Part 1

Chapter 13,875 wordsPublic domain

TWO MOTHERS

BY JOHN G. NEIHARDT

THE SPLENDID WAYFARING THE SONG OF THREE FRIENDS THE SONG OF HUGH GLASS THE QUEST

TWO MOTHERS

BY JOHN G. NEIHARDT

New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1921

_All rights reserved_

Set up and electrotyped. Published, January, 1921

ALICE AND MONA

CONTENTS

PAGE

EIGHT HUNDRED RUBLES 3

AGRIPPINA 27

EIGHT HUNDRED RUBLES

GIRL’S SONG

NOBLE KREIDER

[Music]

The heart’s an open inn, And from the four winds fare.... Vagrants blind with care, Waifs that limp with sin; Ghosts of what has been,... Wraiths of what may be:... But One shall bring the sacred gift And which ... is He?

And with their wounds of care And with their scars of sin.... All these shall en-ter in To find a welcome there; And he who gives with prayer Shall be the richer host:... For surely unto him shall come The Holy Ghost.

The last stanza same as second except in second “‘Tis he” at close of stanza take “he” on C for end.

TWO MOTHERS

EIGHT HUNDRED RUBLES

_The combined living room and kitchen of a peasant house. Before an open fire, where supper is in preparation, stoops a girl of about sixteen. It is evening and dusk is growing. Vines hang outside and the light of a rising moon comes through the window._

GIRL

(_Singing._)

The heart’s an open inn, And from the four winds fare Vagrants blind with care, Waifs that limp with sin; Ghosts of what has been, Wraiths of what may be: But one shall bring the sacred gift— And which is he?

And with their wounds of care And with their scars of sin, All these shall enter in To find a welcome there; And he who gives with prayer Shall be the richer host; For surely unto him shall come The Holy Ghost.

(_Ceases singing and stares into the fire._)

What if he’d vanish like a dream one keeps No more than starshine when the morning breaks! I’ll look again.

(_Arises, goes softly to the open window and looks out into the garden._)

How peacefully he sleeps! The red rose shields him from the moon that makes The garden like a witch-tale whispered low. He came a stranger, yet he is not strange; For O, how often I have dreamed it so, Until a sudden, shivering gust of change Went over things, making the cow-sheds flare On fire with splendor while one might count three, And riding swiftly down the populous air, Prince-like he came for me. There were no banners when he really came, No clatter of brave steel chafing in the sheath, No trumpets blown to hoarseness with his fame. Silently trudging over the dusky heath, Clad in a weave of twilight, shod with dew, Weary he came and hungry to the door. The lifting latch made music, and I knew My prince was dream no more.

(_Sings low._)

O weary heart and sore, O yearning eyes that blur, A hand that drips with myrrh Is knocking at the door! The waiting time is o’er, Be glad, look up and see How splendid is a dream come true— ‘Tis he! ‘Tis he!

(_During the latter part of the song, the back door opens and the father and mother enter, stooped beneath heavy packs._)

MOTHER

What’s this, eh? Howling like a dog in heat, Snout to the moon! And not a bite to eat, And the pot scorching like the devil’s pit! Bestir yourself there, will you! Here you sit Tra-la-ing while the supper goes to rack, And your old father like to break his back, Tramping from market!

FATHER

Tut, tut! Girls must sing, And one burned supper is a little thing In seventy creeping years.

MOTHER

Ah, there it goes! My hunger makes no difference, I suppose! Tra-la, tut tut, and I can slave and slave Until my nose seems sniffing for a grave, I’m bent so—and it’s little that you care!

GIRL

(_Who has arisen from window and regards her mother as in a dream._)

Hush, Mother dear, you’ll wake him!

MOTHER

Wake him? Where? Who sleeps that should not wake? Are you bewitched? Hush me again, and you’ll be soundly switched! As though I were a work brute to be dumb! I’ll talk my fill!

GIRL

O Mother, he has come——

MOTHER

(_Her body straightening slightly from its habitual stoop_)

Eh? Who might come that I would care to know Since Ivan left?—He’s dead.

FATHER

Aye, years ago, And stubborn grieving is a foolish sin.

MOTHER

(_With the old weary voice._)

One’s head runs empty and the ghosts get in When one is old and stooped.

