Part 4

To-day I go to buy some dates From Glyco’s cart. “Ten cents,” my smiling fruitman states, And then we part-- I to the mart, He for the next fig-buyer waits!

Back to my world I go, its keen Quick energy And competitions sharp and mean, Its flippancy, And sophistry, And tampering with things unclean;

But Glyco waits; he has ten cents; And he has hope, And back of him, antecedents Give him such scope! With his traditions’ affluence I cannot cope!

AT PÆSTUM

The low, flat marshland, myrtle overrun, A palm, a Roman wall that skirts the way, The far blue reaches of Salerno’s bay, Then ... the three temples standing in the sun.

These are the caskets of the sun-sealed years; ’Mid tides that ebb and flow, ’neath stars that set, Deathless their grave and tranquil beauty ... yet Buried in silence, in eternal tears.

Beneath these tympana the Dorians trod; Here, Doric priests upon an alien shore Made sacrifice, perhaps these myrtles wore, And garlanded the offering to their god.

Demeter saw the bright libations spilled; To Hermes leapt the scarlet through the fleece. Amid these columns moved the gods of Greece; These lofty spaces with the pæan thrilled.

This, centuries ago. Demeter now Is known no more. Poseidon, too, hath fled. ’Twould seem that Pan and Hermes both are dead; No Nike springs upon a Grecian prow.

Yet is this sacred pause, this pillared calm Still stirred by whispers from Tyrrhenian waves While near the shadows of these architraves Lie smiling shores of terraced fruit and palm.

And springing from Demeter’s altar site, Where the old dream of gods hath died away, And the Greek torch burned down to ashen grey, There blooms a star shape, mystical and white.

One mystical white star! Oh! Pagan fire Whose temples stand, whose gods have been forgot, One goddess holds in memory this spot, Else why should Nature thus in bloom aspire?

Why else in this dim fane the sea intone, And sun send fire to the altars bare, And moss and lichen trace strange scripture, here The lizards flash like symbols o’er the stone?

The low, flat marshland, myrtle overrun, A palm, a Roman wall that skirts the way, The far blue reaches of Salerno’s bay, Then ... the three temples standing in the sun.

PHIDIAS

A DRAMATIC EPISODE

_Dungeon in an Athenian prison; a small grated window near the ceiling shows a patch of blue sky. The scene discloses Phidias, prostrate and manacled. In the dusk of the cell lingers the_ JAILER.

JAILER (_curiously_). What sayst thou, Phidias, who art accused? The old plaint, snarling that thou art abused?

PHIDIAS (_lifting his head wearily_). What do I answer? Yea! what thing thou wilt! What care I for this legendary guilt? Who makes or unmakes Unity? Accused? Why, any fool accuses. It amused The enemies of Pericles to stab At him through me. Let gossips spread their blab, The sea is just as broad, the sky as clear And I as blameless.

JAILER (_persisting_). But that brought thee here, Took thee from royal favor, once the dear Adviser, friend of Pericles. It seems Here is the end of all thy mighty dreams; ’Twas Pericles who made thee, and there lurks His royal patronage about thy works.

PHIDIAS (_sullenly_). So reason vulgar minds; as well to say Hephæstus made me, manacled this way, Hammered to fever, bent to twisted woe. No, clown! no tyrant brought this overthrow, Nor my once vivid glory, but the fate That overtakes the artist; whether late, Slow, poisoning, by deadly world-born things, Or early blight of strong imaginings Too fervent for his frame. Athens is free From every blame. Not Pericles made me!

JAILER (_wagging his head obstinately_). ’Twas love of Pericles that cast thee here, Ungeniused thee, put thee to rot in drear Murk of this den; and if not he who made Thee what thou wast--aloof and haughty blade Fellow I watched in Agora, as one Treading on air, thy white himation Streaming like wings back of thy eager form, As thy swift sandal moved among the swarm Of merchants, gamesters, thieves; while deep gaze drank Of something that was neither wealth nor rank-- Why then,--who made thee? for that thou hast fame ’Tis granted, when the rabble speak thy name.

