Old man, you've done a high thing for your child;
But all is naught if you constrain her now.
Give me the woman whom my soul has chosen,
Give me the woman who has chosen me.

Graham.
Poor fool! no frantic whim will change my plan.

[Graham and Brown lead Magdalen out. Smith attempts to take her from them but the servants interfere. He hurls them both to the ground: they rise and run out. Smith goes out, and re-enters backward with Magdalen on one arm, keeping Graham and Brown off with the other. He stops at the edge of the cliff.
Smith.
Back, or we plunge together.

Graham.
Hold! [Aside.]
That sound!
How could they know? But yet, they saw us go.
It is the village coming up the hill!
They'll rescue us. Brown, we must seem to yield,
This is a madman, no idealist.

Brown.
Stark, staring mad.

Graham.
Of course. We might have known.
Why, I could laugh. Come on, we'll humour him.—
Conclusions reached with salience, sir, are oft
Wiser than those we plod to; for the mind
Tires on the dusty round-about; and so
I think you have deserved my daughter.

Smith.
Ha!
Then you are but a worldling after all:
I know your thought: I've met it face to face
A hundred times; and though it owns it not,
It means that all it cannot understand
Is madness, and that highest God is mad.
Is it because the moon is in a cloud
You speak this folly now?—a human voice!
Some people on the hill! I see your drift.—
Magdalen Graham. . . . .

Magdalen.
Yours, always, only yours.

Brown.
I warn you, monstrous rogue, abduction earns
A lengthy term of penal servitude.

Smith.
Inept fool!—Lady, life, the shooting star,
Is no more worth than is the miser's gold,
The cultured man's impressions, lust's delight;
It is a prison innocence may break;
A moment mere of immortality.

Magdalen.
Watch for the moon: she slips her sable shawl,
And silver lace. Behold!

Smith.
The happy night
Heaves a deep long-drawn sigh of sweet content.

Magdalen.
Oh, if the world would look on us like that!

Smith.
The world for you and me is one blank stare—
A basilisk would shrivel up our souls.

Magdalen.
O these hoarse shouts and fiendish empty shrieks!
How near the people are! Can we not go?

Smith.
Yes, we can go where none will follow us.
We two could never love each other more
Than now we do; never our souls could mount
Higher on passion's fire-plumed wings; nor yet
Could laughter of our children's children pierce
With keener pangs of happiness our hearts.
I have a million things to tell my love,
But I will keep them for eternity.
Good earth, good mother earth, my mate and me—
Take us.

[He leaps with her over the precipice. Graham rushes forward, but falls fainting. Enter villagers, shouting and laughing.