(_Peevishly to the girl._)

Bestir yourself! Lay plates and light the candles on the shelf. No corpse lies here that it should be so dark.

_(Girl, moving as in a trance, lights candles with a brand from the fireplace. Often she glances expectantly at the window. The place is fully illumined._)

What ails the hussy?

FATHER

‘Tis a crazy lark Sings in her head all day. Don’t be too rough. Come twenty winters, ‘twill be still enough, God knows!

MOTHER

(_At the fireplace._)

I heard no larks sing at her age. They put me in the field to earn a wage And be some use in the world.

(_To girl._)

What! Dawdling yet? I’ll lark you in a way you won’t forget, Come forty winters! Speak! What do you mean?

GIRL

(_Still staring at the window and speaking dreamily as to herself._)

Up from the valley creeps the loving green Until the loneliest hill-top is a bride.

MOTHER

The girl’s gone daft!

FATHER

‘Tis vapors. Let her bide. She’s weaving bride-veils with a woof of the moon, And every wind’s a husband. All too soon She’ll stitch at grave-clothes in a stuff more stern.

GIRL

(_Arousing suddenly._)

I’m sorry that I let the supper burn— ‘Tis all so sweet, I scarce know what I do— He came——

MOTHER

Who came?

GIRL

A stranger that I knew; And he was weary, so I took him in And gave him supper, thinking ‘twere a sin That anyone should want and be denied. And while he ate, the place seemed glorified, As though it were the Saviour sitting there! It could not be the sunset bound his hair Briefly with golden haloes—made his eyes Such depths to gaze in with a dumb surprise While one blinked thrice!—Then suddenly it passed, And he was some old friend returned at last After long years.

MOTHER

A pretty tale, indeed! And so it was our supper went to feed A sneaking ne’er-do-well, a shiftless scamp!

GIRL

O Mother, wasn’t Jesus Christ a tramp?

MOTHER

Hush, will you! hush! ‘Tis plain the Devil’s here! To think my only child should live to jeer At holy things!

FATHER

Come, don’t abuse the maid. They say He was a carpenter by trade, Yet no one ever saw the house He built.

MOTHER

So! Shield the minx! Make nothing of her guilt, And let the Devil get her—as he will! I’ll hold my tongue and work, and eat my fill From what the beggars leave, for all you care! Quick! Where’s this scoundrel?

GIRL

‘Sh! He’s sleeping there Out in the garden.

(_Shows a gold piece._)

Mother, see, he paid So much more than he owed us, I’m afraid. We lose in taking, profit what we give.

MOTHER

(_Taking the coin._)

What! Gold? A clever bargain, as I live! It’s five times what the fowls brought!—Not so bad! And yet—I’ll wager ‘tis not all he had— Eh?

GIRL

No—eight hundred rubles in a sack!

MOTHER

Eight—hundred—rubles! Yet the times are slack, And coins don’t spawn like fishes, Goodness knows! I’ll warrant he’s some thief that comes and goes About the country with a ready smile And that soft speech that is the Devil’s guile, Nosing out hoards that reek with honest sweat! Ha, ha—there’s little here that he can get.

(_Goes to window softly, peers out, then closes the casement._)

Eight—hundred—rubles—

GIRL

Mother, had you heard How loving kindness spoke in every word, You could not doubt him. O, his eyes were mild, And there were heavens in them when he smiled!

MOTHER

Satan can outsmile God.

GIRL

No, no, I’m sure He brought some gift of good that shall endure And be a blessing to us!

MOTHER

So indeed! Eight—hundred—rubles—with the power to breed Litters of copecks till one need not work! Eight hundred hundred backaches somehow lurk In that snug wallet.

(_To the father._)

What’s the thing to do?

FATHER

It would be pleasant with a pot of brew To talk until the windows glimmer pale. ‘Tis good to harken to a traveller’s tale Of things far off where almost no one goes.

MOTHER

As well to parley with a wind that blows Across fat fields, yet has no grain to share. Rubles are rubles, and a tale is air. I’ll have the rubles!

GIRL

(_Aghast._)

Mother! Mother dear! What if ‘twere Ivan sleeping far from here, And some one else should do this sinful deed!