PHIDIAS (_moving restlessly, clenches his hands, answering impatiently_). I made me, fool, made this unfinished self, Nourished me as a child, in happy health, Fostered the thirst my mother gave to me With her electric milk. Ecstatic tree Charmides planted, I did grow and thrive, Adding to that, what Greece alone could give! Studied cult-statues, studied Xoana, saw Paralysis in Polygnotus’ law, Wondered that Hegias and Hageladas wrought Hardly beyond the cold Egyptian thought. Out of their almond-eyed archaic things, New butterfly, my free Athena springs! My Zeus Olympian came to my prayer To see a god. I saw, then made him there! (_To jailer._) Poor ragged dolt, clanking thy silly keys, Did Pericles make me as I made these? Did Athens tell me what a man must do Who sees instinctive _life_, and sees it true?

JAILER (_impudently_). How now! What saw’st thou that _I_ might not see? A rosy nymph at bath! Aphrodite Caught in a net of foam? Hermes’ disguise? Come now, what is this power within thine eyes?

PHIDIAS (_speaking dreamily as if to himself_). What is the power? Life! The heroic thing Streaming magnetic from a sea-gull’s wing, That light in stars, in waves, in children’s eyes, In green plane-tree, or in deep, sphinx-like skies Of unknown countries, where the grasses blow Unseen of man; where flower-laced streamlets flow Past mystic herbs, Demeter loves to keep Secretly growing on the mountain steep. I saw the curves of fruits, saw Grecian sails Take fire-blue seas; saw the soft, misty veils Of maidens wrap their limbs, saw horses, shields, Victories, warriors, priests, and battlefields; Each man a poem; women each a jar Filled with soft, psychic flame, an avatar Shaped to a noble outline, lofty truth From some great vital Source-- (_The Sculptor breaks off suddenly, scrutinizing the jailer and continuing._) Rascal, uncouth As are thy words and gestures, I can see Some trace of life-light.--Gods! were I but free--

JAILER (_interrupting with smug complacency_). Which, proper thanks to Theseus, thou art not, Thou light-fingered; thou dingy-robed sot! Carving thy way to treason, selling State For greasy coin, with Hermes as thy mate Slanting his profile on it. Dreamer,--thou! “Bronze-worker.” Yea! By Dionysus! How Thou workedst guilty things for Athens’ shame, Thinking to hide behind thy Patron’s name! Athens, the famous city; thou, a worm, Coiling in earth, no four-eyed marble herm Will mark. Our furry worms that make the silk Munch the mulberry; but thy crafty ilk Munch the fine gold, for sickly marble shapes Of statues stoned by every Jack-a-napes; ’Twas thou, worm, coiled ’round thy princely friend, And gained War-Treasure for thy braggart’s end.

PHIDIAS (_sadly musing_). The fool is glib. His lesson he has got From Agora and Propylæa, not The polished utterance of Bema’s Hill. But that crowd’s word, that bodes or good or ill From a fierce thirst; sneering pitiless breath, Freezing a man, or scorching him to death.

JAILER (_scratching his head, expectorates knowingly and argues_). Why are thy statues costly? with the urns Of Dipylon Gate, the passer-by discerns Good lusty statues, made by Such-an-one, Quite comely, they, and all of porous stone; Why use Pentelic marble? so much gold? Thou dreamer-schemer, sculptor overbold?

PHIDIAS (_with a moan turns from his tormentor to face the stone wall, muttering_). “Dreamer,” he called me. Is it by that name My curse comes? Verily; I dreamed my shame, My rich accusings. Dreamed brook-flowing folds Of draperies, dreamed my young hero-moulds, Dreamed men who sat their horses, as they rode Clouds over seas, dreamed Panathenaic ode In singing-rhythm round the Parthenon; The frieze and metopes of Theseion; Dreamed the sweet-bodied girls, whose maiden strength Poise vase and basket all the Temple length. Dreamed the slow, garlanded, portentous beasts, Led by the veiled and sacrificial priests; Dreamed the young, leaping horseman’s haughty ease Pediment grouped, or filleted in frieze. Was it a dream only to-day shall know? Lives it no longer than this artist’s throe? If that must be, then butterfly most drear I sink back to the worm-thing crawling here.

