صفحة 1
KING · LEAR'S · WIFE
THE · CRIER · BY · NIGHT
THE · RIDING · TO · LITHEND
MIDSUMMER-EVE
LAODICE · AND · DANAË
PLAYS · BY · GORDON
BOTTOMLEY
BOSTON
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND GRIGGS (PRINTERS), LTD. AT THE
CHISWICK PRESS, TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.
CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND GRIGGS (PRINTERS), LTD. AT THE
CHISWICK PRESS, TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.
CONTENTS
PAGE King Lear's Wife 1 The Crier by Night 49 The Riding To Lithend 81 Midsummer Eve 131 Laodice and Danaë 169 Appendix a (king Lear's Wife) 207 Appendix B (the Crier by Night) 211
Note.—Throughout the stage-directions in the following pages the words "right" and "left" are used with reference to the actor's right and left, not the spectator's.
"REMEMBER THE
LIFE OF THESE
THINGS CONSISTS
IN ACTION."
JOHN MARSTON: 1606.
LIFE OF THESE
THINGS CONSISTS
IN ACTION."
JOHN MARSTON: 1606.
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
The plays here collected were originally published separately at various dates during the past eighteen years, and are now brought together for the first time. The details of the previous issues, now for the most part out of print, are appended.
I. The Crier by Night. (1900.) Published by the Unicorn Press, London, 1902. 32 pp. Quarto, boards. 500 copies.
II. Midsummer Eve. (1901-2.) Printed and published at the Pear Tree Press, South Harting, near Petersfield, 1905, with decorations by James Guthrie. iv+ 36 pp. Large post 8vo, boards. 120 copies.
III. Laodice and Danaë. (1906.) Printed for private circulation, 1909. iv + 26 pp. Royal 8vo, wrappers. 150 copies.
IV. The Riding To Lithend. (1907.) Printed and published at the Pear Tree Press, Flansham near Bognor, 1909, with decorations by James Guthrie. vi + 40pp. Foolscap 4to, boards. 120 copies (20 of which had an extra plate and were hand-coloured.)
V. King Lear's Wife. (1911-13.) Published in "Georgian Poetry, 1913-1915," pp. 1 to 47. The Poetry Bookshop, London, 1915.
The Crier by Night, The Riding to Lithend, and Laodice and Danaë have been reprinted in the United States of America, the first in 1909, the second in two separate forms in 1910, the third in 1916.
NOTE
Applications for permission to perform these plays in Great Britain and the Colonies should be addressed to the author, care of Messrs. Constable and Co. Ltd., 10-12 Orange Street, Leicester Square, London, W.C.2; and in the United States of America to Mr. Paul R. Reynolds, 70 Fifth Avenue, New York.
King Lear's Wife is copyright by Gordon Bottomley in the United States of America, 1915.
KING LEAR'S WIFE
TO T. STURGE MOORE
THE years come on, the years go by,
And in my Northern valley I,
Withdrawn from life, watch life go by.
But I have formed within my heart
A state that does not thus depart,
Richer than life, greater than being,
Truer in feeling and in seeing
Than outward turbulence can know;
Where time is still, like a large, slow
And lofty bird that moves her wings
In far, invisible flutterings
To gaze on every part of space
Yet poise for ever in one place;
Where line and sound, colour and phrase
Rebuild in clear, essential ways
The powers behind the veil of sense;
While tragic things are made intense
By passion brooding on old dread,
Till a faint light of beauty shed
From night-enfolded agony
Shews in the ways men fail and die
The deeps whose knowledge never cloys
But, striking inward without voice,
Stirs me to tremble and rejoice.
For twenty years and more than twenty
I have found my riches and my plenty
In poets dead and poets living,
Painters and music-men, all giving,
By life shut in creative deeds,
Live force and insight to my needs;
And long before I came to stand
And hear your voice and touch your hand
In that great treasure-house new-known,
Where in their tower above the Town
The masters of The Dial sit,
I loved in every word of it
Your finely tempered verse that told me
Of patient power, and still can hold me
By its authentic divination
Of the right knowledge of creation,
Its grave, still beauty brought to day
Tissue by tissue in nature's way,
Petal by petal sure to shew
Imagination's quiet glow
That burns intenseliest at the core.
And through that twenty years and more
I have been envious of your reach
In speaking form and plastic speech,
Your double energy of hand
That puts two arts at your command
While I must be content with one
And feel true life but half begun;
So that by graver as by pen
You can create earth, stars, and men,
And prove yourself by more than rime
A prince of poets in our
And in my Northern valley I,
Withdrawn from life, watch life go by.
But I have formed within my heart
A state that does not thus depart,
Richer than life, greater than being,
Truer in feeling and in seeing
Than outward turbulence can know;
Where time is still, like a large, slow
And lofty bird that moves her wings
In far, invisible flutterings
To gaze on every part of space
Yet poise for ever in one place;
Where line and sound, colour and phrase
Rebuild in clear, essential ways
The powers behind the veil of sense;
While tragic things are made intense
By passion brooding on old dread,
Till a faint light of beauty shed
From night-enfolded agony
Shews in the ways men fail and die
The deeps whose knowledge never cloys
But, striking inward without voice,
Stirs me to tremble and rejoice.
For twenty years and more than twenty
I have found my riches and my plenty
In poets dead and poets living,
Painters and music-men, all giving,
By life shut in creative deeds,
Live force and insight to my needs;
And long before I came to stand
And hear your voice and touch your hand
In that great treasure-house new-known,
Where in their tower above the Town
The masters of The Dial sit,
I loved in every word of it
Your finely tempered verse that told me
Of patient power, and still can hold me
By its authentic divination
Of the right knowledge of creation,
Its grave, still beauty brought to day
Tissue by tissue in nature's way,
Petal by petal sure to shew
Imagination's quiet glow
That burns intenseliest at the core.
And through that twenty years and more
I have been envious of your reach
In speaking form and plastic speech,
Your double energy of hand
That puts two arts at your command
While I must be content with one
And feel true life but half begun;
So that by graver as by pen
You can create earth, stars, and men,
And prove yourself by more than rime
A prince of poets in our
صفحة 2
time.