MOTHER

Had they not taken my son, I should not need Eight hundred rubles now! The world’s made wrong, And I’ll not live to vex it very long. Who work should take their wages where they can. It should have been my boy come back a man, With this same goodly hoard to bring us cheer. Now let some other mother peer and peer At her own window through a blurring pane, And see the world go out in salty rain, And start at every gust that shakes the door! What does a green girl know? You never bore A son that you should prate of wrong and right! I tell you, I have wakened in the night, Feeling his milk-teeth sharp upon my breast, And for one aching moment I was blest, Until I minded that ‘twas years ago These flattened paps went milkless—and I know!

GIRL

O Mother! ‘twould be sin!

MOTHER

Sin! What is that— When all the world prowls like a hungry cat, Mousing the little that could make us glad?

FATHER

Don’t be forever grieving for the lad. ‘Twas hard, but there are troubles worse than death. Let’s eat and think it over.

MOTHER

Save your breath, Or share your empty prate with one another! One moment makes a father, but a mother Is made by endless moments, load on load.

(_Pause: then to girl._)

I left a bundle three bends down the road. Go fetch it.

GIRL

(_Pleadingly._)

Mother, promise not to do This awful thing you think.

MOTHER

(_Seizing a stick from the fireplace._)

I’ll promise you, And pay in welts—you simpering hussy!

(_The girl flees through back door. After a pause the woman turns to the man._)

—Well? Eight hundred rubles, and no tale to tell— The fresh earth strewn with leaves—is that the plan?

FATHER

(_Startled._)

Eh?—That?—You mean—You would not kill a man? Not that!

MOTHER

Eight—hundred—rubles.

FATHER

It is much. Old folk might hobble far with less for crutch— But murder!—Rubles spent are rubles still—Blood squandered—‘tis a fearsome thing to kill! I know what rubles cost—they all come hard, But life’s the dearer.

MOTHER

Kill a hog for lard, A thief for gold—one reason and one knife! I tell you, gold is costlier than life! What price shall we have brought when we are gone? When Ivan died, the heartless world went on Breeding more sons that men might still be cheap. And who but I had any tears to weep? I mind ‘twas April when the tale was brought That he’d been lost at sea. I thought and thought About the way all things were mad to breed— One big hot itch to suckle or bear seed— And my boy dead! Life costly?—Cheap as mud! You want the rubles, sicken at the blood, You grey old limping coward!

FATHER

Come now, Mother! I’d kill to live as lief as any other. You women don’t weigh matters like a man. I like the gold—‘tis true—but not the plan. Why not put pebbles where the rubles were, Then send him forth?

MOTHER

And set the place a-whir With a wind of tongues! I tell you, we must kill! No tale dies harder than a tale of ill. Once buried, he will tell none.

FATHER

Let me think— I’ll go down to the tavern for a drink To whet my wits—belike the dread will pass.

(_He goes out through the back door, shaking his head in perplexity_)

MOTHER

(_Alone._)

He’ll find a coward’s courage in his glass— Enough to dig a hole when he comes back.

(_She goes to shelf and snuffs the candles. The moon shines brightly through the window and the firelight glows. She takes a knife from a table drawer, feels the edge; goes to the window and peers out; turns about, uneasily scanning the room, then moves toward the side door, muttering._)

Eight hundred shining rubles in a sack!

(_She goes out softly and closes the door. A cry is heard as of one in a nightmare. After a considerable interval the mother reënters with a small bag which she is opening with nervous fingers. The moonlight falls upon her. Now and then she endeavors to shake something from her hands, which she finally wipes on her apron, muttering the while._)

When folks get rich they find their fingers dirty.

(_She counts the coins in silence for awhile, then aloud._)

Eight and twenty—nine and twenty—thirty—

(_Clutching a handful of gold, she suddenly stops counting and stares at the back door. There is the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. The door flies open and the old man enters excitedly._)

FATHER

Mother! Mother! Wake him! Wake him—quick! ‘Tis Ivan with an old-time, merry trick— They told me at the tavern—‘tis our son!

(_Rushes toward the side door._)

Ivan! Ivan!