JAILER (_having curiously listened, now struts forward and faces the Sculptor. He eyes him stupidly and shakes his finger at him_). Why, were it not for Pericles who gave Thee marble, color, gold for statues brave,-- Poured out his coffers,--we should amply be Equipped for Persia. Bronze and ivory Changed back to drachmæ, all the sacred rock Would stand as staunch, to the barbaric shock, As when Pisistratus, with hardy race, Made the Acropolis his fortress place. And look ye, with that gold Athena wears (Filched from State monies, for thy stone affairs), We could plant ships in Piræus, array Our strength to Corinth, where the Persians may Once more with envy strike.--But, thou wouldest bring To a State’s need thy stone imagining! Fie! but for gold, thy dreams would be as vague As fat my wife scrapes from altar-dreg, And boils to stuff to make my chiton white; Ethereal substance, wind-shaken, alight With lambent iridescence, very fine, From the amphora gushing forth like wine. But look you, in a moment, just a trace Of foam is all that froths from out the vase, And nothing’s left but the damp greasy lees; So knave, with thee, without thy Pericles!

THE SCULPTOR (_with scornful amusement to himself_). He mouths that name as if it were a mask, Through which a stupid actor says his task, Forgets, mistakes, yet struts around the place Thinking the mask gives him a certain grace.

(_Phidias wearily rises and stretches himself, the jailer meanwhile curiously observing him._)

PHIDIAS (_abruptly_). Slave, thou art childish, many a name like this Links close to art, for its own ego-bliss, To have possession, be the master, who Owns, keeps, controls, the work we artists do. Pericles views the height of Athens’ power, Pomp of Acropolis, where every hour In golden, crimson, blue, and creamy dye Ecstatic marble forms sing to the sky, And hears them sing! (This for his kingly wage:) “_Nikomen_, Athens, Pericles, Golden Age!”

JAILER (_looking at the prisoner with heavy curiosity_). And what, by Hades, _is_ the thing they sing?

PHIDIAS (_turns impulsively to answer; then a fierce reticence makes him draw himself up and turn away_). Torture me not with thy coarse questioning; My sorrowing answers, for the ribaldries Of bath or games: “Thus spluttered Phidias, Maddened at being walled up.” So the crass Idling crowd, jostling in brainless mass, Gapes, sneers, and marvels, at my grim defeat; Mud covers stately names where rascals meet.

JAILER (_with offended dignity_). Well, then, good-night. I leave thee to thy prayers. No friends, no patron, for thy artist-wares, Unless, indeed (_grinning back of his hand_) Zeus showers thee with gold Like Danaē.

PHIDIAS (_steadily and reverently_). Yea, most mighty Zeus can hold Me to my service, to that Ageless Thing Higher than he, called Beauty.

(_He breaks off suddenly, goes eagerly to the now departing jailer, saying authoritatively_.)

Fellow, bring Here to my cell, some wax, a tool or two, Some clay, a lump, stuck in thy cap will do-- A hand’s length of the white, Pentelic stone, From where it sleeps within the mountain, grown Pregnant by streams and flowers, for some birth Of wingéd dream, out of hypnotic earth.

JAILER (_backing mockingly away, mimics coarsely_). A jewel, a star, a little bit of wax! Some tiny thing this mighty genius lacks! That pearl, perchance, Aspasia’s bosom decks, Or blood-red stones hung round Hetairæ-necks!

PHIDIAS (_beseechingly_). Only some clay, man, in the dark my touch Will fashion thee a goddess-image, such As still they place in niches, who obey “Sea-wards, oh! Mystæ,” on Eleusis-Way. I’ll mould thee woman’s hand, or horse’s head, A dreaming faun, Marsyas as he bled; A babe’s round, dimpled, saucy little back; A vine-wreathed satyr, with his grape-filled sack.

JAILER (_pompously drawing aloof_). By Dionysus! that were illy done. Artist is one thing. State another. Shun Thee and punish thee, doth Will of State, Who art no artist more, but he who late Sculptor to Pericles, now is a knave, Who sits and twists his thumbs in prison-cave!

