Part 1
PSYCHOLOGIES
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
BOOKS OF VERSE
PHILOSOPHIES THE SETTING SUN FABLES
NEW NOVEL
REVELS OF ORSERA
P S Y C H O L O G I E S
BY RONALD ROSS
LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1919
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
* * * * *
NOTE
These five studies are parts of a series of which I hope to publish more examples at a later date.
The first two originally appeared in _The Nation_ of September 27th and December 13th, 1913. The last piece contains passages from a drama called _Edgar_, published in Madras in 1883. _The Marsh_ was intended to be a melodrama, but the music for it has not yet been developed.
My thanks are due to Mr. John Masefield and Mr. Cloudesley Brereton for helping me in the correction of the proofs.
THE AUTHOR.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
PAGE
OTHO 9
THE TRIUMPH 14
EVIL 22
THE MARSH 36
THE BOY’S DREAM 52
=PSYCHOLOGIES=
=OTHO=
OTHO. SOLDIERS.
[After Otho had been partially defeated by Vitellius, his soldiers clamoured to be led again to battle. Otho refused in the manner shown here in brief.]
_Soldiers._ Once more to battle, Otho!
_Otho._ No, not for Rome’s sake.
_Soldiers._ Cæsar, once more!
_Otho._ Is Rome forgotten then?
_Soldiers._ To battle, Cæsar!
_Big Soldier._ Hear us, little Cæsar!
_Bearded Soldier._ Are we, then, dogs that Cæsar will not lead us?
_Soldiers._ Ah!
_Bearded Soldier._ Did we fly? Are we mercenaries?
_Soldiers._ Ah!
_Young Soldier._ Blood, blood, blood!
_Big Soldier._ Listen, pretty one, listen!
_Soldiers._ Once more, Otho, once more!
_Centurion._ You mongrels, peace!
_Small Soldier._ I smoke for battle, Cæsar. I’ll fail thee no more.
_Soldiers._ God Cæsar, lead us!
_Young Soldier_(_beating his shield_). Blood, blood, blood, blood, blood!
_Soldiers._ To battle, Cæsar!
_Bearded Soldier._ Are we Egyptians?
_Centurion._ Peace!
_Big Soldier._ Hear, pretty one, hear!
_Otho._ For this your love these thanks. For your great hearts my heart. My blood for yours As yours would flow for mine. This life for all, And for my country.
_Soldier._ Let us die for it then.
_Another._ These kisses for your feet.
_Young Soldier_(_gashing his arm_). This blood to wash them!
_Another_(_doing the same_). And this to keep you Cæsar.
_Otho._ I am that— And would not be it. For about the world The warlike pest is blown, and Cæsar stands Knee-deep in blood, or is not Cæsar. Cease! Keep me no more with Fortune. She and I Are wedded-weary of each other.
_Soldiers._ War! War!
_Centurion._ Dogs! Listen while great Cæsar speaks.
_Soldiers._ To war!
_Old Soldier._ See, Cæsar, how these wounds burst out once more With blood that clamours to be shed for thee!
_Otho._ For this great love my thanks, brave hearts. My tears Do thank you. So my country’s bitter wounds Burst out with blood once more for me. O there! Too much already have those dreadful wounds Bled gouts and gushes of black blood for me— For nothing. What am I—no god, a man— To loose the life of myriads and to make Italy a charnel for a name? Enough. The battle was against us. Let it be. The gods have spoken, and love not to warn In vain. I am resolved. I’ll war no more.
_Soldiers._ Ah! Ah!
_Small Soldier._ We are not vanquisht!
_Otho._ But not victors. The omens are adverse. Vitellius wins. What matter if he win? So let him win. Shall Rome be river’d with her children’s blood That he or I should wear a purple rag? What is’t to Rome who should be Cæsar? Hear. We Cæsars rise, and rule, and rot—yet are But as the names of nothing for a time; The marks on foolish calendars of days For farmers’ fruit-trees and memorial stones— Notches on sticks, and gossip for winter nights; Add not a corngrain to the goodman’s store, A word to wisdom, nor a stave to song; Nor worth the delving of a ditch to hide Our bones in, less a dreadful sepulchre To hold the harvest of a continent. For which of us shall Italy be more fair? Will yonder sun more brightly beam for me Than for Vitellius? Or her labour’d fields More richly bear, her rivers run, her hills Brighten the more, for me than for Vitellius? Upon the sands the silvery waters play; The deep endellèd woods are rich with flowers; And all her maidens call. Laughing they call Amid the morning dew: but not the more For me than for Vitellius. Let him reign! I will contend with him in battle no more; I will contend with him in nobleness. So let him then give Rome a Cæsar. I Will give her peace.
