 | Rosamond |  |
V.
At Woodstock.Rosamond.
Late summer now, but in the fair blue spring
How shall God bear me? Once (men say) Lord Christ
Walked between rivers in his rose-garden
With some old saint who had a wife by him
To feed with apple-pulp and honeycomb,
A wife like Mary in king David's time
Long after—but a snake so stung his foot
He came back never, being lame at heel.
A story some priest wrote out all in gold,
Painting the leaves green, for a king to read;
But the king burnt it; whom God therefore took
And sold him to some Turk, with eyes thrust out.
Here in my garden, now his feet are healed
From those twin stains where bit the hanging-nails,
He would not come to let me kiss them whole,
Wash them with oil and wet fruits bruised to juice,
Rare waters stained and scented through with rose—
Though my hair be as long as Magdalen's,
As yellow, maybe. Mine eyes and eyelids ache,
Too thick to see past, weeping swells them blue;
And the veins narrow visibly and waste
Where next the elbow neither hand could span;
The flesh that wore glad colour is gone grey,
And soon the hair will; yea, not milk but blood
Fills my breast through, not good for any child
To lay sweet lips to; I am as a gold cup
With beaten edges and dry mouths of dust,
That tears weep into, and that cunning man
By whose wit I was fashioned lets them run
And lets men break me. If I were well dead,
Then were the tears all spilled over the ground
And I made empty; also I pray God
To get me broken quickly; else, who knows,
If I live long till these years too seem grey
As a flower ruined, then ere sleep at night
I shall be grown too stark and thin to pray,
Nor will God care to set me praying then.
Maids will keep round me, girls with smooth warm hair
When mine is hard, no silk in it to feel,—
Tall girls to dress me, laughing underbreath,
Too low for gold to tighten at the waist.
How shall God bear me? Once (men say) Lord Christ
Walked between rivers in his rose-garden
With some old saint who had a wife by him
To feed with apple-pulp and honeycomb,
A wife like Mary in king David's time
205
He came back never, being lame at heel.
A story some priest wrote out all in gold,
Painting the leaves green, for a king to read;
But the king burnt it; whom God therefore took
And sold him to some Turk, with eyes thrust out.
Here in my garden, now his feet are healed
From those twin stains where bit the hanging-nails,
He would not come to let me kiss them whole,
Wash them with oil and wet fruits bruised to juice,
Rare waters stained and scented through with rose—
Though my hair be as long as Magdalen's,
As yellow, maybe. Mine eyes and eyelids ache,
Too thick to see past, weeping swells them blue;
And the veins narrow visibly and waste
Where next the elbow neither hand could span;
The flesh that wore glad colour is gone grey,
And soon the hair will; yea, not milk but blood
Fills my breast through, not good for any child
To lay sweet lips to; I am as a gold cup
With beaten edges and dry mouths of dust,
That tears weep into, and that cunning man
By whose wit I was fashioned lets them run
And lets men break me. If I were well dead,
Then were the tears all spilled over the ground
And I made empty; also I pray God
To get me broken quickly; else, who knows,
If I live long till these years too seem grey
As a flower ruined, then ere sleep at night
I shall be grown too stark and thin to pray,
206
Maids will keep round me, girls with smooth warm hair
When mine is hard, no silk in it to feel,—
Tall girls to dress me, laughing underbreath,
Too low for gold to tighten at the waist.
Eh, the hinge sharpens at the grate across?
Five minutes now to get the green walk through
And turn—the chestnut leaves will take his hair
If he turn quick; or I shall hear some bud
Fall, or some pebble's clink along the fence
Or stone his heel grinds, or torn lime-blossom
Flung at me from behind; not poppies now
Nor marigolds, but rose and lime-flower.
Five minutes now to get the green walk through
And turn—the chestnut leaves will take his hair
If he turn quick; or I shall hear some bud
Fall, or some pebble's clink along the fence
Or stone his heel grinds, or torn lime-blossom
Flung at me from behind; not poppies now
Nor marigolds, but rose and lime-flower.
Enter Queen Eleanor.
Qu. El.
(To Bouchard within.)