For these delights, and the delight
Of converse in a Surrey night
After the deep sound had lapsed by
Of ocean-haunted poetry,
For counsel and another zest
Added to beauty's life-long quest
I, in acknowledgment, would bring
The homage of an offering;
And, being too poor to reach the height
Of my conception or requite
Your greater giving equally,
I search in my capacity
And, by my self-appointed trade,
Find something I myself have made,
That here I offer. Let it be
A token betwixt you and me
Of admiration and loyalty.
For these delights, and the delight
Of converse in a Surrey night
After the deep sound had lapsed by
Of ocean-haunted poetry,
For counsel and another zest
Added to beauty's life-long quest
I, in acknowledgment, would bring
The homage of an offering;
And, being too poor to reach the height
Of my conception or requite
Your greater giving equally,
I search in my capacity
And, by my self-appointed trade,
Find something I myself have made,
That here I offer. Let it be
A token betwixt you and me
Of admiration and loyalty.
February 29th, 1916.
PERSONS:
Lear, King of Britain. Hygd, his Queen. Goneril, daughter to Lear and Hygd. Cordeil, daughter to Lear and Hygd. Gormflaith, waiting-woman to Hygd. Merryn, waiting-woman to Hygd. A Physician. Two Elderly Women.
KING LEAR'S WIFE
The scene is a bedchamber in a one-storied house. The walls consist of a few courses of huge irregular boulders roughly squared and fitted together; a thatched roof rises steeply from the back wall. In the centre of the back wall is a doorway opening on a garden and covered by two leather curtains; the chamber is partially hung with similar hangings stitched with bright wools. There is a small window on each side of this door.
Toward the front a bed stands with its head against the right wall; it has thin leather curtains hung by thongs and drawn back. Farther forward a rich robe and a crown hang on a peg in the same wall. There is a second door beyond the bed, and between this and the bed's head stands a small table with a bronze lamp and a bronze cup on it. Queen Hygd, an emaciated woman, is asleep in the bed; her plenteous black hair, veined with silver, spreads over the pillow. Her waiting-woman, Merryn, middle-aged and hard-featured, sits watching her in a chair on the farther side of the bed. The light of early morning fills the room.
Merryn.
MANY, many must die who long to live,
Yet this one cannot die who longs to die:
Even her sleep, come now at last, thwarts death,
Although sleep lures us all half way to death....
I could not sit beside her every night
If I believed that I might suffer so:
I am sure I am not made to be diseased,
I feel there is no malady can touch me—
Save the red cancer, growing where it will.
Yet this one cannot die who longs to die:
Even her sleep, come now at last, thwarts death,
Although sleep lures us all half way to death....
I could not sit beside her every night
If I believed that I might suffer so:
I am sure I am not made to be diseased,
I feel there is no malady can touch me—
Save the red cancer, growing where it will.
Taking her beads from her girdle, she kneels at the foot of the bed.
O sweet Saint Cleer, and sweet Saint Elid too,
Shield me from rooting cancers and from madness:
Shield me from sudden death, worse than two death-beds;
Let me not lie like this unwanted queen,
Yet let my time come not ere I am ready—
Grant space enow to relish the watchers' tears
And give my clothes away and calm my features
And streek my limbs according to my will,
Not the hard will of fumbling corpse-washers.
Shield me from rooting cancers and from madness:
Shield me from sudden death, worse than two death-beds;
Let me not lie like this unwanted queen,
Yet let my time come not ere I am ready—
Grant space enow to relish the watchers' tears
And give my clothes away and calm my features
And streek my limbs according to my will,
Not the hard will of fumbling corpse-washers.
She prays silently.
King Lear, a great, golden-bearded man in the full maturity of life, enters abruptly by the door beyond the bed, followed by the Physician.
Lear.
Why are you here? Are you here for ever?
Where is the young Scotswoman? Where is she?
Merryn.
O, Sire, move softly; the Queen sleeps at last.
Lear, continuing in an undertone.
Where is the young Scotswoman? Where is Gormflaith?
It is her watch.... I know; I have marked your hours.
Did the Queen send her away? Did the Queen
Bid you stay near her in her hate of Gormflaith?
You work upon her yeasting brain to think
That she's not safe except when you crouch near her
To spy with your dropt eyes and soundless presence.
Merryn.
Sire, midnight should have ended Gormflaith's watch,
But Gormflaith had another kind of will
And ended at a godlier hour by slumber,
A letter in her hand, the night-lamp out.
She loitered in the hall when she should sleep.
My duty has two hours ere she returns.
Lear.
The Queen should have young women about her bed,
Fresh cool-breathed women to lie down at her side
And plenish her with vigour; for sick or wasted women
Can draw a virtue from such abounding presence,
When night makes life unwary and looses the strings of being,
Even by the breath, and most of all by sleep.
Her slumber was then no fault: go you and find her.
Physician.
It is not strange that a bought watcher drowses;
What is most strange is that the Queen sleeps
Who would not sleep for all my draughts of sleep
In the last days. When did this change appear?
Merryn.
We shall not know—it came while Gormflaith nodded.
When I awoke her and she saw the Queen
She could not speak for fear:
When the rekindling lamp showed certainly
The bed-clothes stirring about our lady's neck,
She knew there was no death, she breathed, she said
She had not slept until her mistress slept
And lulled her; but I asked her how her mistress
Slept, and her utterance faded.
She should be blamed with rods, as I was blamed
For slumber, after a day and a night of watching,
By the Queen's child-bed, twenty years ago.
Lear.
She does what she must do: let her alone.
I know her watch is now: get gone and send her.
Why are you here? Are you here for ever?
Where is the young Scotswoman? Where is she?
Merryn.
O, Sire, move softly; the Queen sleeps at last.
Lear, continuing in an undertone.
Where is the young Scotswoman? Where is Gormflaith?
It is her watch.... I know; I have marked your hours.
Did the Queen send her away? Did the Queen
Bid you stay near her in her hate of Gormflaith?
You work upon her yeasting brain to think
That she's not safe except when you crouch near her
To spy with your dropt eyes and soundless presence.
Merryn.
Sire, midnight should have ended Gormflaith's watch,
But Gormflaith had another kind of will
And ended at a godlier hour by slumber,
A letter in her hand, the night-lamp out.
She loitered in the hall when she should sleep.
My duty has two hours ere she returns.
Lear.