_Soldiers._ Cæsar, Otho, Cæsar!
_Young Soldier._ Make way there, comrades; I’ve a word to move him. (_He stabs himself._) See, Cæsar, what we dare for thee. If thus For nothing we die—how shall we die for thee? (_He dies._)
(_Otho covers his face. Silence._)
_Otho._ But ere I give it I must win that peace. Ah, thou hast taught me how to win it, friend. Give me his sword that I may kiss his blood. O Italy, O Rome, if thus for me Thy children die, how should I die for thee?
(_He stabs himself. The soldiers rage round him._)
_Soldier._ O noble Cæsar!
_Centurion._ Back! let him have more air.
_Soldier._ He is not dead.
_Centurion._ Fall back, you dogs!
_Soldier._ He dies.
_Otho_(_dying_). He gives thee Cæsar. I will give thee—peace.
_Soldier._ I’ll see him die at least.
_Soldiers._ Hack him to death For breathing Cæsar’s air.
_Soldier._ Cæsar, I follow thee.
_Another._ And I.
_Another._ The sun is set with him.
_Another._ You cowards! Because you ran in battle he dies.
_Another._ Who ran?
_Another._ You.
_Another_(_striking him_). Run then after that.
_Centurion._ Undisciplined dogs. More air, you curs!
_Soldier._ He dies.
_Soldiers._ Cæsar! Cæsar!
(_Otho dies._)
=THE TRIUMPH=
THEODORA. OSTYN.
_A Forest of Great Trees. Tempest._
_Enter_ THEODORA, _followed by_ OSTYN _waving a sword_.
_Theodora._ Triumph, my friend!
_Ostyn._ So perish all oppressors!
_Theodora._ So let them die!
_Ostyn._ So let them perish all!
_Theodora._ So let God help us ever!
_Ostyn._ And for ever!
_Theodora._ God has been with us.
_Ostyn._ Let us kneel, dear friend, And thank Him. Aye, before this bleeding sword, As at an altar, let us kneel to Him.
_Theodora._ Whose justice, smiting in your hand, laid low My children’s murderer!
(_They kneel before the sword, laid on the grass. The tempest pauses for a moment. The sun gleams on the sword._)
From this dungeon’d world, Where death and madness fill the dark with shrieks, We thank Thee, uttermost God, for that Thy light Hath smitten one moment for us. From Thy throne The lightning came; the bright exceeding flash Came down and smote him; the lightning of Thy wrath Devour’d him.
_Ostyn._ Fearless he stood aloft, and strong; Fearless of death and lord of many crimes. Men crept beneath him. He was terrible And took them by the scruff and flung them down For pleasure.
_Theodora._ For he was fill’d with hate and love; And where his love fell, fell his hate also, Like thunder blasting that it kisses.
_Ostyn._ Mighty, His people groan’d beneath him; for he slew A pathway to his passions.
_Theodora._ My lord he slew, Beloved; my children, for I scorn’d him.
_Ostyn._ Herself, Like that dark angel leaping down from heaven, He visited.
_Theodora._ Like that dark angel came.
_Ostyn._ But she made ready the hidden sword. O God, Hear! She made ready the sword. Hear, O God. The sword she laid in secret. God of Wrath, Be with us for our cause was just.
_Theodora._ He fell; Not like a tyrant in the poison’d night; Not like a victim of the shuddering dark; But front to front with anger in his eyes, And arm’d to smite again. Triumph!
(_Tempest. They raise their arms._)
_Ostyn._ He died!
_Theodora._ He perisht!
_Ostyn._ Let the world triumph!
_Theodora._ Let it shout!
_Ostyn._ Hear us, O God of Wrath!
_Theodora._ O God of Love, Hear us, Thy children, and forgive!
(_They rise._)
_Ostyn._ My friend, You weep—altho’ we triumph. That must be, Alas! But wipe this horror from you now, Nor let it ache for ever, like some despair Whose secret hamper to the soul we feel But name not. Wipe it from you—like this blood, Which thus I purge from off th’ untarnisht steel Once and for all. Come, we must take the time, And move. The servants of that evil man Will seek him. Yonder too another storm, Ere yet the trees have shed their scope of tears, Stands muttering in the zenith. Come then, friend. I have an aged cousin living in the city, And she will shelter you. As for myself— If’t please you that I may remain with you, Your servant, I’d be glad indeed. That once I loved you ere you wedded (and do still), If such a poor humpt creature as myself Dare call his sighing love, will not disgust you Who know it—for I never have conceal’d it. You are the noblest woman in the world; But my poor love is such a thing to laugh at, You need not heed it. Now you are alone, I may indeed give up my life to you And be your servant.
