And are you
sprained
at all?
Lascelles Abercrombie - Emblems of Love
Jean, have you heard
Of Mary lately? --I vow she's in love.
_Jean_.
Never! with whom?
_Katrina_.
The thing's a wonder, Jean.
She'll speak to no one now, and every day,
Morning and evening, she's at the gate
Gazing like a fey creature on that head
She was so stricken to behold--you mind it? --
I tell you she's in love with it.
_Jean_.
O don't be silly.
How can you fall in love with a dead man?
And what good could he do you, if you did?
One loves for kisses and for hugs and the rest;
A spunky fellow,--that's the thing to love.
But a dead man,--pah, what a foolery!
_Katrina_.
O yes, to you; for Love's a game for you.
'Twill turn out dangerous maybe, but still,--a game.
_Jean_.
Yes, the best kind of game a girl can play,
And all the better for the risk, Katrina.
But where the fun would be in Love if he
You played with had not heart to jump, nor blood
To tingle, nothing in him to go wild
At seeing you betray your love for him,
Beats me to understand. You'ld be as wise
Blowing the bellows at a pile of stone
As loving one that never lived for you.
It isn't just to make a wind you blow,
But to turn red fire into white quivering heat.
Whatever she's after, 'tis not love, my girl:
I know what love is. But perhaps she saw
The poor lad living? Even had speech with him?
_Katrina_.
Not she; Mary has never known a lad
I did not know as well. We've shared our lives
As if we had been sisters, and I'm sure
She's never been in love before.
_Jean_.
Before?
Don't talk such sentimental nonsense--
_Katrina_.
Why,
If Love-at-first-sight can mean anything,
Surely 'tis this: there's some one in the world
Whom, if you come across him, you must love,
And you could no more pass his face unmoved
Than the year could go backwards. Well, suppose
He dies just ere you meet him; and he dead,
Ay, or his head alone, is given your eyes,
It is enough: he is the man for you,
All as if he were quick and signalling
His heart to you in smiles.
_Jean_.
Believe me, dear,
You've no more notion of the thing called Love
Than a grig has of talking. But I have,
And I'm off now to practise with my notions.
_Katrina_.
Now which is the real love,--hers or Mary's?
VI
_Before Dawn, At the Scottish Gate_.
_Mary_.
Beloved, beloved! --O forgive me
That all these days questioning I have been,
Struggled with doubts. Your power over me,
That here slipt through the nets death caught you in,
Lighted on me so greatly that my heart
Could scarcely carry the amazement. Now
I am awake and seeing; and I come
To save you from this post of ignominy.
A ladder I have filched and thro' the streets
Borne it, on shoulders little used to weight.
You'll say that I should not have bruised myself? --
But it is good, and an ease for me, to have
Some ache of body. --Now if there's any chink
In death, surely my love will reach to thee,
Surely thou wilt be ware of how I go
Henceforth through life utterly thine. And yet
Pardon what now I say, for I must say it.
I cannot thank thee, my dear murder'd lad,
For mastering me so. What other girls
Might say in blessing on their sweethearts' heads,
How can I say? They are well done to, when
Love of a man their beings like a loom
Seizes, and the loose ends of purposes
Into one beautiful desire weaves.
But love has not so done to me: I was
A nature clean as water from the hills,
One that had pleased the lips of God; and now
Brackish I am, as if some vagrom malice
Had trampled up the springs and made them run
Channelling ancient secrecies of salt.
O me, what, has my tongue these bitter words
In front of my love's death? Look down, sweetheart,
From the height of thy sacred ignominy
And see my shame. Nay, I will come up to thee
And have my pardon from thy lips, and do
The only good I can to thee, sweetheart.
* * * * *
I have done it: but how have I done it?
And what's this horrible thing to do with me?
How came it on the ground, here at my feet?
O I had better have shirkt it altogether!
What do I love? Not this; this is only
A message that he left on earth for me,
Signed by his spirit, that he had to go
Upon affairs more worthy than my love.
We women must give place in our men's thoughts
To matters such as those.
God, God, why must I love him? Why
Must life be all one scope for the hawking wings
Of Love, that none the mischief can escape? --
Well, I am thine for always now, my love,
For this has been our wedding. No one else,
Since thee I have had claspt unto my breast,
May touch me lovingly. --
Light, it is light!
What shall I do with it, now I have got it?
O merciful God, must I handle it
Again? I dare not; what is it to me?
Let me off this! Who is it clutches me
By the neck behind? Who has hold of me
Forcing me stoop down? Love, is it thou?
