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                              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_

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            COPYRIGHT, 1913
                     BY POETRY: A MAGAZINE OF VERSE

                            COPYRIGHT, 1915
                              BY THE FORUM

                            COPYRIGHT, 1921,
                        BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY


           Set up and electrotyped. Published, January, 1921

------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                   TO

                             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._)

  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!




                               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.

    (_They pass out toward the sea, Nero caressing his mother. The
      guests now throng down the steps into the courtyard. They are in
      various states of intoxication. Many are dressed to represent
      mythological figures: Fauns and Satyrs; Bacchus crowned with grape
      leaves, wearing a leopard skin on his shoulders; six Bacchantes;
      Psyche with wings; Luna in a spangled tunic with silver horns in
      her hair; Mercury with winged sandals and the caduceus; Neptune in
      an emerald robe, crowned and bearing the trident; Iris,
      rainbow-clad; Silenus. Some are dressed in brilliant oriental
      garments. There are Senators in broad bordered togas with half
      moons embroidered on their sandals; Pages dressed as Cupids and
      infant Bacchi; Officers of the Praetorian Guard in military
      uniform. Turbaned, half nude Numidian slaves, with bronze rings in
      their ears, come trotting in with litters, attended by
      torchbearers. Some of the guests depart in the litters. The music
      continues in banquet hall._)

                                   NEPTUNE

    (_Staggering against Luna._)

  Who’d be a sailor when great Neptune staggers
  Dashed in the Moon’s face!—Calm me, gentle Luna,
  And silver me with kisses!


                                     LUNA

    (_Fleeing from his outstretched arms, but regarding him invitingly
      over her shoulder._)

                             Fie, you wine-skin!
  A hiccough’s not a tempest! Lo, I glide,
  Treading a myriad stars!

    (_Neptune follows with a rolling gait._)

                                   A SATYR

    (_Looking after them as they disappear._)

                           Roll, eager Tide!
  Methinks ere long the wooing moon shall fall!

    (_Those near laugh._)

                                FIRST SENATOR

    (_To Second Senator._)

  Was Nero acting, think you?


                                SECOND SENATOR


                              Not at all.
  ‘Twas staged, no doubt, but—


                                FIRST SENATOR


                               Softly, lest they hear!


                                SECOND SENATOR


  The mimic is in mimicry sincere—
  The rôle absorbed the actor. So he wept.

    (_They pass on, talking low._)

                             A PRAETORIAN OFFICER

    (_To Psyche leaning on his arm._)

  Was it a vision, Psyche? Have I slept?
  By the pink-nippled Cyprian, I swear
  Our Caesar knows a woman! Gods! That hair!
  Spun from the bowels of Ophir!


                                    PSYCHE


                                 Who’s so fair?


                                  PRAETORIAN


  Poppaea!


                                    PSYCHE


           She?—A Circe, queen of hogs!
  A cross-road Hecate, bayed at by the dogs!
  A morbid Itch—


                                  PRAETORIAN


                 Sh!


                                    PSYCHE


                      —strutting in a cloak
  Of what she has not, virtue!


                                  PRAETORIAN


                               Ha! You joke!
  All cloaks are ruses, fashioned to reveal
  What all possess, pretending to conceal—
  Who’d love a Psyche else?

    (_They pass on._)

                                     IRIS

    (_To a Satyr who supports her._)

                             A clever wile
  Her veil is! Ah, we women must beguile
  The stupid male by seeming to withhold
  What’s dross, displayed, but, guarded well, is gold!
  Faugh! Hunger sells it and the carter buys!


                                    SATYR


  Consume me with the lightning of her eyes!
  She’s Aphrodite!


                                     IRIS


                   Helen!


                                    SATYR


                          Helen, then!
  A peep behind that veil, and once again
  The sword-flung music of the fighting men,
  Voluptuous ruin and wild battle joy,
  The swooning ache and rapture that was Troy!
  Delirious doom!


                                     IRIS

    (_Laughing._)

                  O Sorcery of Night!
  We’re all one woman in the morning light!


                                    SATYR

    (_Laughing._)

  You’re jealous!