(_The tempest pauses. Silence._)
_Theodora._ Your sword is clean, you say, But look upon those startled flowers there, Those innocent flowers—what smearèd stains of death Would make them seeming-guilty. What have they done? Not they have pierced a man’s heart, poor white things, That yet look unwasht murd’rers; while the sword Gleams icy pure, like some fire-eyèd angel New-born in Heaven.
_Ostyn._ What of it?
_Theodora._ I am the sword; You are the flowers. The load of guilt I had Is smear’d on you, who to your dying day Shall wear such stains no rain of mercy ever Can wash from off you.
_Ostyn._ What guilt?
_Theodora._ The guilt I had, But like the noblest woman of the world Have smear’d upon another.
_Ostyn._ I do not take you.
_Theodora._ My friend, I should have done the deed alone, Or let him kill me!
_Ostyn._ That would have been clear murder. Now, he being slain in combat, we are pure.
_Theodora._ Reason acquits me, but my heart is sour.
_Ostyn._ Except one thing, I laugh at it.
_Theodora._ What is that?
_Ostyn._ Oh nothing—no matter.
_Theodora._ Tell me, friend.
_Ostyn._ Oh leave it. The thing is done—what matter.
_Theodora._ Except what thing?
_Ostyn._ This, that you toucht his arm. That was not wise, And lends some colour to peevish conscience. Tho’ huncht and small, believe it I am strong; And sober-blooded; tuned with exercise Which ever to ennoble this frail form I have used. Single, I knew myself his match. You needed not have toucht him.
_Theodora._ He was a soldier.
_Ostyn._ Rather for that I scorned him.
_Theodora._ I fear’d for you.
_Ostyn._ Did I not wound him ere you toucht his arm? I saw it in his eye he dreaded me— As venomous-narrow’d as a guilty moon Shrinking against the sunrise.
_Theodora._ Was that murder, To touch his arm?
_Ostyn._ No, truly, I would have kill’d him Anyway.
_Theodora._ Oh, oh!
_Ostyn._ You noble woman, cease! Let not your heart be weaker than your mind. It is a curse to have a heart that boils When reason bids be calm.
_Theodora._ Is reason in it?
_Ostyn._ Yes, yes.
_Theodora._ Where does the reason dwell then—here, Or here?
_Ostyn._ Come, my dear mistress, this is vain. You work yourself to it.
(_She looks around._)
_Theodora._ Where is the wind that blew? What is this silence?—Ah! I dare not speak! Each leaf here hangs its head at seeing me.
_Ostyn._’Tis but the hush before another storm. Look there, how thund’rous black it comes upon us.
_Theodora._ Hush, hush, hush. O forever Henceforth to hush, to whisper in secret, lest All things may hear and hang their heads at me!
_Ostyn._ Now, now!
_Theodora._ O God, my children, my children!
_Ostyn._ There. God is their Father now.
_Theodora._ Their father’s dead.
_Ostyn._ Come, come; give me your hands. You are atremble. Why do you stare about you so?—till now As tall and tearless as some Roman dame Who flincht not ever? He fell in fight I say— Full fair (would I had run him thro’ and thro’ A dozen times). Fear not. The town is close, And that dead tiger’s dogs will never dare To hunt you in it. This little storm will pass. Look how the dull face of the forest mere Whitens beneath th’ approaching rain. Come now; Here is a hollow-hearted tree will hide you. Best safety lies in hollow-heartedness— The full heart bursts the sooner. Presently There will be thunder, sure. You will not fear it? Come, keep your spirit firmer. I believe The thunder sets a sign twixt fools and wise, Since only fools do fear it. Come now, arise. Seek shelter here. You have no cloak with you.
_Theodora._ What feet are these I hear stealing around me?
(_Large raindrops fall._)
_Ostyn._ Feet!—raindrops sure; rain on the russet bracken.
_Theodora._ What spirits are those yonder that smite their brows With horror?
_Ostyn._ Spirits?
_Theodora._ Where he lieth dead.
_Ostyn._ Ah, trees on th’ other shore of this most wild And desolate mere. Mark you the coming storm Has not yet reacht us quite; but there he rages. The shrieking trees grow ashen in their fear, Like spirits—yes. But now enough of this. You must be still. (Great God! She’s woman again!) Here is my cloak. Come, let us move. (Great God! What if it thunders?) There, I’ll hold your hands. I think the thunder comes; but what of that? Poor rumbling thunder, threats of empty clouds! I love it, foolish thunder. (She is wild!)
