Part 9

BET, _overcoming her tears gradually._ We fled from here When ... when ... and reached the neat-yard ere we knew; We climbed the knoll and passed behind the barn; Then through the corn land, dew-wet to our hearts, We beat the thick rye down that choked our feet Amid its shaggy sighing stilly weight, Until the cottages at Damson-Closes Hung o'er us like a dark broody-winged hen We shunned the watcher's light where the old woman Waits for her death, and dripped into the lane Soft as cast shadows.... Ever all feared to speak: Yet I went with the others through lost fields, Straining to see the thing we prayed to miss, Because I knew I dared not near the homestead; Until I felt that neither should I dare A more remote returning by myself-- When, loitering unnoticed by those trances, I sought even you rather than be alone.

NAN, _rigidly, her head having been long averted to the barn's doorway._ I hear my feet.

URSEL, _in alarm._ Nan, do not go....

NAN. I must.

BET, _wildly._ Again.... Wherever shall I go alone?...

_She tugs her cap-strings loose and her cap over her eyes; she breathes so deeply that her trembling is heard by her breath as she fumbles her way into the mistal. The quiet steps are heard again; as_ NAN _approaches the threshold the woman reappears to the right and passes down the lane to the left, always holding out her arms to_ NAN, _whose arms hang tensely at her sides while her fingers twitch at her petticoat as she holds back and back from meeting the embrace._ URSEL _tries to go to_ NAN, _but she cannot trail her feet after her nor draw down her hands that cover her face._

NAN. How have I parted?... Where am I in deed?... What of me is unseen?... Go....

_The woman having disappeared to the left, still opening her arms to_ NAN, NAN _turns and totters to the door's edge on that side; thence she feels her way supportedly along the door, but when she comes to its end she slides to her knees; after moving a little farther so, she sinks forward on her face and crawls blindly toward_ URSEL'S _feet. At the fall_ URSEL'S _hands drop; she reaches to_ NAN, _kneels by her, feels her heart and hands, holds her own hand before_ NAN'S _mouth and nostrils; then with one swift movement she loosens her own raiment nearly to her waist, and, lying against_ NAN, _clasps her in her arms and gathers her into her bosom._

URSEL. Nan.... O, Nan....

_The two lie quite still; the stirred dust settles on them slowly and greyly in the moonlight._

CURTAIN.

LAODICE AND DANAË

_"And, O, perchance it is the fairest lot At once to be a queen and be forgot; For queens are oft remembered by the weighed Wild dusky peacock-flashing sins they played, But queens clean-hearted leave us and grow less, Lost in the common light of righteousness."_ From KING RENÉ'S HONEYMOON: A MASQUE, Scene vii.

_TO B. J. FLETCHER_

_O RARE Ben Fletcher, oft I bless Your rotund Jacobean name; If the great crew could still express Their hearts in their dim place of Fame, As once at Globe or Mermaid-ales, With love your liking they would greet For country things and queens' mad tales And lines with sounding feet._

_But in this troublous newer time Such fellows have not filled your days, So it is left for me to chime These quieter verses of your praise: For a fair theme I need not strive While manhood knows as boyhood knew The joys of art, the joys of life, I have received from you._

_What days could ever be so long As those our pristine Summers poised O'er a charmed valley isled among Their bright slow-breaking tides unnoised? Then _Dials_ were new and came to stir A passionate thirst within the eyes; Each dawn was a discoverer Of poets unearthly wise._

_First-comer of my friends, the years Behold much friendship fade and set; The shrunken world imparts its fears, Most men their early power forget. But art stays true for us, and we In it are steadfast: for a sign Its wonder joins us changelessly Your name stands here with mine._

March 8th, 1909.

ARGUMENT

Antiochus Theos, one of the Hellenic Kings of the East of the line of Seleucus, reigned in Antioch. He had espoused Laodice his kinswoman, according to the usage of his race; but after many years he put her from him, and took to wife Berenice, daughter and sister of Ptolemys of Egypt, for reasons of state.

Laodice withdrew to Ephesus and kept court there: long affection, resurgent, sent Antiochus thither to join her. Shortly afterward he died at Ephesus in Laodice's care.