The Queen should have young women about her bed,
Fresh cool-breathed women to lie down at her side
And plenish her with vigour; for sick or wasted women
Can draw a virtue from such abounding presence,
When night makes life unwary and looses the strings of being,
Even by the breath, and most of all by sleep.
Her slumber was then no fault: go you and find her.
Physician.
It is not strange that a bought watcher drowses;
What is most strange is that the Queen sleeps
Who would not sleep for all my draughts of sleep
In the last days. When did this change appear?
Merryn.
We shall not know—it came while Gormflaith nodded.
When I awoke her and she saw the Queen
She could not speak for fear:
When the rekindling lamp showed certainly
The bed-clothes stirring about our lady's neck,
She knew there was no death, she breathed, she said
She had not slept until her mistress slept
And lulled her; but I asked her how her mistress
Slept, and her utterance faded.
She should be blamed with rods, as I was blamed
For slumber, after a day and a night of watching,
By the Queen's child-bed, twenty years ago.
Lear.
She does what she must do: let her alone.
I know her watch is now: get gone and send her.
Merryn goes out by the door beyond the bed.
Is it a portent now to sleep at night?
What change is here? What see you in the Queen?
Can you discern how this disease will end?
Physician.
Surmise might spring and healing follow yet,
If I could find a trouble that could heal;
But these strong inward pains that keep her ebbing
Have not their source in perishing flesh.
I have seen women creep into their beds
And sink with this blind pain because they nursed
Some bitterness or burden in the mind
That drew the life, sucklings too long at breast.
Do you know such a cause in this poor lady?
Lear.
There is no cause. How should there be a cause?
Physician.
We cannot die wholly against our wills;
And in the texture of women I have found
Harder determination than in men:
The body grows impatient of enduring,
The harried mind is from
What change is here? What see you in the Queen?
Can you discern how this disease will end?
Physician.
Surmise might spring and healing follow yet,
If I could find a trouble that could heal;
But these strong inward pains that keep her ebbing
Have not their source in perishing flesh.
I have seen women creep into their beds
And sink with this blind pain because they nursed
Some bitterness or burden in the mind
That drew the life, sucklings too long at breast.
Do you know such a cause in this poor lady?
Lear.
There is no cause. How should there be a cause?
Physician.
We cannot die wholly against our wills;
And in the texture of women I have found
Harder determination than in men:
The body grows impatient of enduring,
The harried mind is from
صفحة 3
original reads 'the the'">the body estranged,
And we consent to go: by the Queen's touch,
The way she moves—or does not move—in bed,
The eyes so cold and keen in her white mask,
I know she has consented.
The snarling look of a mute wounded hawk,
That would be let alone, is always hers—
Yet she was sorely tender: it may be
Some wound in her affection will not heal.
We should be careful—the mind can so be hurt
That nought can make it be unhurt again.
Where, then, did her affection most persist?
Lear.
Old bone-patcher, old digger in men's flesh,
Doctors are ever itching to be priests,
Meddling in conduct, natures, life's privacies.
We have been coupled now for twenty years,
And she has never turned from me an hour—
She knows a woman's duty and a queen's:
Whose, then, can her affection be but mine?
How can I hurt her—she is still my queen?
If her strong inward pain is a real pain
Find me some certain drug to medicine it:
When common beings have decayed past help,
There must be still some drug for a king to use;
For nothing ought to be denied to kings.
Physician.
For the mere anguish there is such a potion.
The gum of warpy juniper shoots is seethed
With the torn marrow of an adder's spine;
An unflawed emerald is pashed to dust
And mingled there; that broth must cool in moonlight.
I have indeed attempted this already,
But the poor emeralds I could extort
From wry-mouthed earls' women had no force.
In two more dawns it will be late for potions....
There are not many emeralds in Britain,
And there is none for vividness and strength
Like the great stone that hangs upon your breast:
If you will waste it for her she shall be holpen.
Lear, with rising voice.
Shatter my emerald? My emerald? My emerald?
A High King of Eire gave it to his daughter
Who mothered generations of us, the kings of Britain;
It has a spiritual influence; its heart
Burns when it sees the sun.... Shatter my emerald!
Only the fungused brain and carious mouth
Of senile things could shape such thought....
My emerald!
And we consent to go: by the Queen's touch,
The way she moves—or does not move—in bed,
The eyes so cold and keen in her white mask,
I know she has consented.
The snarling look of a mute wounded hawk,
That would be let alone, is always hers—
Yet she was sorely tender: it may be
Some wound in her affection will not heal.
We should be careful—the mind can so be hurt
That nought can make it be unhurt again.
Where, then, did her affection most persist?
Lear.
Old bone-patcher, old digger in men's flesh,
Doctors are ever itching to be priests,
Meddling in conduct, natures, life's privacies.
We have been coupled now for twenty years,
And she has never turned from me an hour—
She knows a woman's duty and a queen's:
Whose, then, can her affection be but mine?
How can I hurt her—she is still my queen?
If her strong inward pain is a real pain
Find me some certain drug to medicine it:
When common beings have decayed past help,
There must be still some drug for a king to use;
For nothing ought to be denied to kings.
Physician.
For the mere anguish there is such a potion.
The gum of warpy juniper shoots is seethed
With the torn marrow of an adder's spine;
An unflawed emerald is pashed to dust
And mingled there; that broth must cool in moonlight.
I have indeed attempted this already,
But the poor emeralds I could extort
From wry-mouthed earls' women had no force.
In two more dawns it will be late for potions....
There are not many emeralds in Britain,
And there is none for vividness and strength
Like the great stone that hangs upon your breast:
If you will waste it for her she shall be holpen.
Lear, with rising voice.
Shatter my emerald? My emerald? My emerald?
A High King of Eire gave it to his daughter
Who mothered generations of us, the kings of Britain;
It has a spiritual influence; its heart
Burns when it sees the sun.... Shatter my emerald!
Only the fungused brain and carious mouth
Of senile things could shape such thought....
My emerald!
Hygd stirs uneasily in her sleep.
Physician.
Speak lower, low; for your good fame, speak low—
If she should waken thus....
Lear. There is no wise man
Believes that medicine is in a jewel.
It is enough that you have failed with one.
Seek you a common stone. I'll not do it.
Let her eat heartily: she is spent with fasting.
Let her stand up and walk: she is so still
Her blood can never nourish her. Come away.
Physician.