                                     IRIS


                  No, I rend the veil in twain!

    (They mingle with the throng.)

                                   SILENUS

    (_To a Naval Officer._)

  The wind veers and the moon seems on the wane!
  What bodes it—reinstatement for the Queen?


                                NAVAL OFFICER


  No seaman knows the wind and moon you mean;
  Yet land were safer when those signs concur!

    (_They pass on._)

                                   MERCURY

    (_To a Bacchante._)

  ‘Twould rouse compassion in a toad, and stir
  A wild boar’s heart with pity!


                                  BACCHANTE

    (_Placing a warning hand on his mouth._)

                                 Hush! Beware!


                                   MERCURY


  Could you not feel the hidden gorgon stare
  The venom of her laughter dripping slow?

    (_The musicians from within, having followed the departing throng
      from the banquet hall, and having stationed themselves on the
      steps, now strike up a wild Bacchic air._)

                                   BACCHUS

    (_Swinging into the dance._)

  Bacchantes, wreathe the dance!


                                  BACCHANTES

    (_From various parts of the throng._)

                                 Io, Bacche! Io!

    (_Pirouetting to the music, they assemble, circling about Bacchus,
      joining hands and singing. When the song is finished, the circle
      breaks, the dancers wheel, facing outward. Bacchus endeavors to
      kiss a Bacchante who regards him with head thrown back. The dance
      music becomes more abandoned, and the Bacchante flees, pursued by
      Bacchus, who reels as he dances. All the other Bacchantes follow,
      weaving in and out between pursuer and pursued. The throng
      laughingly makes way for them. At length the pursued Bacchante
      flings off in a mad whirl toward the grove in the background,
      followed by Bacchus and the Bacchantes. Fauns and Satyrs now take
      up the dance and join in the pursuit. The throng follows eagerly,
      enjoying the spectacle. All disappear among the trees. Laughter in
      the distance, growing dimmer. The musicians withdraw into the
      villa and disappear, their music dying out. The lights go out in
      the banquet hall. The stage is now lit by the moon alone, save for
      the draughty lamps within the pillared hall._

    _After a period of silence, re-enter Nero, walking backward from the
      direction of the sea toward which he gazes._)

                                     NERO


  Dimmer—dimmer—dimmer—
  A shadow melting in a moony shimmer
  Down the bleak seaways dwindling to that shore
  Where no heaved anchor drips forevermore
  Nor winds breathe music in the homing sail:
  But over sunless hill and fruitless vale,
  Gaunt spectres drag the age-long discontent
  And ponder what this brief, bright moment meant—
  The loving—and the dreaming—and the laughter.
  Ah, ships that vanish take what never after
  Returning ships may carry.
                             Dawn shall flare,
  Make bloom the terraced gardens of the air
  For all the world but Lucius. He shall see
  The haunted hollow of Infinity
  Gray in the twilight of a heart’s eclipse.
  With our own wishes woven into whips
  The jealous gods chastise us!—I’m alone!
  About the transient brilliance of my throne
  The giddy moths flit briefly in the glow;
  But when at last that light shall flicker low,
  A taper guttering in a gust of doom,
  What hand shall grope for Nero’s in the gloom,
  What fond eyes shed the fellows of his tears?
  She bore her heart these many troublous years
  Before me, like a shield. And she is dead.
  Her hand ‘twas set the crown upon my head;
  Her heart’s blood dyed the kingly robe for me.
  Dank seaweed crowns her, and the bitter sea
  Enshrouds with realmless purple!
                                   Round and round,
  Swirled in the endless nightmare of the drowned,
  Her fond soul gropes for something vaguely dear
  That lures, eludes forever. Shapes that leer,
  Distorted Neros of a tortured sleep,
  Cry “_Mother, come to Baiae_.” Deep on deep
  The green death folds her and she can not come.
  Vague, gaping mouths that hunger and are dumb
  Mumble the tired heart so ripe with woe,
  Where night is but a black wind breathing low
  And daylight filters like a ghostly rain!
  _O Mother! Mother! Mother!_—

    (_With arms extended, he stares seaward a moment, then covers his
      face, turns, and walks slowly toward entrance of villa._)

                               Vain, ‘tis vain!
  How shall one move an ocean with regret?