Berenice and Laodice then warred, each to gain the kingdom for her child: the infant son of Berenice disappeared, and eventually Seleucus II., the son of Laodice, held the throne of Antiochus.

In the course of their wars Laodice retired from Ephesus on finding that Sophron, the governor of the city, secretly trafficked with the party of Berenice. While she sat in some adjacent city Sophron unsuspiciously rejoined her counsels; she immediately devised his death, but he, being warned by his old love Danaë, the queen's favourite, saved himself by flight.

PERSONS:

LAODICE, a Queen of the Seleucid House in Asia. DANAË, MYSTA, RHODOGUNE, BARSINE, and other Waiting-Women. Three Women-Musicians. SOPHRON, Seleucid Governor of Ephesus.

_In Smyrna._ B.C. 246.

LAODICE AND DANAË

_Behind the curtain a woman sings to the accompaniment of a harp and a bell._

I WILL sing of the women who have borne rule, The severe, the swift, the beautiful; I will praise their loftiness of mind That made them too wise to be true or kind; I will sing of their calm injustice loved For the pride it fed and the power it proved.

Once in Egypt a girl was queen Ashamed that her womanhood should be seen; She wore a beard, she called herself king, She was uneasy with governing; She believed a king was greater than she, So she found a king and his mastery.

In Smyrna sits a queen to-night Who does not shine by another's light; She has laid her husband on time's dust-heap, But for that she holds not her title cheap; New radiance comes on woman by her, New force in woman is seen to stir.

She has taken the land and the sea from men; She has shewn men the power of their source again....

_The curtain rises._

_A lofty chamber of mingled Hellenic and Asiatic architecture is seen. The walls are of black stone: on the right a portal toward the front of the stage is concealed by a curtain embroidered with parrots and Babylonian branch-work; high and toward the back is a double window, with open cedar lattices, of an inner room: high in the opposed wall is a short arcade with a projecting gallery. An open colonnade extends across the rear wall at two-thirds of its height; its pillars support the roof: the platform of this colonnade is accessible by an open stair recessed in the wall._

_QUEEN LAODICE reclines on a great divan set toward the left centre of the chamber. The musicians whose singing and playing have just ceased kneel on a Persian carpet before her: between them and the portal stands a tall brazier whence a wavering heat rises. A golden evening sky is visible through the colonnade, where DANAË leans against a pillar._

LAODICE. BE silent now; I let you sing too much. I am awaiting now too many things To bear this fret of waiting till you end And I can think again. Be quietly gone. _The women go out._

DANAË. You bade them sing to make one moment brief.

LAODICE. What are you watching like a larger cat, Sweetheart, little heart, noiseless and alert? You shall not watch me like a prim wise cat.

DANAË. I watch a girl sway slightly, near the tide, As if rehearsing dance-steps in her heart; She hangs lit snakes of sea-weed down her bosom; She takes a letter from her bunchy hair....

_She laughs and leans over, holding the pillar._

LAODICE. Find me a ship, ships; dark ones, strange ones. I must have ships, so find them, little heart; And, more than all, a ship of Antioch.

DANAË. How tiny a girl looks under these deep rocks.... LAODICE _yawns._ Madam, I have searched well; yet until now No deep-sea ship has passed the promontory; Now a great ship with tawny sails comes on, An ocean-threatening centaur for its prow.

LAODICE. That is from Ephesus, not Antioch.... I purge one thought thereby and make repayment. I am taken with an inward shivering: Perhaps I am cold with night--come down and warm me.

_DANAË descends and reclines by LAODICE._

Haughty and passive and obedient, May not my queen's bosom receive your head? When I worked empery in Ephesus That Sophron, governor--did he not love you?

DANAË. He said he did.

LAODICE. And you?

DANAË. I said he did. Thereon he made too sure of me too soon: It is unwise to let men be too sure, And for that reason I hung up my silks On a swart Nabatæan, having smeared her With my rare private unguent, and concealed her In his choice corner--where she bit his lip, Then let her laughing teeth take light of moon. There was no more of Sophron afterward.... Although I looked at him almost penitently....

LAODICE. No more? Was there no more, my little one?

DANAË. Ah, yes.... When he would never look at me I felt I could not live outside his arms. I went to him at night in a slave's skirt, And by humiliating actions soothed His wincing mind, until he stooped to me. I had him soon. And then I tired of him.