Outside—outside—I bade you keep outside;
Look to her people; tell me not of shame;
Look to her women.
Ros.
Ah God! shall this be so?
Qu. El.
I'll have no man at hand to help her through;
Not till the king be come; tush, tell not me,
No treaties—talk of promises, you talk!
I will not strike her; look to them; Lord God!
I bade you have a heed; there, go now; there!—
Here, golden lady, look me in the face;
Give me both hands, that I may read you through,
See how the blood runs, how the eyes take light,
207
Ah sweet, and shall not men praise God for you?
Ros.
I shall die now. Madam, you are the queen.
Qu. El.
Does fear so speak?
Ros.
Not so; for pain with me
Is a worn garment or that common food
That sleep comes after best; what wrath will do
I make no reckoning with.
Qu. El.
What love hath done
I keep the count of; did he not hold this way?
Did you not set both hands behind his head,
And curl your body like a snake's? not set
Each kiss between the hair of lip and chin,
Cover your face upon his knees, draw down
His hands on you, shut either eye to kiss?
Then it was “Love, a gold band either side,
A gold ring to pull close each knot of hair!”
“Nay, not so; kiss me rather like a bird
That lets his bill cut half the red core through
And rend and bite for pleasure—eh! I felt
What pinched my lips up after;”—was it not?
Did it not sting i'the blood, pluck at the breath
If a bird caught his song up in the leaves?
Eh! this was sweet too, that you called the king
Some girl's name with no royal note in it
To spoil the chatter—some name like a kiss
The lips might loose and hesitate upon?
He would weave up this yellow skein of yours
To knot and ravel, though his hands might pluck
Some plait a little overmuch; your throat,
208
One would not have a rough thing rasp it round,
Not steel to touch it, only soft warm silk.
Will you not sing now, loose your hair well out
For me to hold the gracious weft? Alas,
So white you grow, love; the head drops indeed,
A moan comes out of that kissed mouth of yours!
You harlot, are you sick to look at me?
Though my heel bruise you in the gold snake's head
I choke to touch you.
Ros.
I shall die without.
But give me time to speak; wherefore am I
That am made soft in this my body's strength
And in my soul smooth and affectionate
So taken in your loathing? you do not right
To hate me that am harmless; see my face,
You will not smite me afterwards; this sin
Was not begot of wilfulness in me
To be your pain and a shame burning you;
Yea verily, no evil will or wit
Made me your traitor; there came not in my mind
One thought to gall you past good patience; yea,
If you could see the pained poor heart in me
You would find nothing hateful toward you
In all the soft red record its blood makes.
Qu. El.
Thou art more fool than thief; I have not seen
A beaten beast so humble of its mouth,
So shaming me as you; I am ashamed
That such a thing can see me in the eyes.
209
Being well caught? Ah harlot, have you made
Thief's japes at me, lewd guesses on my wrath,
Spat towards me? and now God gives me you
I shall play soft and touch you with my gloves,
Nay, make my lips two kissing friends of yours
Because mere love and a sweet fault i'the flesh
Put you to shame? Look, you shall die for that,
Because you sinned not out of hate to me
That have and hate you. Do not shake at it,
I will not strike you yet; what hands are mine
To take such hangman's matter to their work
And be clean after? but a charm I have
Quick to undo God's cunning weft of flesh
And mix with deadly waters the glad blood
That hath so pure a sense and subtleness.
This is a gracious death made out for you
And praiseworthy; you shall die no base way,
Seeing what king's lips have fastened in your neck.
Choose me this edge to try your flesh upon
That feels so precious—like a holy thing
Kissed by some great saint's mouth, laid afterwards
With taper-flame in middle altar-work,
All over soft as your own lips that fed
Between the king's eyes—
Ros.
Madam, be merciful,
You hurt me, pinching in my throat so hard.
Alas, ah God, will not one speak for me?
Qu. El.
Yea, then choose this.
Ros.
I will not choose; God help!
210
I will be blind and save the sight of choice.
So shall my death, not looking on itself,
Fall like a chance.
Qu. El.