    (_He has reached the steps and pauses._)

  Ah, one hope lives in all this bleakness yet.
  Song!—Mighty Song the hurt of life assuages!
  This fateful night shall fill the vaulted ages
  With starry grief, and men unborn shall sing
  The mournful measure of the Ancient King!
  I’ll write an ode!

    (_He stands for a moment, glorified with the thought._)

                     Great heart of Nero, strung
  Harplike, endure till this last song be sung,
  Then break—then break—

    (_Turns and mounts the steps._)

                         Oh Fate, to be a bard!
  The way is hard, the way is very hard!

    (_A dim outburst of laughter from the revellers in the distance._)


                                   II

    (_The same night. Nero’s private chamber in his villa at Baiae. Nero
      is discovered asleep in his state robes on a couch, where he has
      evidently thrown himself down, overcome by the stupor incident to
      the feast of the night. Beside the couch is a writing stand,
      bearing writing materials. A few lights burn dimly. Nero groans,
      cries out, and, as though terrified by a nightmare, sits up,
      trembling and staring upon some projected vision of his sleep. He
      is yet only half awake._)

                                     NERO


  Oh—oh—begone, blear thing!—She is not dead!
  You are not she—my mother!—Ghastly head—
  Trunkless—and oozing green gore like the sea,
  Wind-stabbed! Begone! Go—do not look at me—
  I will not be so tortured!—Eyes burned out
  With scorious hell-spew!—Locks that grope about
  To clutch and strangle!

    (_He has got up from the couch and now struggles with something at
      his throat, still staring at the thing._)

                          Off! Off!

    (_In an outburst of terrified tenderness extends his arms as toward
      a woman._)

                                    Mother—mother—come
  Into these arms—speak to me—be not dumb!
  Stare not so wildly—kiss me as of old!
  Be flesh again—warm flesh! Oh green and cold
  As the deep grave they gave you!
                                   ‘Twas not I!
  Mother, ‘twas not my will that you should die—
  ‘Twas hers!—I hate her! Mother, pity me!
  Oh, is it you?—Sole goddess of the sea
  I shall proclaim you! Pity! I shall pour
  The hot blood of your foes on every shore,
  A huge libation! Hers shall be the first!
  I swear it! May my waking be accursed,
  My sleep a-swarm with furies if I err!

    (_He has advanced a short distance toward what he sees, but now
      shrinks back burying his face in his robe._)

  Go!—Spare me!—Guards! Guards!

    (_Three soldiers, who have been standing guard without the chamber,
      rush in and stand at attention._)

                                Seize and shackle her!
  There ‘tis!—eh?

    (_He stares blankly, rubs his eyes._)

                  It is gone!

    (_Blinks at soldiers, and cries petulantly._)

                              What do you here?


                                FIRST SOLDIER


  Great Caesar summoned us.


                                     NERO

    (_Glancing nervously about._)

                            The night is blear—
  Make lights! I will not have these shadow things
  Crawling about me! Poisoners of kings
  Fatten on shadows! Quick there, dog-eyed scamp,
  Lean offal-sniffer! Kindle every lamp!

    (_Soldier tremblingly takes a lamp and lights a number of others
      with its flame. Stage is flooded with light._)

  By the bronze beard I swear there shall be lights
  Enough hereafter, though I purge the nights
  With conflagrating cities, till the crash
  Of Rome’s last tower beat up the smouldering ash
  Of Rome’s last city!
                       So—I breathe again!
  Some cunning, faceless god who hated men
  Devised this curse of darkness! What’s the hour?


                                SECOND SOLDIER


  The third watch wanes.


                                     NERO


                         Too late! Too late! The power
  Of Nero Caesar can not stay the sun!
  The stars have marched against me—it is done!
  And all Rome’s legions could not rout this swarm
  Of venom-footed moments!
                           —She was warm
  One little lost eternity ago.

    (_With awakening resolution._)

  ‘Twas not my deed! I did not wish it so!
  Some demon, aping Caesar, gave the word
  While Lucius Aenobarbus’ eyes were blurred
  With too much beauty!
                        Oh, it shall be done!
  Ere these unmothered eyes behold the sun,
  She shall have vengeance, and that gift is mine!