(_The_ JAILER _finishes by an insulting gesture and departs_. PHIDIAS _going to the heavy door listens to his retreating footsteps. He draws a long sigh and, standing with his back to the door, looks up at the patch of blue sky, in silence. At last he speaks._)

Thus they leave Phidias, worker in the bronze, Breather of life! breaker of chisel-bonds! He is, they think, a man, a common thing-- All yellow, freckled, thin-blooded; they wring His soul, because of policies. Make him a sacrifice to fallacies; “Drop him,” they say, in any dungeon now; “Gods, grant in time his traitor’s neck shall bow To death, for that he trifled with the State! Strike his face from the shield where he dared mate That face with Pericles,”--Oh! lofty Hill High Sacred Rock, where sun-bathed columns thrill; Proud statue-gleaming, gold Acropolis; Dreamed I so high, to fall as low as--this? Athens, I made thee out of my heart’s blood; Rising by ages, from Time’s ’whelming flood. Deucalion-fashion, soar my stones that sing The beauty of this age’s visioning. Out of Iktinos’ soul the Parthenon grew-- Those glorious Doric shafts, that taper through The blaze of morn or eve. Athena’s shrine, Lodging her ivory maidenhood, is mine! ’Twas I who gave the Lemnian her life, Knew god-like action whether peace or strife. Knew how a god would stand, breathe, smile, or frown, And by that knowledge, deities’ renown, I was a god-creator. Yet I lie Here in befoulèd darkness, with the sky Still burning blue upon the mountain tops Surrounding Athens; where the Sun-God stops Of evening, all his golden fingers laid On marble chords of rhythmic colonnade, And plays so strange, so Delphic-high a strain, That hopes ethereal fill men’s hearts again. Oh! Athens, marble glory, is it naught Phidias lived, and dreamed, and planned, and taught?

(_In his agony the Sculptor buries his head in his hands. There is a long silence, suddenly broken by the alighting of a_ CRICKET _upon the small grated window; the_ CRICKET _keeps up a steady trilling and is not at first noticed by the Sculptor_.)

THE CRICKET

Greet, greet, greet, Pan with hymning sweet. Wine and corn are here, Grapes and honey clear; Olives, purple-black, Burst from tawny sack. Through Olympian night Temples glimmer white Stars their tangled vines Wreathe around the shrines. Shepherds all alone Under mountain tree, By the midnight sea, Shall pipe songs of thee Singer in the stone!

(PHIDIAS _listening intently, passes his hand over his eyes, creeps nearer under the grating, straining his gaze upward_.)

Prometheus! but I think this minstrel wrings Wise melody from gauzy zither-wings, A healing balm, like to the lustral wave At Delphi, comes my broken soul to lave. For, as he perches with his roundelay, Methinks he counsels me; not for to-day Only is artist-pride and feverish bliss-- Perchance my spirit still may suffer this Infamy, yet go singing down the years!

(_The Sculptor pauses doubtfully. Still looking upward, he presses closer beneath the little window._)

Answer me, Cricket, are my stricken tears, My empty hands, proof of a thing to be, That I dreamed true? If Beauty nourished me, Mothered and saved; shall I in ages more Stand firm and proud, telling what guise she wore These days? For with young Myron I would hold There is a law of Beauty, which, controlled By men’s stern truth, becomes a sacred thing, Expanded from our holy cherishing. It is not static, cold, but lives and grows Out of the All of Life, the artist knows.

(_The_ CRICKET _after another silence, again chirps. This time the rhythm is feebler and grows fainter and fainter, as the Sculptor, face upwards, eagerly listens_.)

THE CRICKET

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Praise is full and meet; O’er the architrave, Beautiful and brave, Strong and good and fair, Poise in hallowed air. In the violet clime, In the winter rime, On the poppied steep, In the passes deep, All the temples know Paths that Greece shall go Toward posterities Far beyond the seas! Far as man is known, Thou shalt speak to men Far beyond thy ken, Beyond tongue or pen, Singer in the stone!

(PHIDIAS _at the close of the lilt lifts both arms appealingly. The_ CRICKET _is silent a moment_.)