LAODICE. And then, indeed, there was no more at all?

DANAË. I have not seen him since. We left that city. You have my faith. You know I am all yours.

LAODICE. That is quite well. He has no years for you; He is found treasonous, and must be undone. O, he goes out.... Dear, I am very cold. Is it because my heart is cold? Men say it.

DANAË. Your heart is warm to me.

LAODICE. What do men say?

DANAË. They say you fled to Sardis and to Smyrna Because you poisoned him at Ephesus And heard his feet when a room echoed.

LAODICE. Him?

DANAË. Antiochus the God, your king and spouse.

LAODICE. Why do they so consider me the cause?

DANAË. You hold the physician Smerdis in more favour.

LAODICE. And did I poison him, my Danaë?

DANAË. Dear lady, surely.

LAODICE. Surely.... It is sure. Was I not made the Sister, natural wife? Did he not change me for a daughter of Egypt Robed with a satrapy, crowned by an isle? She laved her body daily in Nile water, Which can make fruitful even stones and virgins; It soon brought forth the mud's accustomed spawn, A valuable heir of all the lands. How could she keep him? Needing me he turned: Was it not best for him to die still needing me And leave the amount of kingdoms to my boy, The climbing vine of gold up Shushan's front, The cedar palaces of Ecbatana, Though Berenice sits in Antioch Safe with her suckling, in her suckling's name? Winds, bring to me a ship from Antioch. Since that dread night when Mysta stept not down With all you speechless ones to disarray me, Have you not dreamed that I did poison her? Her love is more than yours, for she had crept To Antioch to sell herself in bondage Where Berenice buys, that she may nurse The child for Berenice--and for me, While uncle Egypt plucks my crown for it.

DANAË. Which fingers mixed the poison? See, I kiss them, Trust them ever to do their will with me. There is no poison in a poppy-seed; The seedling draws its venom from the earth-- 'Tis the earth's natural need for such event.

LAODICE. Ay, but the disposition is in the seed; I poison by a motion of the heart.

_RHODOGUNE, a Parthian waiting-woman, enters._

RHODOGUNE. Madam, the governor of Ephesus Comes newly from the harbour to your will.

DANAË. Sophron!

LAODICE. Lie still. _A silence._

RHODOGUNE. Madam, must I go down?

LAODICE. Bid this Ephesian governor to me.

RHODOGUNE _goes out._ LAODICE _lays a hand on_ DANAË'S _heart._

_It is now twilight._ SOPHRON _enters._

SOPHRON. Queen, am I swift enough to your commanding?

LAODICE. I am ever rich in your discerning service. Why came you by the sea?

_She sees that_ SOPHRON'S _gaze is fixed on_ DANAË, _who does not look at him._

Girl, stand behind me.

DANAË _obeys._

Why came you by the sea?

SOPHRON. Lady ... the sea?...

LAODICE. Does not the way by land still fit mine urgence?

SOPHRON. Your safety's urgence made it seem most good To search the straits for masts of Ptolemy.

LAODICE. Ha.... Yes.... And did you speak with any such?

_DANAË looks at SOPHRON and shakes her head._

SOPHRON. The seas were void of alien keels to-night.

LAODICE. Are there Egyptians seen in Ephesus?

SOPHRON. None since the aged men who mummied the king.

LAODICE. Tell me the common talk of Egypt's plan; And what device to handle Ptolemy Is in your friendly mind.

SOPHRON. There's but a common fear of Egypt's secret. We cannot meet him yet unless the cities, Yes, all these cities of men, take hands with us.

LAODICE. Must I keep house in Smyrna still, my man? Play queen in a corner harmlessly?

SOPHRON. Madam, The coast is safer here than at Ephesus, Retreat on Sardis safer and more ready.

LAODICE. I more withdrawn apart from my main kingdom, Baffled from drainage of the unended East. I have required you here because a word, Perhaps a word malicious, has crept here: It has been said that some Ephesian men Have bartered for my town with Ptolemy-- Do you know any of these? Do they live?

SOPHRON. There are none known: such could not sell past me.

LAODICE. They use my palace: examine those about you.

SOPHRON. There is no need: I know them to be clean.