    (_To First Soldier._)

  Rouse the Praetorians! Bid a triple line
  Be flung about the palace!

    (_To Second Soldier._)

                             Send me wine—
  Strong wine to nerve a resolution!

    (_To Third Soldier._)

                                     You—
  Summon Poppaea!

    (_The Soldiers go out._)

                  This deed I mean to do
  Unties the snarl, but broken is the thread.
  Would that the haughty blood these hands will shed
  Might warm my mother! that the breath I crush—
  So—(_clutching air_) from that throat of sorceries, might rush
  Into the breast that loved and nurtured me!
  The heart of Nero shivers in the sea,
  And Rome is lorn of pity!
                            Could the world
  And all her crawling spawn this night be hurled
  Into one woman’s form, with eyes to shed
  Rivers of scalding woe, her towering head
  Jeweled with realms aflare, with locks of smoke,
  Huge nerves to suffer, and a neck to choke—
  That woman were Poppaea! I would rear
  About the timeless sea, my mother’s bier,
  A sky-roofed desolation groined with awe,
  Where, nightly drifting in the stream of law,
  The vestal stars should tend their fires, and weep
  To hear upon the melancholy deep
  That shipless wind, her ghost, amid the hush!
  Alas! I have but one white throat to crush
  With these world-hungry fingers!

    (_From behind Nero, enter Page—a little boy—bearing a goblet of wine
      on a salver. Nero turns, startled._)

                                   Ah!—You!—You!


                                     PAGE


  I bring wine, mighty Caesar.

    (_Nero passes his hand across his face, and the expression of fright
      leaves._)

                                     NERO


                               So you do—
  I saw—the boy Brittanicus!—One sees—
  _Things_—does one not?—such eerie nights as these?


                                     PAGE

    (_With eager boyish earnestness._)

  With woozy heads?


                                     NERO

    (_Irritably._)

                    The wine!

    (_The Page, startled, presents the salver, from which Nero takes the
      goblet with unsteady hand. Page is in the act of fleeing._)

                              Stay!

    (_Page stops and turns tremblingly._)

                                    Never dare
  Again to look like—anyone! Beware!

    (_Page’s head shakes a timid negative. Nero stares into goblet and
      muses._)

  Blood’s red too. Ah, a woman is the grape
  Ripe for the vintage, from whose flesh agape
  Glad feet tonight shall stamp the hated ooze!
  It boils!—See!—like some witch’s pot that brews
  Venomous ichor!—Nay—some angry ghost
  Hurls bloody breakers on a bleeding coast!—
  _’Tis poisoned!—Out, Locusta’s brat!_

    (_Hurls goblet at Page, who flees precipitately._)

                                        ‘Twas she!
  The hand that flung my mother to the sea
  Now pours me death!
                      Alas, great Hercules
  Too long has plied the distaff at the knees
  Of Omphale, spinning a thread of woe!
  Was ever king of story driven so
  By unrelenting Fate? Lo, round on round
  The slow coils grip and choke—a mother drowned,
  Her wrathful spirit rising from the dead—
  A gentle wife outcast, discredited,
  With sighs to wake the dread Eumenides!
  Some thunder-hearted, vaster Sophocles,
  His aeon-beating blood the stellar stream,
  Has flung on me the mantle of his dream,
  And Nero grapples Fate! O wondrous play!
  With smoking brand aloft, the haggard Day
  Gropes for the world! Pursued by subtle foes,
  Superbly tragic ‘mid a storm of woes,
  The fury-hunted Caesar takes the cue!
  One time-outstaring deed remains to do,
  Then let the pit howl—Caesar sings no more!
  Go ask the battered wreckage on the shore
  Who sought his mother in a sudden sleep,
  To be with her forever on the deep
  A twin ship-hating tempest!

    (_Enter Anicetus excitedly._)

                                   ANICETUS


                              Lost! We’re lost!
  The Roman ship yaws rock-ward tempest-tossed
  And Nero is but Lucius in the wreck!