I must not leave her ere the woman comes—
Or will some other woman....
Lear. No, no, no, no;
The Queen is not herself; she speaks without sense;
Only Merryn and Gormflaith understand.
She is better quiet. Come....
Speak lower, low; for your good fame, speak low—
If she should waken thus....
Lear. There is no wise man
Believes that medicine is in a jewel.
It is enough that you have failed with one.
Seek you a common stone. I'll not do it.
Let her eat heartily: she is spent with fasting.
Let her stand up and walk: she is so still
Her blood can never nourish her. Come away.
Physician.
I must not leave her ere the woman comes—
Or will some other woman....
Lear. No, no, no, no;
The Queen is not herself; she speaks without sense;
Only Merryn and Gormflaith understand.
She is better quiet. Come....
He urges the Physician roughly away by the shoulder.
My emerald!
He follows the Physician out by the door at the back.
Queen Hygd awakes at his last noisy words as he disappears.
Hygd.
I have not slept; I did but close mine eyes
A little while—a little while forgetting....
Where are you, Merryn?... Ah, it is not Merryn....
Bring me the cup of whey, woman; I thirst....
Will you speak to me if I say your name?
Will you not listen, Gormflaith? ... Can you hear?
I am very thirsty—let me drink....
Ah, wicked woman, why did I speak to you?
I will not be your suppliant again....
Where are you? O, where are you?... Where are you?
I have not slept; I did but close mine eyes
A little while—a little while forgetting....
Where are you, Merryn?... Ah, it is not Merryn....
Bring me the cup of whey, woman; I thirst....
Will you speak to me if I say your name?
Will you not listen, Gormflaith? ... Can you hear?
I am very thirsty—let me drink....
Ah, wicked woman, why did I speak to you?
I will not be your suppliant again....
Where are you? O, where are you?... Where are you?
She tries to raise herself to look about the room, but sinks back helplessly.
The curtains of the door at the back are parted, and Goneril appears in hunting dress,—her kirtle caught up in her girdle, a light spear over her shoulder—stands there a moment, then enters noiselessly and approaches the bed. She is a girl just turning to womanhood, proud in her poise, swift and cold, an almost gleaming presence, a virgin huntress.
Goneril.
Mother, were you calling?
Have I awakened you?
They said that you were sleeping.
Why are you left alone, mother, my dear one?
Hygd.
Who are you? No, no, no! Stand farther off!
You pulse and glow; you are too vital; your presence hurts....
Freshness of hill-swards, wind and trodden ling,
I should have known that Goneril stands here.
It is yet dawn, but you have been afoot
Afar and long: where could you climb so soon?
Goneril.
Dearest, I am an evil daughter to you:
I never thought of you—O, never once—
Until I heard a moor-bird cry like you.
I am wicked, rapt in joys of breath and life,
And I must force myself to think of you.
I leave you to caretakers' cold gentleness;
But O, I did not think that they dare leave you.
What woman should be here?
Hygd. I have forgot....
I know not.... She will be about some duty.
I do not matter: my time is done ... nigh done ...
Bought hands can well prepare me for a grave,
And all the generations must serve youth.
My girls shall live untroubled while they may,
And learn happiness once while yet blind men
Have injured not their freedom;
For women are not meant for happiness.
Where have you been, my falcon?
Goneril.
I dreamt that I was swimming, shoulder up,
And drave the bed-clothes spreading to the floor:
Coldness awoke me; through the waning darkness
I heard far hounds give shivering aëry tongue,
Remote, withdrawing, suddenly faint and near;
I leapt and saw a pack of stretching weasels
Hunt a pale coney in a soundless rush,
Their elfin and thin yelping pierced my heart
As with an unseen beauty long awaited;
Wolf-skin and cloak I buckled over this night-gear,
And took my honoured spear from my bed-side
Where none but I may touch its purity,
And sped as lightly down the dewy bank
As any mothy owl that hunts quick mice.
They went crying, crying, but I lost them
Before I stept, with the first tips of light,
On Raven Crag near by the Druid Stones;
So I paused there and, stooping, pressed my hand
Against the stony bed of the clear stream;
Then entered I the circle and raised up
My shining hand in cold stern adoration
Even as the first great gleam went up the sky.
Hygd.
Ay, you do well to worship on that height:
Life is free to the quick up in the wind,
And the wind bares you for a god's descent—
For wind is a spirit immediate and aged.
And you do well to worship harsh men-gods,
God Wind and Those who built his Stones with him:
All gods are cruel, bitter, and to be bribed,
But
Mother, were you calling?
Have I awakened you?
They said that you were sleeping.
Why are you left alone, mother, my dear one?
Hygd.
Who are you? No, no, no! Stand farther off!
You pulse and glow; you are too vital; your presence hurts....
Freshness of hill-swards, wind and trodden ling,
I should have known that Goneril stands here.
It is yet dawn, but you have been afoot
Afar and long: where could you climb so soon?
Goneril.
Dearest, I am an evil daughter to you:
I never thought of you—O, never once—
Until I heard a moor-bird cry like you.
I am wicked, rapt in joys of breath and life,
And I must force myself to think of you.
I leave you to caretakers' cold gentleness;
But O, I did not think that they dare leave you.
What woman should be here?
Hygd. I have forgot....
I know not.... She will be about some duty.
I do not matter: my time is done ... nigh done ...
Bought hands can well prepare me for a grave,
And all the generations must serve youth.
My girls shall live untroubled while they may,
And learn happiness once while yet blind men
Have injured not their freedom;
For women are not meant for happiness.
Where have you been, my falcon?
Goneril.
I dreamt that I was swimming, shoulder up,
And drave the bed-clothes spreading to the floor:
Coldness awoke me; through the waning darkness
I heard far hounds give shivering aëry tongue,
Remote, withdrawing, suddenly faint and near;
I leapt and saw a pack of stretching weasels
Hunt a pale coney in a soundless rush,
Their elfin and thin yelping pierced my heart
As with an unseen beauty long awaited;
Wolf-skin and cloak I buckled over this night-gear,
And took my honoured spear from my bed-side
Where none but I may touch its purity,
And sped as lightly down the dewy bank
As any mothy owl that hunts quick mice.