_DANAË again shakes her head, but more eagerly._

LAODICE, _turning her head and looking up at DANAË suddenly._ Why do you tremble, girl? There's nought to fear.

_As she begins to speak_ DANAË'S _hair is shaken loose; a rose falls from it and breaks on_ LAODICE'S _shoulder._ LAODICE _laughs and plays with the petals, continuing without pause._

LAODICE. Do you drop me a sleepy kiss, maiden, my rare one? But, O, you have so tumbled your hair to cull it-- Come hither, kneel, and I will bind it up.

DANAË, _obeying._ Lady, I coiled it carelessly.... Indeed Such ministration is my precious pardon.

LAODICE. Silk, silky silk so delicious to finger.... Rose I held; ruby-glows; then dark hair in my hands.... Nay, I am hot; I burn; stay there and fan me.... Dear, do not cease at all. _To_ SOPHRON. Well, my captain?

SOPHRON. You shall have men's minds searched in Ephesus.

LAODICE. I like your mind. Also, I have considered You must shut up your port, let out no ship; Then Ptolemy shall be more sure each night That he has wiped the seas ... till you slip out.

SOPHRON, _in stupefaction._ Slip ... out?

LAODICE. Ay, Sophron, fall on him.

SOPHRON, _eagerly._ Yes, yes: These things shall be, and you shall not complain.

LAODICE. Nay, go not now; be my great guest this night. The tide will take you not until more day, And in the dawn, white hour of clearest thought, I need more counsel from you for my deeds.

_She claps her hands:_ BARSINE, _a Persian, enters._

Let this strong captain be well feasted now In winy webs of my embroidering-- Or--no--a purple suits his temper best; And send a slave to him for him to rule.

SOPHRON. Graciousness, yours: let me but stay my seamen.

LAODICE. Haretas the Pisidian shall go down Into the place of ships, but not my guest: Entrust your ring to this, and she will bear it.

_BARSINE and SOPHRON go out. LAODICE nods to herself._

I saw his ring: it was a new green scarab.

_DANAË ceases fanning without LAODICE heeding._

RHODOGUNE, _outside._ She-dog, come back and you shall have but whips.

_A dirty woman runs in, bearing a bundle within her ragged robe;_ RHODOGUNE _follows her._

LAODICE, _slowly._ I have not need of rinds and lees to-night; Come, take these out and burn them.

THE WOMAN. Ay, come.

LAODICE, _starting up._ Mysta, Mysta, my joy! What have you there? The thing a mother called Antiochus?

_To RHODOGUNE._

Do you not know your fellow and my hand?

_RHODOGUNE retires._

MYSTA. I was the handmaid of a displaced queen; I am dry nurse to the undoubted queen, Come back merely to boast and make display How lusty a baby grows in careful hands, How noble I to carry a living king.

LAODICE, _leaping to her._ Unwind, dishevel, give it up to me. _Clapping her hands._ Let there be lights above: I must see closely. If I embrace you I shall touch it too.

_A woman hangs a lamp from long chains over the gallery on the left, then withdraws. After a moment she passes along the colonnade from left to right and disappears. A moment later she leans from the latticed windows on the right to light two lamps suspended from the roof to a point immediately below her. The lights are such that, when the twilight has gone, the figures of the persons are more definite than their features, and the upper part of the chamber is almost unlit. In the meantime_ Mysta _has continued._

MYSTA. Nay, we are but harbour-drift from Antioch: Come, take us out and burn us.

LAODICE. Aha, Mysta.

MYSTA. Touch not my hair; 'tis foul from many ships.

LAODICE. I have ached by watching ships that were not yours. Were you in Sophron's vessel? Did he know?

MYSTA. She did not trust me soon to tend her child, Returning oft like the uneasy cat: When I had slipt these rags on it and me I herded with night-women by the shore. Ere there, I passed a rift in palaces, Moment of empty street and Berenice Marching with hunger in her bright fixed eyes, Champing her golden chain--one hand on it Tugged her mouth downward--one hand smote a spear Upon the stones as she stepped on and on Toward the house of Cæneus your known friend. They spied the harbour; I must leave by land; Then was some tale of fishers, trading sloops: Sophron knows not the thief like a fierce mother Whose hard feet last left ship at Ephesus-- Where Ptolemy is looked for eagerly.