                                     NERO


  Croak on! Each croak’s a dagger in that neck,
  You vulture with the hideous dripping beak,
  The clutching tearing talons that now reek
  With what dear sacred veins!


                                   ANICETUS


                               O Caesar, hear!
  So keen the news I bear you, that I fear
  To loose it like the arrow it must be.
  I know not why such wrath you heap on me;
  I know what peril deepens ‘round my lord;
  How, riven by the lightning of the sword,
  The doom-voiced blackness labors round his head!


                                     NERO


  Say what I know, that my poor mother’s dead—
  So shall your life be briefer!


                                   ANICETUS


                                 Would ‘t were so!


                                     NERO

    (_A light coming into his face._)

  She lives?


                                   ANICETUS


             Yea, lives—and lives to overthrow!


                                     NERO


  Not perished?


                                   ANICETUS


                —And her living is our death!


                                     NERO


  She moves and breathes?


                                   ANICETUS


                          —And potent is her breath
  To blow rebellion up!


                                     NERO

    (_Rubbing his eyes._)

                        Still do I sleep?
  Is this a taunting dream that I may weep
  More bitterly? Or some new foul intrigue?


                                   ANICETUS


  ‘Tis bitter fact to her who swam a league,
  And bitter fact to Nero shall it be!
  At Bauli now, still dripping from the sea,
  She crouches snarling!


                                     NERO

    (_In an outburst of joy._)

                         Oh, you shall not die,
  My best-loved Anicetus! Though you lie,
  Sweeter these words are than profoundest truth!
  They breathe the fresh, white morning of my youth
  Upon the lampless night that smothered me!
  O more than human Sea
  That spared my mother that her son might live!
  What bounty can I give?
  I—Caesar—falter beggared at this gift
  Of living words that lift
  My mother from the regions of the dead!
  Ah—I shall set a crown upon your head,
  Snip you a kingdom from Rome’s flowing robe!
  I’ll temple you in splendors! Yea, I’ll probe
  Your secret heart to know what wishes pant
  In wingless yearning there, that I may grant!

    (_Pause, while Anicetus regards Nero with gloomy face._)

  What sight thus makes your face a pool of gloom?


                                   ANICETUS


  The ghost of Nero crying from his tomb!


                                     NERO

    (_Startled._)

  Eh?—Nero’s ghost—mine?


                                   ANICETUS


                         Even so I said.
  The doomed to perish are already dead
  Who woo not Fate with swift unerring deeds!
  That breathless moment when the tigress bleeds
  Is ours to strike in, ere the tigress spring!
  What could it boot your servant to be king
  While any moment may the trumpets cry,
  Hailing the certain hour when we shall die—
  Caesar, the deaf, and his untrusted slave?
  Peer deep, peer deep into this yawning grave
  And tell me who shall fill it!—Wind and fire,
  Harnessed with thrice the ghost of her dead sire,
  Your mother is tonight! She knows, she knows
  How galleys founder when no tempest blows
  And moonlight slumbers on a glassy deep!
  The beast our wound has wakened shall not sleep
  Till it be gorged with slaughter, or be slain!
  Lull not your heart, O Caesar! It is vain
  To dream this cub-lorn tigress will not turn.
  Lo, flaring through the dawn I see her burn,
  A torch of revolution! Hear her raise
  The legions with a voice of other days,
  Worded with pangs to fret their ancient scars!
  And every sword-wound of her father’s wars
  Will shriek aloud with pity!


                                     NERO

    (_During Anicetus’ speech he has shown growing fear._)

                               Listen!—There!
  You heard it?—Did you hear a trumpet blare?


                                   ANICETUS


  ‘Tis but the shadow of a sound to be
  One rushing hour away!


                                     NERO

    (_In panic._)

                         Where shall I flee?—
  I, the sad poet whom she made a king!
  At last we flesh the ghost of what we sing—
  We bards!—I sang Orestes.