(_Thunder._)
_Theodora._ Away! Help, help! Smite me not black, O Heaven! Hide in the wood—it is too open here! Murder!
_Ostyn._ ’Tis only I who hold you, dear!
_Theodora._ They murder me—Heaven murders me! Away!
_Ostyn._ You’ll fall!
_Theodora._ God’s thunder smites me black! Oh, oh!
_Ostyn._ The water draws her.
_Theodora._ He walks upon the water. There is a cavern in his breast—there, there! A crimson cavern in his breast he points at. It is my husband. Let me go. My husband. No, no, no. It is _he_.
_Ostyn._ Alas!
_Theodora._ My children, my children.
_Ostyn._ Heaven, she is dying. The heart breaks. Look, how pale.
(_She dies in his arms._)
(_The storm ceases._)
Thou wert too noble for the world, sweet woman, In thinking thyself too base. No more for me My wakeful watches for her holy sake, And vision’d vigils under sleepless stars Against the world. I conquer’d—yet she died. The goings of my life are barr’d by this, And this pale body at my threshold lies For ever; therefore I must close the door And end. Would it be too much sacrilege, Once ere I die, to open this white throat And kiss it where the shapely column springs? Or these dead hands? Or this death-smoothèd brow, Where sat thy soul serene? O, in that fashion The boy dream’d to have held thee, the man holds And dies. Enough to’ve held thee dead, and die.
(_He gathers the body in his arms._)
Thou sawest thy lord walk on the waters there. Come, I will take thee to him.
(_He wades into the mere._)
Spirit, hear! I bring thee to thy children and thy lord.
(_They sink under the water._)
(_The rain falls._)
=EVIL=
DANSBERG. ICELIN. GORM.
_A Forest._
_Enter_ COUNT DANSBERG, _led in by his granddaughter_, ICELIN.
_Dansberg._ It was a very merry story. Ha, ha, ha!
_Icelin_(_looking back_). He comes not.
_Dansberg._ “Be wed,” says he, “but give me dinner. Be wed and hang’d then”—so the old man said When we had bound him in his chair with kerchiefs, And starved him for some two days. Icelin!
_Icelin._ Well?
_Dansberg._ You do not listen. “Go marry and be hang’d,” He shouted. Ha, ha, ha! He could not move. You are not listening.
_Icelin._ Could he not call the servants?
_Dansberg._ High in the wind-rockt turret we had bound him. The careless servants thought him sick, and she His nurse. And so we wrung the writing from him And got us married. Oh the merry jest! Ha, ha, ha. Hough, hough, hough.
_Icelin._ A devil’s trick.
_Dansberg._ Yes, was it not a very clever trick?
_Icelin._ I say, an evil trick.
_Dansberg._ Why, so say I— A very able trick. When we were wed The old man curst us till he laugh’d himself, And then he blest us. She was beautiful, Your grandmother.
_Icelin._ I am like her.
_Dansberg._ Yes, yes, yes. She was a crimson-mouthèd piece of snow. Her lips would often bleed, so red they were— Altho’ her skin so white.
_Icelin._ You say so?—Why, My lips are bleeding.
_Dansberg._ Then you’re thinking evil. Her lips would bleed when she had evil thoughts. Hough, hough.
_Icelin._ Were you a page, then, when you wedded?
_Dansberg._ My age?
_Icelin._ A page.
_Dansberg._ Yes, yes. So I became Lord of these valleys.
_Icelin._ Had you been more noble My blood had been the richer.
_Dansberg._ Who is richer?
_Icelin._ Was it because you were not nobler born The old man would not let you wed her?
_Dansberg._ Hough. My birth was good enough.
_Icelin._ Yet Gorm is noble.
_Dansberg._ What, what! An evil child—a cunning child!
_Icelin._ I am a woman.
_Dansberg._ You are not sixteen.
_Icelin._ But that is woman.
_Dansberg._ Hough, hough, a wicked child! Gorm is a scheming knave and you a child. I say a child, a child, a child. Look you, You first shall murder me ere you marry Gorm. Do you not see I tremble? When I tremble I’m angry. Hough hough, hough.
_Icelin._ What would you say then If we should play a trick on you?
_Dansberg._ A trick! What Jansen there!—Where’s Jansen?
_Icelin._ Lagging after.