(_Stops abruptly, aghast at the look of the woman. The coins jangle on the floor_)

God! What have you done!

(_As the curtain falls, the singing voice of the returning girl is heard nearer and nearer._)

GIRL

(_Outside._)

AGRIPPINA

(_The courtyard of the Imperial villa at Baiae. A moonlit night in late March. Occupying the left half of background is seen a portion of the villa. A short, broad flight of steps leads through the arched doorway to a pillared hall beyond, vague, but seeming vast in the uncertain lights that flicker in the draught. To the right of the doorway is a broad open window at the height of a mans head from the courtyard. An urn stands near window in the shadow to the right. From within harp music is heard threading the buzzing merriment of a banquet that is being given to celebrate Nero’s reconciliation with his mother. To the right of stage a glimpse of the moonlit sea is caught through trees._)

(_Enter from left walking toward the sea, Anicetus and the Captain of a galley._)

CAPTAIN

(_Pointing toward sea._)

Yon lies the galley weltering in the moon. A fair ship!—like a lady in a swoon Of languid passion. Never fairer craft Flung the green rustle of her skirts abaft And wooed the dwindling leagues!

ANICETUS

A boat’s a boat! And were she thrice the fairest keel afloat Tonight she founders, sinks—make sure of that!

CAPTAIN

And all to drown one lean imperial cat With claws and teeth too sharp despite the purr! Ah, scan the graceful woman lines of her! Fit for the male Wind’s love is she—alas! Scuttled and buried in a sea of glass By her own master! It will cost me pain. Better a night of lightning-riven rain With hell-hounds baying in the driven gloom!

ANICETUS

The will of Nero is her wind of doom— Woe to the seaman who defies that gale! Go now—make ready that we may not fail To crown the wish of Caesar with the deed.

CAPTAIN

Aye, Master!

(_Exit Captain toward sea._)

ANICETUS

And no brazen wound shall bleed Red scandal over Rome; the nosing mob Shall sniff no poison. Just a gulping sob And some few bubbles breaking on the swell— Then, good night, Agrippina, rest you well! And may the gods revamp the silly fish With guts of brass for coping with that dish!

(_A muffled outburst of laughter in banquet hall. Anicetus turns toward window. Uproar dies out._)

They’re drinking deep—the banquet’s at its height And all therein are kings and queens tonight.

(_Goes to urn, mounts it and peers in at window._)

A merry crew! Quite drunk, quite drunk I fear, My noble Romans!—Burrus’ eyes are blear! One goblet hence, good Burrus, you will howl! E’en Seneca sits staring like an owl And strives to pilot in some heavy sea That wisdom-laden boat, his head. Ah me, Creperius Gallus, you are floundering deep In red Falernian bogs, so you shall sleep Quite soundly while your mistress takes the dip! Fair Acerronia thinks the place a ship And greenly sickens in the dizzy roll! There broods Poppaea, certain of her goal, Her veil a sea-fog clutching at the moon, A portent to wise sailors! Very soon The sea shall wake in hunger and be fed! She smiles!—the glimmer on a thunderhead That vomits ruin!—What has made her smile? Ah, Nero’s wine is sugared well with guile! So—kiss your mother—gently fondle her— Pet the old she-cat till she mew and purr Unto the tender hand that strokes her back: So shall there be no sniffing at the sack! Would that her eyes, like his, with wine were dim! Gods! What a tragic actor died in him To make a comic Caesar! I surmise By the too rheumy nature of your eyes, Divine imperial Nero, and their sunk Lugubrious aspect—pardon!—but you’re drunk, Drunk as a lackey when the master’s out! O kingly tears that down that regal snout Pour salty love upon a mother’s breast! So shall her timid doubts be lulled to rest!

(_Bustle within as of many rising to their feet._)

They rise! The prologue’s ended—now the play!

(_He gets down from urn and goes off toward sea._)

HERALDS

(_Crying within._)

Make way for Caesar! Ho! Make way! Make way!