    (_His face softens with a gentler thought._)

                             Ah—I’ll go
  To my poor heartsick mother. Tears shall flow,
  The tears of Lucius, not imperial tears.
  I’ll heap on her the vast, too vast arrears
  Of filial love. The Senate shall proclaim
  My mother regnant with me—write her name
  Beside Augustus with the demigods!
  Yea, lictors shall attend her with the rods,
  And massed Praetorians tramp the rabble down
  Whene’er her chariot flashes through the town!
  One should be kind to mothers.


                                   ANICETUS


                                 Yea, and be
  Kind to the senseless fury of the sea,
  Fondle the tempest in a rotten boat!


                                     NERO


  What would you, Anicetus?


                                   ANICETUS


                            Cut her throat!

    (_Nero gasps and shrinks from Anicetus._)

                                     NERO


  No, no!—her ghost!—one can not stab so deep—
  One can not kill these tortures spawned of sleep!
  No, no—one can not kill them with a sword!


                                   ANICETUS


  Faugh! One good thrust—the rest is air, my lord!

    (_Enter Page timorously. Nero turns upon him._)

                                     PAGE

    (_Frightened._)

  Spare me, good Caesar!—Agerinus—


                                     NERO


                                   Go!
  Bid Agerinus enter!

    (_Page flees. Nero to Anicetus menacingly._)

                      We shall know
  What breath from what damned throat tonight shall hiss!

    (_Enter Agerinus, bowing low._)

                                   AGERINUS


  My mistress sends fond greetings and a kiss
  To her most noble son, and bids me say,
  She rests and would not see him until day.
  The royal galley, through unhappy chance,
  Struck rock and foundered; but no circumstance
  So meagre might deprive a son so dear
  Of his beloved mother! Have no fear,
  The long swim leaves her weary, but quite well.
  She knows what tender love her son would tell
  And yearns for dawn to bring him to her side.


                                     NERO

    (_To Anicetus._)

  So! Spell your doom from that! You lied! You lied!
  I’ll lance that hateful fester in your throat!
  Yea, we shall prove who rides the rotten boat
  And supplicates the tempest!

    (_With a rapid motion, Nero draws Agerinus’ sword from its sheath.
      Anicetus shrinks back. Nero cries to Agerinus._)

                               Wait to see
  The loving message you bear back from me!

    (_Nero brandishing the sword, makes at Anicetus. As he is about to
      deliver the stroke, enter Poppaea from behind. She has evidently
      been quite leisurely about her toilet, being dressed gorgeously;
      and wearing her accustomed half-veil. Her manner is stately and
      composed. She approaches slowly. Nero stops suddenly in the act to
      strike Anicetus, and stares upon the beautiful apparition. Anger
      leaves his face, which changes as though he had seen a great
      light._)

                                   POPPAEA

    (_Languidly._)

  My Nero longed for me?

    (_Nero with his free hand brushes his eyes in perplexity._)

                                     NERO


                         I—can not—tell—
  What—‘twas—I wished—I wished—


                                   POPPAEA

    (_Haughtily._)

                                Ah, very well.

    (_She walks slowly on across the stage. Nero stares blankly after
      her. The sword drops from his hand. As Poppaea disappears, he
      rouses suddenly as from a stupor._)

                                     NERO


  Ho! Guards!

    (_Three soldiers enter. Nero points to Agerinus._)

          There—seize that wretch who came to kill Imperial Caesar!

    (_Agerinus is seized. Nero turns to Anicetus._)

                                                   Hasten! Do your will!

    (_Nero turns, and with an eager expression on his face, goes
      doddering after Poppaea._)


                                  III

    (_The same night. Agrippina’s private chamber in her villa at Bauli
      near Baiae. There is one lamp in the room. At the center back is a
      broad door closed with heavy hangings. At the right is an open
      window through which the moonlight falls. Agrippina is discovered
      lying on a couch. One maid, Nina, is in attendance and is
      arranging Agrippina’s hair._)

                                  AGRIPPINA


  He was so tender—what should kindness mean?

    (_The maid seems not to hear._)

  I spoke!—you heard me speak?


                                     NINA


                               I heard, my Queen.


                                  AGRIPPINA


  And deemed my voice some ghostly summer wind
  Fit for autumnal hushes? He was kind!
  Was ever breath in utterance better spent?