_Dansberg._ Then I will wait for him.
(_He sits down on a log._)
Tell me, where are we? We should be near the castle gate; and yet I feel too many dead leaves on the sward.
_Icelin._ The storm that blew last night has blown them here.
_Dansberg._ There should be wind upon this vision’d height.
_Icelin._ There is no wind.
_Dansberg._ Yes, yes, there is no wind. What is the rustling that I hear?
_Icelin._ The trees.
_Dansberg._ There are not many near the castle gate.
_Icelin._ There are not many, but they make the sound.
_Dansberg._ Is it the oak-tree or the fir?
_Icelin._ The fir.
_Dansberg._ I think I feel a something over my head.
_Icelin._ Great clouds have come and settled in the sky.
_Dansberg._ Is’t rain or tempest, think you?
_Icelin._ Storm, I think.
_Dansberg._ Between the greater clouds what do you see?
_Icelin._ Patches of blue. (_She smiles._)
_Dansberg._ And in the patches, what?
_Icelin._ Enamels of pale pearl.
_Dansberg._ Beneath the clouds, What is there?
_Icelin._ Nothing.
_Dansberg._ Tut, you are a woman, And note not anything. Under those great clouds, Are there no ragged runners on the wind?
_Icelin._ I think I see them.
_Dansberg._ Being sunset now, What colour’d splendours are there? What great shades?
_Icelin._ The clouds are rosy.
_Dansberg._ Faugh, you’re blind. Look, look. Do not the curling thunders heap the sun?— Or does he rip them and stare out with rage Upon the east?
_Icelin._ The sun is sinking.
_Dansberg._ But say; Beneath the clouds the wild swans trail along, And kestrels, soaring to the vantage point, Slide down upon the storm-wind—do they not?
_Icelin._ I see some things like sparrows in the sky.
_Dansberg._ What do you see then?
_Icelin._ The winding of the river, And the blue mountains on the verge.
_Dansberg._ At this hour Hills are not blue. Say, is there light?
_Icelin._ ’Tis light.
_Dansberg._ I feel that it is dark. Is it not cold?
_Icelin._ Not very cold.
_Dansberg._ I feel that it is cold. I feel as if we were in some great forest, And that you do not see the things you say. The ground is soft and all the dead leaves crack Beneath the feet. Where are we?
_Icelin._ Just at the gate.
_Dansberg._ Roars not the river at his hundred eyots? What colour is the foam?
_Icelin._ As white as snow.
_Dansberg._ You lie, you lie; you see it not, you lie! The storm-flood sweeps the river, and its foam Runs tawny as the sand.
_Icelin._ I do not lie.
_Dansberg._ Come, lead me home. These two hours I have walkt, And all my blood is water. I am old— So old and blind. I wonder, is the fire lit, This autumn evening, and my supper ready? Hough, hough. Where is my stick—my stick?
(_She takes the stick from beside him._)
_Icelin._ Say, then, When shall I marry Gorm?
_Dansberg._ Hough, hough, hough, hough. Let us go in and think o’t.
_Icelin._ Tell me now.
_Dansberg._ Then give me first your arm to help me rise. (_Rises._) A good girl—so. Your arm is thin but firm— Thinner but firmer than your mother’s. Tut! Poor daughter, daughter. Dead, dead, dead, so long! When that my blindness first did seize upon me, How she would run to me to help me on, And kiss me oft that saw her not—until I felt the hot tears on my hand. I chid her; Telling her not to weep that was not blind, As I that had no eyes could have no tears: And thus I cheer’d her. But at last she died. And my old falcon died, and my old horse; And last of all the dog. But Jansen lives. Jansen, Jansen!—where is he?
_Icelin._ He is coming.
_Dansberg._ I do not hear him. It is bitter chill. We should be at the gate, but that I feel As walking in a wood. I think I smell The ground-ferns and damp mosses, and the scent Of puff-balls on the rotting trees. Hark there! I hear the bull-frogs croaking.
_Icelin._ I don’t hear them.
_Dansberg._ You’re deaf. There are no bull-frogs near the castle.
_Icelin._ Ah, yes. It is two silly ravens croaking.
_Dansberg._ Raymond, you say?
_Icelin._ Ravens.
_Dansberg._ Ravens! ravens! O God! The ravens of my house! O God! Give me a stone—my stick—they visit us— When we must die.
(_He falls sitting on a log._)
Jansen, Jansen, I say.
_Icelin._ See, there he comes.
_Dansberg._ You lazy rascal, How dare you lag so?
(_Enter_ GORM.)