(_The musicians within strike up a martial strain. After a few moments, within the hall appear Nero and Agrippina, arm in arm, approaching the flight of steps. Nero is robed in a tunic of the color of amethyst, with a winged harp embroidered on the front. He is crowned with a laurel wreath, now askew in his disordered hair. Agrippina wears a robe of maroon without decoration. Nero endeavors to preserve the semblance of supporting his mother, but in fact is supported by her, while he caresses her with considerable extravagance. They pause half way down the steps, and the music within changes to a low melancholy air._)

AGRIPPINA

(_Lifting her face to the moon seaward._)

How fair a moon to crown our happy revel!

NERO

(_Gazing blankly at the moon._)

Eh? Veil the hussy!

AGRIPPINA

Son, son!

NERO

She’s a devil!

AGRIPPINA

(_Placing a loving arm closer about Nero._)

Just such a night ‘twas, Lucius—you remember?— When Claudius’ spirit like a smouldering ember Struggled ‘twixt flame and ash—do you forget?

NERO

Ha ha—‘twas snuffed—ho ho!

AGRIPPINA

(_Stroking his hair._)

‘Twas then I set The imperial circlet here; ‘twas then I cloaked My boy with world-robes!

NERO

(_Still staring at moon and pointing unsteadily._)

Have that vixen choked! Her staring makes me stagger—where’s her veil?

AGRIPPINA

It all comes back like an enchanted tale— The moon set and the sun rose—

NERO

Dead and gone— The sun set and the moon rose—

AGRIPPINA

Nay, at dawn The blear flame died, the new flame blossomed up.

NERO

Did someone drop a poison in my cup? The windless sea crawls moaning—

(_They move slowly down stairs, Nero clinging to his mother._)

AGRIPPINA

Son of mine, Cast off the evil humors of the wine! I am so happy and was so forlorn! Ah, not another night since you were born Has flung such purple through me! Son—at last The haggard hours that parted us are past; I’ve wept my tears and have no more to shed! I live—I live—I live! And I was dead.

NERO

(_Clinging closer._)

Dead—dead—what ails the sea—‘tis going red—

(_Laughter in banquet hall._)

Who’s laughing?—Mother—scourge them from the place! Who gave the moon Poppaea’s dizzy face To scare the sea?

AGRIPPINA

Your message gave me life! Ah, Lucius, not for us to mar with strife A world so made for loving! Lucius dear, I was too harsh, perhaps; the fault is here.

(_Places hand on heart._)

NERO

(_Staring into his mother’s eyes._)

Too harsh perhaps—

AGRIPPINA

Yea, so we mothers err: Too long we see our babies as they were, And last of all the world confess them tall. They stride so far—we shudder lest they fall— They toddle yet. And she who bears a son Shall be two women ever after; one The fountain of a seaward cooing stream, And one the shrouded virgin of a dream Whom no man wooes, whose heart, a muted lyre, Pines with a wild but unconfessed desire For him who—never understands, my son! I’ll be all fountain—kill that other one!

NERO

That other one—

AGRIPPINA

Oh, like a wind of Spring Wooing the sere grave of a buried thing, Your summons came! Such happy tendrils creep Out of me, in that old ache rooted deep, To blossom sunward greener for the sorrow. And, O my Emperor, if on the morrow Your heart could soften toward that gentle one, That frail white lily pining for the sun, Octavia, your patient little wife, Smile, smile upon that flower and give it life! Make of my Lucius emperor in truth, Not Passion’s bondman! ‘Tis the way of youth To drive wild stallions with too slack a rein Toward fleeing goals no fleetness can attain! Oh splendid speed that fails for lack of fear! The grip of iron makes the charioteer! The lyric fury heeds the master beat And is the freer for its shackled feet! You who are Law shall be more free than others By seeming less so, Lucius.

NERO

Best of mothers, Tomorrow—yes, tomorrow—Mother, stay! You must not go so far, so far away!

AGRIPPINA

Only to Bauli.

(_They have reached the extreme right of stage. The guests now begin to come out of banquet hall, scattering a rippling laughter. Nero is aroused by the merry sound, looks back, gathers himself together with a start._)

NERO

Ah! The moon is bright! The sea is still! We’ll banquet every night, Shall we not, Mother? Certain cares of state Weigh heavily—‘tis awful to be great— Nay, terrible at times! Can I be ill? It seemed the sea moaned—yet ‘tis very still! Mother, my Mother—kiss me! Let us go Down to the galley—so.