                                     NINA


  Your slave could scarcely fancy whom you meant,
  There are so many tender to the great.


                                  AGRIPPINA


  When all the world is one sky-circled state,
  Pray, who shall fill it as the sun the sky?
  The mother of that mighty one am I—
  And he caressed me!
                      I shall feel no pain
  Forever now. So, drenched with winter rain,
  The friendless marshland knows the boyish South
  And shivers into color!
                          On the mouth
  He kissed me, as before that other came—
  That Helen of the stews, that corpse aflame
  With lust for life, that—
                            Ah, he maidened me!
  What dying wind could sway so tall a tree
  With such proud music? I shall be again
  That darkling whirlwind down the fields of men,
  That dart unloosed, barbed keenly for his sake,
  That living sword for him to wield or break,
  But never sheathe!

    (_Lifts herself on elbow._)

                     O Nina, let me be
  Robed as the Queen I am in verity!
  Robed as a victrix home from splendid wars,
  Whom, ‘mid the rumble of spoil-laden cars
  Trundled by harnessed kings, the trumpets hail!
  Let quiet garments be for those who fail,
  Mourning a world ill-lost with meek surrenders!
  I would flare bright ‘mid Death’s unhuman splendors,
  Dazzle the moony hollows of the dead!
  Ah no—

    (_Arising and going to window._)

         I shall not die yet.

    (_Parts the curtains and gazes out._)

                                     NINA


                               ‘Tis the dread
  Still clinging from the clutches of the sea,
  That living, writhing horror! Ugh! O’er me
  Almost I feel the liquid terror crawl!
  Through glassy worlds of tortured sleep to fall,
  Where winds blow not, nor mornings ever blush,
  But green, cold, ghastly light-wraiths wander—


                                  AGRIPPINA

    (_Turning from window with nervous anger._)

                                                 Hush!

    (_Turns again to window; after pause, continues musingly._)

  She battles in a surf of spectral fire.
  No—like some queen upon a funeral pyre,
  Gasping, she withers in a fever swoon.
  Had she a son too?


                                     NINA

    (_Approaching the window._)

                     Who, O Queen?


                                  AGRIPPINA


                                   The moon!
  See, she is strangled in a noose of pearl!
  What tell-tale scars she has!
                                —Look yonder, girl—
  Your eyes are younger—by the winding sea
  Where Baiae glooms and blanches; it may be
  Old eyes betray not, but some horsemen take
  The white road winding hither by the lake.


                                     NINA


  The way lies plain—I see no moving thing.


                                  AGRIPPINA


  Why thus is Agerinus loitering?
  For he was ever true.

    (_Joyously._)

                        Ah foolish head!
  My heart knows how my son shall come instead,
  My little Lucius! Even now he leaps
  Into the saddle and the dull way creeps
  Beneath the spurred impatience of his horse,
  He longs so for me!

    (_Pause—She scans the moonlit country._)

                      Shrouded like a corse,
  Hoarding a mother’s secret, lies the sea;
  And Capri, like a giant Niobe,
  Outgazes Fate!
                 O sweet, too gentle lies
  And kisses sword-like! Would the sun might rise
  No more on Baiae! Would that earth might burst
  Spewing blear doom upon this world accursed
  With truth too big for hiding!
                                 See! He sleeps
  Beside her, and the shame-dimmed lamp-light creeps
  Across her wine-stained mouth—so red—so red—
  Like mother blood!—See! hissing round her head
  Foul hate-fanged vipers that he calls her hair!
  Ah no—beyond all speaking is she fair!
  Sweet as a sword-wound in a gasping foe
  Her mouth is; and too well, too well I know
  Her face is dazzling as a funeral flame
  Battened on queen’s flesh!

    (_Turning angrily from window._)

                             Oh the blatant shame!
  The bungling drunkard’s plot!—Tonight, tonight
  I shall swoop down upon them by the light
  Of naked steel! Faugh! Had it come to that?
  Had Rome no sword, that like a drowning rat
  The mother of a king should meet her end?
  What Gallic legion would not call me friend?
  Did they not love Germanicus, my sire?
  Oh, I will rouse the cohorts, scattering fire
  Till all Rome blaze rebellion!