They went crying, crying, but I lost them
Before I stept, with the first tips of light,
On Raven Crag near by the Druid Stones;
So I paused there and, stooping, pressed my hand
Against the stony bed of the clear stream;
Then entered I the circle and raised up
My shining hand in cold stern adoration
Even as the first great gleam went up the sky.
Hygd.
Ay, you do well to worship on that height:
Life is free to the quick up in the wind,
And the wind bares you for a god's descent—
For wind is a spirit immediate and aged.
And you do well to worship harsh men-gods,
God Wind and Those who built his Stones with him:
All gods are cruel, bitter, and to be bribed,
But
صفحة 4
women-gods are mean and cunning as well.
That fierce old virgin, Cornish Merryn, prays
To a young woman, yes and even a virgin—
The poorest kind of woman—and she says
That is to be a Christian: avoid then
Her worship most, for men hate such denials,
And any woman scorns her unwed daughter.
Where sped you from that height? Did Regan join you there?
Goneril.
Does Regan worship anywhere at dawn?
The sweaty half-clad cook-maids render lard
Out in the scullery, after pig-killing,
And Regan sidles among their greasy skirts,
Smeary and hot as they, for craps to suck.
I lost my thoughts before the giant Stones...
And when anew the earth assembled round me
I swung out on the heath and woke a hare
And speared it at a cast and shouldered it,
Startled another drinking at a tarn
And speared it ere it leapt; so steady and clear
Had the god in his fastness made my mind.
Then, as I took those dead things in my hands,
I felt shame light my face from deep within,
And loathing and contempt shake in my bowels,
That such unclean coarse blows from me had issued
To crush delicate things to bloody mash
And blemish their fur when I would only kill.
My gladness left me; I careered no more
Upon the morning; I went down from there
With empty hands:
But under the first trees and without thought
I stole on conies at play and stooped at one;
I hunted it, I caught it up to me
As I outsprang it, and with this thin knife
Pierced it from eye to eye; and it was dead,
Untorn, unsullied, and with flawless fur.
Then my untroubled mind came back to me.
Hygd.
Leap down the glades with a fawn's ignorance;
Live you your fill of a harsh purity;
Be wild and calm and lonely while you may.
These are your nature's joys, and it is human
Only to recognize our natures' joys
When we are losing them for ever.
Goneril. But why
Do you say this to me with a sore heart?
You are a queen, and speak from the top of life,
And when you choose to wish for others' joys
Those others must have woe.
Hygd.
The hour comes for you to turn to a man
And give yourself with the high heart of youth
More lavishly than a queen gives anything.
But when a woman gives herself
She must give herself for ever and have faith;
For woman is a thing of a season of years,
She is an early fruit that will not keep,
She can be drained and as a husk survive
To hope for reverence for what has been;
While man renews himself into old age,
And gives himself according to his need,
And women more unborn than his next child
May take him yet with youth
And lose him with their potence.
Goneril.
But women need not wed these men.
Hygd.
We are good human currency, like gold,
For men to pass among them when they choose.
That fierce old virgin, Cornish Merryn, prays
To a young woman, yes and even a virgin—
The poorest kind of woman—and she says
That is to be a Christian: avoid then
Her worship most, for men hate such denials,
And any woman scorns her unwed daughter.
Where sped you from that height? Did Regan join you there?
Goneril.
Does Regan worship anywhere at dawn?
The sweaty half-clad cook-maids render lard
Out in the scullery, after pig-killing,
And Regan sidles among their greasy skirts,
Smeary and hot as they, for craps to suck.
I lost my thoughts before the giant Stones...
And when anew the earth assembled round me
I swung out on the heath and woke a hare
And speared it at a cast and shouldered it,
Startled another drinking at a tarn
And speared it ere it leapt; so steady and clear
Had the god in his fastness made my mind.
Then, as I took those dead things in my hands,
I felt shame light my face from deep within,
And loathing and contempt shake in my bowels,
That such unclean coarse blows from me had issued
To crush delicate things to bloody mash
And blemish their fur when I would only kill.
My gladness left me; I careered no more
Upon the morning; I went down from there
With empty hands:
But under the first trees and without thought
I stole on conies at play and stooped at one;
I hunted it, I caught it up to me
As I outsprang it, and with this thin knife
Pierced it from eye to eye; and it was dead,
Untorn, unsullied, and with flawless fur.
Then my untroubled mind came back to me.
Hygd.
Leap down the glades with a fawn's ignorance;
Live you your fill of a harsh purity;
Be wild and calm and lonely while you may.
These are your nature's joys, and it is human
Only to recognize our natures' joys
When we are losing them for ever.
Goneril. But why
Do you say this to me with a sore heart?
You are a queen, and speak from the top of life,
And when you choose to wish for others' joys
Those others must have woe.
Hygd.
The hour comes for you to turn to a man
And give yourself with the high heart of youth
More lavishly than a queen gives anything.
But when a woman gives herself
She must give herself for ever and have faith;
For woman is a thing of a season of years,
She is an early fruit that will not keep,
She can be drained and as a husk survive
To hope for reverence for what has been;
While man renews himself into old age,
And gives himself according to his need,
And women more unborn than his next child
May take him yet with youth
And lose him with their potence.
Goneril.
But women need not wed these men.
Hygd.
We are good human currency, like gold,
For men to pass among them when they choose.
A child's hands beat on the outside of the door beyond the bed.
Cordeil's Voice, a child's voice, outside.
Father.... Father.... Father.... Are you here?
Merryn, ugly Merryn, let me in....
I know my father is here.... I want him.... Now....
Mother, chide Merryn, she is old and slow....
Hygd, softly.
My little curse. Send her away—away....
Cordeil's Voice.
Father.... O, father, father.... I want my father.
Goneril, opening the door a little way.
Hush; hush—you hurt your mother with your voice.
You cannot come in, Cordeil; you must go away:
Your father is not here....
Cordeil's Voice. He must be here:
He is not in his chamber or the hall,
He is not in the stable or with Gormflaith:
He promised I should ride with him at dawn
And sit before his saddle and hold his hawk,
And ride with him and ride to the heron-marsh;
He said that he would give me the first heron,
And hang the longest feathers in my hair.
Goneril.
Then you must haste to find him;
He may be riding now....
Cordeil's Voice.
But Gerda said she saw him enter here.
Goneril.
Indeed, he is not here....
Cordeil's Voice. Let me look....