Put me not past mine oath;
I am sworn deep to lay no stroke on you.
Ros.
I will not drink; so shall I make defeat
On death's own bitter will. Do not look hard;
I know you are more sweet at heart than so.
Make me the servant of your meanest house,
And let your girls smite me some thrice a day,
I will bear that; yea, I will serve and be
Stricken for wage and bruised; give me two days
A poor man puts away for idleness,
Lest my soul ache with you—nay, but, sweet God,
Is there no thing will say a word for me,
A little sad word said inside her ears
To make them burn for piteous shame? you see
How I weep, yea, fear wrings my body round;
You know not hardly how afraid I am,
But my throat sickens with pure fear, my blood
Falls marred in me; and God should love you so
Being found his friend and made compassionate—
Qu. El.
I have a mind to pluck thee with my hands,
Tear thy hair backward, tread on thee. By God,
I thought no sin so sick and lame a fool
As this lust is.
Ros.
But I will drink indeed,
I will not yet; give me the sword to see
211
Qu. El.
Yea, this way will you see?
Ros.
I cannot hold it by the edge; it is
Too keen to touch the sides thereof with sight.
Yea then, your drink.
Qu. El.
To spill here in the ground?
It were good game to get white iron out
As did God's priest with a king's harlot once,
Burn up your hair and brand between your eyes
That I might have you wear me so in red.
Besides to-night the king will look for you,
“Eh, Rosamond? she hides then closer yet,
Maybe for fear of passengers that slip
Between those waters; I shall have her now,
Ha love, have I said right?” would he kiss you,
Spoilt face and all?—You will die simply then?
You do the wiselier.
Ros.
God be pitiful!
No man in this sharp world to speak for me
Of all that go and talk—why now they laugh,
Chatter of me, base people, say foul things—
Ah God, sweet Lord, that death should be so hard.
Nay, thou fair death, make me not wroth with thee;
Use me the best way found in thee, fair death,
And thou shalt have a pleasure of mine end,
For I will kiss thee with a patient lip
Even on this husk of thine; thou tender death,
Do me none evil and no shame, that am
So soft and have such sufferance of thee
And talk such lovers' little talk; fair death,
212
None shall drink after.
Qu. El.
Cease, and be not lewd;
Cease, and make haste. What harlot's wit hast thou
To play death's friend this way?
Ros.
Yea, friends we are;
I have no breath that makes a curse for you,
All goes to fashion prayer that God sow pity
I'the grounds of wrath; you see me that I drink;
So God have patience.
Qu. El.
It is done indeed.
Perchance now it should please you to be sure
This were no poison? as it is, it is.
Ha, the lips tighten so across the teeth
They should bite in, show blood; how white she is,
Yea, white! dead green now like a fingered leaf.
Enter King Henry and Bouchard.
K. Hen.
Is it all done? Yea, so, love, come to me,
You are quite safe, held fast; kiss me a little.
Speak, hast thou done?
Qu. El.
So, would you praise me now?
It is done well, and as I thought of it.
K. Hen.
O sweetest thing, you do not bleed with her?
She cannot speak. By God's own holiness
Each fear put on you shall be as blood wrung
From her most damnèd body. Do but speak.
This is just fear. Ay, come close in and weep.
This is your fear?
213
Nay, but my present death.
Doth fear so ruin all the blood in one
As this spoils mine? Let me get breath to help;
And yet no matter; I will not speak at all,
I can die without speaking.
K. Hen.
(to the Queen).
Listen to this—
Thou art worse caught than anything in hell—
To put thy hands upon this body—God,
Curse her for me! I will not slay thee yet,
But damn thee some fine quiet way—O love,
That I might put thee in my heart indeed
To be wept well! thou shalt be healed of her—
Poor sweet; she hath even touched thee in the neck
Thou art so hurt. This is not possible
O God, that I could see what thou wilt do
With her when she is damned! Thou piece of hell,
Is there no way to crawl out of my hate
By saving her? pray God then till I come,
For if my hands had room for thee I would
Hew thy face out of shape.—She will not die.
This heat in her is pure, and the sweet life
With holy colour doth assure itself
In death's sharp face; she will not die at all.