_As she speaks LAODICE has drawn a scarf from her shoulders, twisted it and strained it in her hands; it tears and she throws it down._

_MYSTA holds out the child to her._

'Twas warm and quiet so long. Let it live.

LAODICE, _taking the child and scanning it._ Let me read here: This is the mould, wrongly retouched and spent-- It is his child and yet I have not known it....

_Clasping it closely to her._

I am the changeless mother of this race, And this a younger seed. By the opened womb I have decided being: and I decide. Much Asia has been spanned to leave it here, More Asia will be narrowed by her searchers; Mysta might die next time. It must die. I reached my hand and took it to make sure My order and number of children still were true. I have looked on it--its purport is completed.

MYSTA. It could be hid for ever: let it live.

LAODICE. Mysta shall need my ritual bath and wardrobe; Serve me by delicate sleep. Mysta must go.

_She kisses_ MYSTA _and leads her to the portal._ MYSTA _goes out passively._

LAODICE. Danaë, pile me cushions and hollow them-- There in the shadowed seat beyond the breeze. No; larger cushions with no rough gold in stitchings. One softer for his head--now hold it there Till I can kneel and lay him in the dimmest, For he may sleep a little yet. Ay, so.... I had well-nigh forgotten to appoint Sophron a chamber.

DANAË. Madam, I will go.

LAODICE. You speak too loudly. Madam, you will remain: I need you to cast gums upon the censer To make me drowsy--I must sleep some moments.

DANAË. Storax alone, or juniper?

LAODICE. O, storax.

_DANAË goes to a recess in the wall near the portal, and takes out a painted bowl. She pours grains from it slowly upon the brazier; brief cloudy flames illumine her face._

Did the Silk-People shape that bowl?

DANAË. Maybe.... I could burn up the world like this to-night, To make an end of conflicts and of burdens.

_As_ LAODICE _claps her hands_ BARSINE _hurries in breathlessly._

BARSINE. Queen, Queen....

LAODICE, _watching_ DANAË. Make ready fragrantly and freshly Chamber for Sophron next to that of Smerdis. Then send Smerdis with knives and drugs to me.

_DANAË opens her mouth as if to speak--the flames fall as she holds the bowl poised motionlessly._

BARSINE. Sophron--none can find him; he has gone.

_DANAË lets the contents of the bowl slide into the brazier; a shaft of flame flares high, she averts her face._

LAODICE. Ho, are we dropping roses all the time? Men; bring me men and torches and sharp spears-- A boat to cut the Centaur's rudder-ropes-- I will go down and take him back.... Hui....

_She sweeps out followed by_ BARSINE.

DANAË. O, Sophron, out by the land! Nay, he knows more-- And she, and she; watch-towers divide this earth, Horses go here; and he may save a ship. _She draws aside the curtain to look beyond._ May women's skirts impede you, ravening queen. _She ascends swiftly to the colonnade: a starry night shows her form dimly._ Fishers' small lights, be drenched--you show too much At height of settling gulls above the water.... Ah ... h, nothing, nothing. Something will not happen, And let this life go on again. Nothing. Yet ... yet ... the air is beating on my temples As though a rabble murmured beyond hearing.

_RHODOGUNE enters._

RHODOGUNE. Danaë, are you here?

DANAË. I am here.

RHODOGUNE. Where is the Queen?

DANAË. Nearing the shore by now.

RHODOGUNE. I have a drunken woman with nine snakes That follow her as freshets a drowned body, Then lift wise sibilant heads in guardian swaying; Her lair could well be traced by emptied streets. She is too drunk to speak, but sings the better A praise of poisonous snakes and the fools of wine, While in the night they circle and streak for answer Like wine-cups' lines of light, black rubies' gleams. Shall I not bring her for the Queen to use, Who loves delights like dangers come too near?

DANAË. Put her away in a safe place till morning-- The Queen is smouldering again to-night, And, if she sees your epileptic mummer, Will make us tie her up with her own serpents.... Babble no more to me--I must be watching.

RHODOGUNE. You are not the Queen, although the Queen's plaything; Deign not your high commandments unto us.

_She goes out._