Goneril.
You are too noisy. Must I make you go?
Cordeil's Voice.
Mother, Goneril is unkind to me.
Hygd, raising herself in bed excitedly, and speaking so vehemently that her utterance strangles itself.
Go, go, thou evil child, thou ill-comer.
Father.... Father.... Father.... Are you here?
Merryn, ugly Merryn, let me in....
I know my father is here.... I want him.... Now....
Mother, chide Merryn, she is old and slow....
Hygd, softly.
My little curse. Send her away—away....
Cordeil's Voice.
Father.... O, father, father.... I want my father.
Goneril, opening the door a little way.
Hush; hush—you hurt your mother with your voice.
You cannot come in, Cordeil; you must go away:
Your father is not here....
Cordeil's Voice. He must be here:
He is not in his chamber or the hall,
He is not in the stable or with Gormflaith:
He promised I should ride with him at dawn
And sit before his saddle and hold his hawk,
And ride with him and ride to the heron-marsh;
He said that he would give me the first heron,
And hang the longest feathers in my hair.
Goneril.
Then you must haste to find him;
He may be riding now....
Cordeil's Voice.
But Gerda said she saw him enter here.
Goneril.
Indeed, he is not here....
Cordeil's Voice. Let me look....
Goneril.
You are too noisy. Must I make you go?
Cordeil's Voice.
Mother, Goneril is unkind to me.
Hygd, raising herself in bed excitedly, and speaking so vehemently that her utterance strangles itself.
Go, go, thou evil child, thou ill-comer.
Goneril, with a sudden strong movement, shuts the resisting door and holds it rigidly. The little hands beat on it madly for a moment, then the child's voice is heard in a retreating wail.
Goneril.
Though she is wilful, obeying only the King,
She is a very little child, mother,
To be so bitterly thought of.
Hygd.
Because a woman gives herself for ever
Cordeil the useless had to be conceived
(Like an after-thought that deceives nobody)
To keep her father from another woman.
And I lie here.
Goneril, after a silence.
Hard and unjust my father has been to me;
Yet that has knitted up within my mind
A love of coldness and a love of him
Who makes me firm, wary, swift and secret,
Until I feel if I become a mother
I shall at need be cruel to my children,
And ever cold, to string their natures harder
And make them able to endure men's deeds;
But now I wonder if injustice
Keeps house with baseness, taught by kinship—
I never thought a king could be untrue,
I never thought my father was unclean....
O mother, mother, what is it? Is this dying?
Hygd.
I think I am only faint....
Give me the cup of whey....
Though she is wilful, obeying only the King,
She is a very little child, mother,
To be so bitterly thought of.
Hygd.
Because a woman gives herself for ever
Cordeil the useless had to be conceived
(Like an after-thought that deceives nobody)
To keep her father from another woman.
And I lie here.
Goneril, after a silence.
Hard and unjust my father has been to me;
Yet that has knitted up within my mind
A love of coldness and a love of him
Who makes me firm, wary, swift and secret,
Until I feel if I become a mother
I shall at need be cruel to my children,
And ever cold, to string their natures harder
And make them able to endure men's deeds;
But now I wonder if injustice
Keeps house with baseness, taught by kinship—
I never thought a king could be untrue,
I never thought my father was unclean....
O mother, mother, what is it? Is this dying?
Hygd.
I think I am only faint....
Give me the cup of whey....
Goneril takes the cup and, supporting Hygd, lets her drink.
Goneril.
There is too little here. When was it made?
Hygd.
Yester-eve.... Yester-morn....
Goneril. Unhappy mother,
You have no daughter to take thought for you—
No servant's love to shame a daughter with,
Though I am shamed—you must have other food,
Straightway I bring you meat....
Hygd. It is no use....
Plenish the cup for me.... Not now, not now,
But in a while; for I am heavy now....
Old Wynoc's potions loiter in my veins,
And tides of heaviness pour over me
Each time I wake and think. I could sleep now.
Goneril.
Then I shall lull you, as you once lulled me.
There is too little here. When was it made?
Hygd.
Yester-eve.... Yester-morn....
Goneril. Unhappy mother,
You have no daughter to take thought for you—
No servant's love to shame a daughter with,
Though I am shamed—you must have other food,
Straightway I bring you meat....
Hygd. It is no use....
Plenish the cup for me.... Not now, not now,
But in a while; for I am heavy now....
Old Wynoc's potions loiter in my veins,
And tides of heaviness pour over me
Each time I wake and think. I could sleep now.
Goneril.
Then I shall lull you, as you once lulled me.
Seating herself on the bed, she sings.
The owlets in
صفحة 5
roof-holes
Can sing for themselves;
The smallest brown squirrel
Both scampers and delves;
But a baby does nothing—
She never knows how—
She must hark to her mother
Who sings to her now.
Sleep then, ladykin, peeping so;
Hide your handies and ley lei lo.
Can sing for themselves;
The smallest brown squirrel
Both scampers and delves;
But a baby does nothing—
She never knows how—
She must hark to her mother
Who sings to her now.
Sleep then, ladykin, peeping so;
Hide your handies and ley lei lo.
She bends over Hygd and kisses her; they laugh softly together.
Lear parts the curtains of the door at the back, stands there a moment, then goes away noiselessly.
The lish baby otter
Is sleeky and streaming,
With catching bright fishes,
Ere babies learn dreaming;
But no wet little otter
Is ever so warm
As the fleecy-wrapt baby
'Twixt me and my arm.
Sleep big mousie....
Hygd, suddenly irritable.
Be quiet.... I cannot bear it.
Is sleeky and streaming,
With catching bright fishes,
Ere babies learn dreaming;
But no wet little otter
Is ever so warm
As the fleecy-wrapt baby
'Twixt me and my arm.
Sleep big mousie....
Hygd, suddenly irritable.
Be quiet.... I cannot bear it.
She turns her head away from Goneril and closes her eyes.
As Goneril watches her in silence, Gormflaith enters by the door beyond the bed. She is young and tall and fresh-coloured; her red hair coils and crisps close to her little head, showing its shape. Her movements are soft and unhurried; her manner is quiet and ingratiating and a little too agreeable; she speaks a little too gently.
Goneril, meeting her near the door and speaking in a low voice.
Why did you leave the Queen? Where have you been?