Thou art all foiled, found fool and laughable
And halt and spat upon and sick—O love,
Make me not mad! if you do so with me
I am but dead.
Ros.
Do not so cry on me;
I am hurt sore, but shall not die of it.
Be gracious with me, set your face to mine,
214
I am but woman and make words of pain
Where I am well indeed; only the breath
Catches, for joy to have you close. I would
Sing your song through; yea, I am good you said,
Gracious and good; I cannot sing that out,
But am I good that kiss your lips or no?
That keeps yet sweet; there is not so much pain
As one might weep for; a little makes us weep;
To die grown old were sad, but I die worth
Being kissed of you; leave me some space to breathe—
I have thanks yet.
[Dies.
Qu. El.
So is the whole played out;
Yea, kiss him. Ah, my Bouchard, you said that?
K. Hen.
Ay, keep the mouth at ease; shut down the lids;
You see I am not riotously moved,
But peaceable, all heat gone out of me.
This is some trick, some riddle of a dream,
Have you not known such dreams? I bid you stand,
Being king and lord, I make you come and go;
But say I bid my love turn and kiss me,
No more obedience? here at sight of her
The heart of rule is broken. No more obedience?
She hath forgotten this; were I a man,
Even that would slay me; I beseech you, sir,
Take no care of me; I can bid you; see,
I touch her face; the lips begin to stir,
Gather up colour; is there sound or speech,
215
She will speak surely; for dead flesh is grey
And even the goodliest pattern wrought of man
Coldness and change disfigure; what was red
A new disconsolate colour overpaints,
And ever with some ill deformity
The secret riddle and pure sense of flesh
Becomes defeated and the rebel taste
Makes new revolt at it; I pray take note of me,
Here comes no new thing; do you not see her face,
How it hath shut up close like any flower,
With scents of sleep and hesitating sweet
I'the heaviest petal of it? Note her eyes,
They move and alter; and if I touched her lips
(Which lest she wake I will not) they would be
As red as mine; yea that pure cheek of hers
Turn redder.
Qu. El.
Will you speak to him?
Bouch.
Fair lord—
K. Hen.
Sir, pardon me, I know she is but dead,
She is not as I am; we have sense and soul;
Who smites me on the mouth or plucks by the hair,
I know what feels it; stab me with a knife,
I can show blood: and when the eyes turn wet,
There's witness for me and apparent proof
I am no less than man; though in the test
I show so abject and so base a slave
As grooms may snarl at, and your stabled hound
Find place more worth preferment. For the queen,
See how strong laughter takes her by the throat
216
But she keeps quiet; she should live indeed;
She hath mere motion, and such life in her
Accuses and impeaches the Lord God,
Who wrought so miserably the shapes of man
With such sad cunning. Lo you, sir, she weeps;
Now see I well how vile a thing it is
To wear the label and the print of life
Being fashioned so unhappily; for we
Share no more sense nor worthier scope of time
Than the live breath that is in swine and apes
As honourable, now she that made us right
In the keen balance and sharp scale of God
Becomes as pasture and gross meat for death,
Whereon the common ravin of his throat
Makes rank invasion. Time was, I could not speak
But she would praise or chide me; now I talk
All this time out, mere baffled waste, to get
That word of her I find not. Tell me, sweet,
Have I done wrong to thee? spoken thee ill?
Nay, for scorn hurts me, Rosamond; be wise,
As I am patient; do but bow your face—
By God she will not! Abide you but awhile
And we shall hear her; for she will not fail.
She will just turn her sweet head quietly
And kiss me peradventure; say no word,
And you shall see her; doubtless she will grow
Sorry to vex me; see now, here are two
She hath made weep, and God would punish her
For hardness, ay though she were thrice as fair,
217
It makes her mouth move and her eyelids rise
To feel so near me.—Ay, no wiser yet?
Then will I leave you; maybe she will weep
To have her hands made empty of me; yea,
Lend me your hand to cover close her face,
That she may sleep well till we twain be gone;
Cover the mouth up; come each side of me.
THE END.
| Rosamond | |