    (_She has advanced to a place beside the couch, stands in a defiant
      attitude for a moment, then covers her face with her hands and
      sinks to the couch._)

                                 No, no, no—
  It could not be, I would not have it so!
  Not mine to burn the tower my hands have built!
  And somewhere ‘mid the shadows of his guilt
  My son is good.

    (_Lifts herself on elbow._)

                  Look, Nina, toward the roofs
  Of sleeping Baiae. Say that eager hoofs
  Beat a white dust-cloud moonward.

    (_Nina goes to window and peers out._)

                                     NINA


                                    Landward crawls
  A sea fog; Capri’s league-long shadow sprawls
  Lengthening toward us—soon the moon will set.


                                  AGRIPPINA


  No horsemen?


                                     NINA


               None, my Queen.


                                  AGRIPPINA


                               —And yet—and yet—
  He called me baby names. Ah, ghosts that wept
  Big tears down smiling faces, twined and crept
  About my heart, and still I feel their tears.
  They make me joyous.—After all these years,
  The little boy my heart so often dirged
  Shivered the man-husk, beardless, and emerged!
  He kissed my breasts and hung upon my going!
  Once more I felt the happy nurture flowing,
  The silvery, tingling shivers of delight!
  What though my end had come indeed tonight—
  I was a mother!
                  —Have you children?


                                     NINA


                                      No,
  My Queen.


                                  AGRIPPINA


            Yet you are winsome.


                                     NINA


                                 Lovers go
  Like wind, as lovers come; I am unwed.


                                  AGRIPPINA


  How lonely shall you be among the dead
  Where hearts remember, but are lorn of hope!
  Poor girl! No dream of tiny hands that grope,
  And coaxing, hunting little mouths shall throw
  Brief glories ‘round you!
                            Nina, I would go
  Like any brazen bawd along the street,
  Hailing the first stout carter I should meet,
  Ere I would perish childless! Though we nurse
  The cooing thing that some day hurls the curse,
  Forge from our hearts the matricidal sword,
  The act of loving is its own reward.
  We mothers need no pity!
                           ‘Twill be said,
  When this brief war is done, and I am dead,
  That I was wanton, shameless—be it so!
  Unto the swarm of insect scribes I throw
  The puffed-up purple carcass of my name
  For them to feast on! Pointed keen with shame,
  How shall each busy little stylus bite
  A thing that feels not! I have fought my fight!
  That mine were but the weapons of the foe,
  Too well the ragged scars I bear can show.
  Oh, I have triumphed, and am ripe to die!
  About my going shall the trumpets cry
  Forever and forever!
                       I can thread
  The twilit under-regions of the dead
  A radiant shadow with a heart that sings!
  Before the myriad mothers of great kings
  I shall lift up each livid spirit hand
  Spotted with blood—and they shall understand
  How small the price was!


                                     NINA


                           Hark!

    (_The tramp of soldiery and the clatter of arms are heard from
      without. Nina, panic-stricken, runs to window, peers out, shrinks
      back, and, turning, flees by a side door._)

                                  AGRIPPINA


                                 Why do you flee?
  Did I not say my son would come to me?
  ‘Tis Nero—Nero Caesar, Lord of Rome!
  My little boy grown tall is coming home!

    (_She goes to window, peers out, shrinks back, then turns toward the
      door and sees three armed men standing there—Anicetus, the Captain
      of a Galley and a Centurion of the Navy. The men stare at her
      without moving._)

  Why come you here?

    (_Silence._)

                     To know my health?—Go tell
  My son, your master, I am very well—
  And happy—

    (_The men make no reply. Agrippina straightens her body haughtily._)

             —If like cowards in the night
  You come to stab a woman—


                                   ANICETUS

    (_Drawing his sword and speaking to Captain._)

                             Snuff the light!

    (_The men spring forward with drawn swords. Agrippina does not move.
      The light is stricken out._)




                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Added missing period to many stage directions to conform with
      majority practice in book.
 2. Changed 'faneless' to 'faceless' on p. 54.
 3. Silently corrected typographical errors.
 4. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.