Why have you so neglected this grave duty?
Gormflaith.
This is the instant of my duty, Princess:
From midnight until now was Merryn's watch.
I thought to find her here: is she not here?
Why did you leave the Queen? Where have you been?
Why have you so neglected this grave duty?
Gormflaith.
This is the instant of my duty, Princess:
From midnight until now was Merryn's watch.
I thought to find her here: is she not here?
Hygd turns to look at the speakers; then, turning back, closes her eyes again and lies as if asleep.
Goneril.
I found the Queen alone. I heard her cry your name.
Gormflaith.
Your anger is not too great, Madam; I grieve
That one so old as Merryn should act thus—
So old and trusted and favoured, and so callous.
Goneril.
The Queen has had no food since yester-night.
Gormflaith.
Madam, that is too monstrous to conceive:
I will seek food—I will prepare it now.
Goneril.
Stay here: and know, if the Queen is left again,
You shall be beaten with two rods at once.
I found the Queen alone. I heard her cry your name.
Gormflaith.
Your anger is not too great, Madam; I grieve
That one so old as Merryn should act thus—
So old and trusted and favoured, and so callous.
Goneril.
The Queen has had no food since yester-night.
Gormflaith.
Madam, that is too monstrous to conceive:
I will seek food—I will prepare it now.
Goneril.
Stay here: and know, if the Queen is left again,
You shall be beaten with two rods at once.
She picks up the cup and goes out by the door beyond the bed.
Gormflaith turns the chair a little away from the bed so that she can watch the far door, and, seating herself, draws a letter from her bosom.
Gormflaith, to herself, reading.
"Open your window when the moon is dead,
And I will come again.
The men say everywhere that you are faithless,
The women say your face is a false face
And your eyes shifty eyes. Ah, but I love you, Gormflaith.
Do not forget your window-latch to-night,
For when the moon is dead the house is still."
"Open your window when the moon is dead,
And I will come again.
The men say everywhere that you are faithless,
The women say your face is a false face
And your eyes shifty eyes. Ah, but I love you, Gormflaith.
Do not forget your window-latch to-night,
For when the moon is dead the house is still."
Lear again parts the door-curtains at the back, and, seeing Gormflaith, enters. At the first slight rustle of the curtains Gormflaith stealthily slips the letter back into her bosom before turning gradually, a finger to her lips, to see who approaches her.
Lear, leaning over the side of her chair.
Lady, what do you read?
Gormflaith. I read a letter, Sire.
Lear.
A letter—a letter—what read you in a letter?
Gormflaith, taking another letter from her girdle.
Your words to me—my lonely joy your words....
"If you are steady and true as your gaze"—
Lear, tearing the letter from her, crumpling it, and flinging it to the back of the room.
Pest!
You should not carry a king's letters about,
Nor hoard a king's letters.
Gormflaith. No, Sire.
Lear.
Must the King also stand in the presence now?
Gormflaith, rising.
Pardon my troubled mind; you have taken my letter from me.
Lady, what do you read?
Gormflaith. I read a letter, Sire.
Lear.
A letter—a letter—what read you in a letter?
Gormflaith, taking another letter from her girdle.
Your words to me—my lonely joy your words....
"If you are steady and true as your gaze"—
Lear, tearing the letter from her, crumpling it, and flinging it to the back of the room.
Pest!
You should not carry a king's letters about,
Nor hoard a king's letters.
Gormflaith. No, Sire.
Lear.
Must the King also stand in the presence now?
Gormflaith, rising.
Pardon my troubled mind; you have taken my letter from me.
Lear seats himself and takes Gormflaith's hand.
Gormflaith.
Wait, wait—I might be seen. The Queen may waken yet.
Wait, wait—I might be seen. The Queen may waken yet.
Stepping lightly to the bed, she noiselessly slips the curtain on that side as far forward as it will come. Then she returns to Lear, who draws her to him and seats her on his knee.
Lear.
You have been long in coming:
Was Merryn long in finding you?
Gormflaith, playing with Lear's emerald.
Did Merryn....
Has Merryn been.... She loitered long before she came,
For I was at the women's bathing-place ere dawn....
No jewel in all the land excites me and enthralls
Like this strong source of light that lives upon your breast.
Lear, taking the jewel-chain from his neck and slipping it over Gormflaith's head while she still holds the emerald.
Wear it within your breast to fill the gentle place
That cherished the poor letter lately torn from you.
Gormflaith.
Did Merryn at your bidding, then, forsake her Queen?
Lear nods.
You must not, ah, you must not do these masterful things,
Even to grasp a precious meeting for us two;
For the reproach and chiding are so hard to me,
And even you can never fight the silent women
In hidden league against me, all this house of women.
Merryn has left her Queen in unwatched loneliness,
And yet your daughter Princess Goneril has said
(With lips that scarce held back the spittle for my face)
That if the Queen is left again I shall be whipt.
Lear.
Children speak of the punishments they know.
Her back is now not half so white as yours,
And you shall write your will upon it yet.
Gormflaith.
Ah, no, my King, my faithful... Ah, no... no...
The Princess Goneril is
You have been long in coming:
Was Merryn long in finding you?
Gormflaith, playing with Lear's emerald.
Did Merryn....
Has Merryn been.... She loitered long before she came,
For I was at the women's bathing-place ere dawn....
No jewel in all the land excites me and enthralls
Like this strong source of light that lives upon your breast.
Lear, taking the jewel-chain from his neck and slipping it over Gormflaith's head while she still holds the emerald.
Wear it within your breast to fill the gentle place
That cherished the poor letter lately torn from you.
Gormflaith.
Did Merryn at your bidding, then, forsake her Queen?
Lear nods.
You must not, ah, you must not do these masterful things,
Even to grasp a precious meeting for us two;
For the reproach and chiding are so hard to me,
And even you can never fight the silent women
In hidden league against me, all this house of women.
Merryn has left her Queen in unwatched loneliness,
And yet your daughter Princess Goneril has said
(With lips that scarce held back the spittle for my face)
That if the Queen is left again I shall be whipt.
Lear.
Children speak of the punishments they know.
Her back is now not half so white as yours,
And you shall write your will upon it yet.
Gormflaith.
Ah, no, my King, my faithful... Ah, no... no...