PHIDIAS. Hist!--the green minstrel, god-of-little-things, Thinketh perchance he strums his lyric wings On dark Hymettus, where bees sip so long, They lose their way in all the flower throng, And many a little waxy dot of fuzz Is caught in honey-prison. (_Whimsically._) Thou dost buzz Cricket, as loud as I, encased In this hard prison, bitter to my taste.

(_The_ CRICKET _after a long pause trills for the last time_.)

Fleet, fleet, fleet, The ways of fame are sweet. A marble head of dreams Conquers the world, meseems. Beautiful vases tell How happy peoples dwell. Beautiful bodies speak New message to the weak. Greece adown the years Is the song of Seers. Kora still intones Nike still responds: “Wielder of the wands.” “Worker in the Bronze.” “Singer in the Stones.”

SCULPTOR (_suddenly and rapturously_). Xaire! thou little herald, Xaire! thou Hast cheered me, saved me! See my courage now! What foul, damp cell can ever hold me here? What slander stain my work of yester-year? Upon the Hill my glowing children call To the unborn of Artists; to the All, Great Fusion of the races, who Shall yet unite, some holy thing to do, Before this strange world on its journey far In trackless space shall move an empty star. For portico and frieze and vase and fane. Fountain and stele, that our utmost main Our utterest patience brought to perfect whole Will cast strange, spellful seed, and where the soul Of art is known, its free, broad, ardent wing, “Greece,” will be whispered like a sacred thing! (_To the_ CRICKET.) Yea, Yea! thou little herald, “wingèd pipe,” So I’ll indite thee in thy wisdom ripe-- Now will I write my comrade young and lithe Pæonius, how I imprisoned writhe. Yet for his comfort will I softly tell The cricket message to my dreary cell. Luck! that I hid the chalk lump in my sleeve! Joy that I have the parchment! Who’ll believe That this is _all_ he hath, who was the friend Of Pericles brought to this bitter end!

(_The Sculptor with the parchment on his knee, busies himself in writing. Occasionally he pauses and reads aloud what he has written._)

Pæonius, good comrade, merry Greek, Walking Olympian groves, watching the freak Of scarlet-flowered pomegranate vine Tasting the cool jugs filled with pine-tree wine, Fruits like warm bowls of amber nectar hung And figs from branches o’er the streamlets flung-- Read and reflect, and if thou com’st to see Some supple scheme to set thy brother free, Act on it swiftly; only be advised _Pericles’ day is over_. What he prized Was proud display, but what the people want Is arms and ships that they may proudly vaunt. (Since Marathon no Greek knows how to smile Passing the Soros’ valiant hero-pile, And still they say in Sparta, athletes wait To teach barbarians how Greece is great.) I, the poor Sculptor, lived too near the throne, Therefore, I lie now on the dungeon stone!

(PHIDIAS’S _gaze wanders, he becomes absorbed, intense, then once more he applies himself to the letter_.)

Last summer, passing Sunion, my sail Red-burning down the stormy silver trail O’er clouded blue, I humbly turned my sight Up to that white fane, on the bronzèd height, All its upspringing columns touched with sun As the slow golden clouds walked high upon Wave buttressed paths, to purple Cyclades Those mystic islands of Saronic seas. And as the molten sapphire round me sprayed O’er the eye-painted prow, I humbly prayed Poseidon, that Piræus I might gain; Offered no cock, no vase, oil to contain, But vowed a frieze from my young pupil’s skill, New, daring sculpture for the Sea-God’s Hill In Parian marble, calm and haughty white, To gleam for sailors passing in the night. How I was timid then! who after dared Dispute with Pericles, and proudly shared His vast ambitions for that golden realm-- That Athens, which the vulgar overwhelm. That I did promise, wilt thou execute? So will these singing stones, out of the mute Parian marble, form immortal choir Chanting “Poseidon” to the ocean’s lyre.

(PHIDIAS _pauses once more. He draws a long sigh, then continues writing._)

Well, brother-artist, here I agonized, Until a cricket, by great Zeus apprised, Perched on the window-bar and chirped a thing Wise as Athena, took away the sting Of the world’s serpent-sayings. Friend, I give Faith to the cricket message while I live.

(_The Sculptor, head in hands ponders deeply then again resumes writing._)