The Princess Goneril is
صفحة 6
right; she judges me:
A sinful woman cannot steadily gaze reply
To the cool, baffling looks of virgin untried force.
She stands beside that crumbling mother in her hate,
And, though we know so well—she and I, O we know—
That she could love no mother nor partake in anguish,
Yet she is flouted when the King forsakes her dam,
She must protect her very flesh, her tenderer flesh,
Although she cannot wince; she's wild in her cold brain,
And soon I must be made to pay a cruel price
For this one gloomy joy in my uncherished life.
Envy and greed are watching me aloof
(Yes, now none of the women will walk with me),
Longing to see me ruined, but she'll do it....
It is a lonely thing to love a king....
A sinful woman cannot steadily gaze reply
To the cool, baffling looks of virgin untried force.
She stands beside that crumbling mother in her hate,
And, though we know so well—she and I, O we know—
That she could love no mother nor partake in anguish,
Yet she is flouted when the King forsakes her dam,
She must protect her very flesh, her tenderer flesh,
Although she cannot wince; she's wild in her cold brain,
And soon I must be made to pay a cruel price
For this one gloomy joy in my uncherished life.
Envy and greed are watching me aloof
(Yes, now none of the women will walk with me),
Longing to see me ruined, but she'll do it....
It is a lonely thing to love a king....
She puts her cheek gradually closer and closer to Lear's cheek as she speaks: at length he kisses her suddenly and vehemently, as if he would grasp her lips with his: she receives it passively, her head thrown back, her eyes closed.
Lear.
Goldilocks, when the crown is couching in your hair
And those two mingled golds brighten each other's wonder,
You shall produce a son from flesh unused—
Virgin I chose you for that, first crops are strongest—
A tawny fox with your high-stepping action,
With your untiring power and glittering eyes,
To hold my lands together when I am done,
To keep my lands from crumbling into mouthfuls
For the short jaws of my three mewling vixens.
Hatch for me such a youngster from my seed,
And I and he shall rein my hot-breathed wenches
To let you grind the edges off their teeth.
Gormflaith, shaking her head sadly.
Life holds no more than this for me; this is my hour.
When she is dead I know you'll buy another Queen—
Giving a county for her, gaining a duchy with her—
And put me to wet nursing, leashing me with the thralls.
It will not be unbearable—I've had your love.
Master and friend, grant then this hour to me:
Never again, maybe, can we two sit
At love together, unwatched, unknown of all,
In the Queen's chamber, near the Queen's crown
And with no conscious Queen to hold it from us:
Now let me wear the Queen's true crown on me
And snatch a breathless knowledge of the feeling
Of what it would have been to sit by you
Always and closely, equal and exalted,
To be my light when life is dark again.
Lear.
Girl, by the black stone god, I did not think
You had the nature of a chambermaid,
Who pries and fumbles in her lady's clothes
With her red hands, or on her soily neck
Stealthily hangs her lady's jewels or pearls.
You shall be tiring-maid to the next queen
And try her crown on every day o' your life
In secrecy, if that is your desire:
If you would be a queen, cleanse yourself quickly
Of menial fingering and servile thought.
Gormflaith.
You need not crown me. Let me put it on
As briefly as a gleam of Winter sun.
I will not even warm it with my hair.
Lear.
You cannot have the nature of a queen
If you believe that there are things above you:
Crowns make no queens, queens are the cause of crowns.
Gormflaith, slipping from his knee.
Then I will take one. Look.
Goldilocks, when the crown is couching in your hair
And those two mingled golds brighten each other's wonder,
You shall produce a son from flesh unused—
Virgin I chose you for that, first crops are strongest—
A tawny fox with your high-stepping action,
With your untiring power and glittering eyes,
To hold my lands together when I am done,
To keep my lands from crumbling into mouthfuls
For the short jaws of my three mewling vixens.
Hatch for me such a youngster from my seed,
And I and he shall rein my hot-breathed wenches
To let you grind the edges off their teeth.
Gormflaith, shaking her head sadly.
Life holds no more than this for me; this is my hour.
When she is dead I know you'll buy another Queen—
Giving a county for her, gaining a duchy with her—
And put me to wet nursing, leashing me with the thralls.
It will not be unbearable—I've had your love.
Master and friend, grant then this hour to me:
Never again, maybe, can we two sit
At love together, unwatched, unknown of all,
In the Queen's chamber, near the Queen's crown
And with no conscious Queen to hold it from us:
Now let me wear the Queen's true crown on me
And snatch a breathless knowledge of the feeling
Of what it would have been to sit by you
Always and closely, equal and exalted,
To be my light when life is dark again.
Lear.
Girl, by the black stone god, I did not think
You had the nature of a chambermaid,
Who pries and fumbles in her lady's clothes
With her red hands, or on her soily neck
Stealthily hangs her lady's jewels or pearls.
You shall be tiring-maid to the next queen
And try her crown on every day o' your life
In secrecy, if that is your desire:
If you would be a queen, cleanse yourself quickly
Of menial fingering and servile thought.
Gormflaith.
You need not crown me. Let me put it on
As briefly as a gleam of Winter sun.
I will not even warm it with my hair.
Lear.
You cannot have the nature of a queen
If you believe that there are things above you:
Crowns make no queens, queens are the cause of crowns.
Gormflaith, slipping from his knee.
Then I will take one. Look.
She tip-toes lightly round the front of the bed to where the crown hangs on the wall.
Lear.
Come here, mad thing—come back!
Your shadow will wake the Queen.
Gormflaith.
Hush, hush! That angry voice
Will surely wake the Queen.
Come here, mad thing—come back!
Your shadow will wake the Queen.
Gormflaith.
Hush, hush! That angry voice
Will surely wake the Queen.
She lifts the crown from the peg, and returns with it.
Lear.
Go back; bear back the crown:
Hang up the crown again.
We are not helpless serfs
To think things are forbidden
And steal them for our joy.
Gormflaith.
Hush! Hush! It is too late;
I dare not go again.
Lear.
Put down the crown: your hands are base hands yet.
Give it to me: it issues from my hands.
Go back; bear back the crown:
Hang up the crown again.
We are not helpless serfs
To think things are forbidden
And steal them for our joy.
Gormflaith.
Hush! Hush! It is too late;
I dare not go again.
Lear.
Put down the crown: your hands are base hands yet.
Give it to me: it issues from my hands.