Spare me this service, thou who hast all else
Of my maimed life: why wilt thou be cruel?
O grip me not so fiercely. Love! Ah no,
I will not: 'tis abominable--
JEAN
I
_The Parlour of a Public House. Two young men_, MORRIS
_and_ HAMISH.
_Hamish_.
Come, why so moody, Morris? Either talk,
Or drink, at least.
_Morris_.
I'm wondering about Love.
_Hamish_.
Ho, are you there, my boy? Who may it be?
_Morris_.
I'm not in love; but altogether posed
I am by lovers.
_Hamish_.
They're a simple folk:
I'm one.
_Morris_.
It's you I'm mainly thinking of.
_Hamish_.
Why, that's an honour, surely.
_Morris_.
Now if I loved
The girl you love, your Jean, (look where she goes
Waiting on drinkers, hearing their loose tongues;
And yet her clean thought takes no more of soil
Than white-hot steel laid among dust can take! )--
_Hamish_.
You not in love, and talking this fine stuff?
_Morris_.
I say, if I loved Jean, I'ld do without
All these vile pleasures of the flesh, your mind
Seems running on for ever: I would think
A thought that was always tasting them would make
The fire a foul thing in me, as the flame
Of burning wood, which has a rare sweet smell,
Is turned to bitter stink when it scorches flesh.
_Hamish_.
Why specially Jean?
_Morris_.
Why Jean? The girl's all spirit!
_Hamish_.
She's a lithe burd, it's true; that, I suppose,
Is why you think her made of spirit,--unless
You've seen her angry: she has a blazing temper. --
But what's a girl's beauty meant for, but to rouse
Lust in a man? And where's the harm in that,--
In loving her because she's beautiful,
And in the way that drives me? --I dare say
My spirit loves her too. But if it does
I don't know what it loves.
_Morris_.
Why, man, her beauty
Is but the visible manners of her spirit;
And this you go to love by the filthy road
Which all the paws and hoofs in the world tread too!
God! And it's Jean whose lover runs with the herd
Of grunting, howling, barking lovers,--Jean! --
_Hamish_.
O spirit, spirit, spirit! What is spirit?
I know I've got a body, and it loves:
But who can tell me what my spirit's doing,
Or even if I have one?
_Morris_.
Well, it's strange,
My God, it's strange. A girl goes through the world
Like a white sail over the sea, a being
Woven so fine and lissom that her life
Is but the urging spirit on its journey,
And held by her in shape and attitude.
And all she's here for is that you may clutch
Her spirit in the love of a mating beast!
_Hamish_.
Why, she has fifty lovers if she has one,
And fifty's few for her.
_Morris_.
I'm going out.
If the night does me good, I'll come back here
Maybe, and walk home with you.
_Hamish_.
O don't bother.
If I want spirit, it will be for drinking.
[MORRIS _goes out_.
Spirit or no, drinking's better than talking.
Who was the sickly fellow to invent
That crazy notion spirit, now, I wonder?
But who'd have thought a burly lout like Morris
Would join the brabble? Sure he'll have in him
A pint more blood than I have; and he's all
For loving girls with words, three yards away!
JEAN _comes in_.
_Jean_.
Alone, my boy? Who was your handsome friend?
_Hamish_.
Whoever he was he's gone. But I'm still here.
_Jean_.
O yes, you're here; you're always here.
_Hamish_.
Of course,
And you know why.
_Jean_.
Do I? I've forgotten.
_Hamish_.
Jean, how can you say that? O how can you?
_Jean_.
Now don't begin to pity yourself, please.
_Hamish_.
Ah, I am learning now; it's truth they talk.
You would undo the skill of a spider's web
And take the inches of it in one line,
More easily than know a woman's thought.
I'm ugly on a sudden?
_Jean_.
The queer thing
About you men is that you will have women
Love in the way you do. But now learn this;
We don't love fellows for their skins; we want
Something to wonder at in the way they love.
A chap may be as rough as brick, if you like,
Yes, or a mannikin and grow a tail,--
If he's the spunk in him to love a girl
Mainly and heartily, he's the man for her. --
My soul, I've done with all you pretty men;
I want to stand in a thing as big as a wind;
And I can only get your paper fans!
_Hamish_.
You've done with me? You wicked Jean! You'll dare
To throw me off like this? After you've made,
O, made my whole heart love you?
_Jean_.
You are no good.
Your friend, now, seems a likely man; but you? --
I thought you were a torch; and you're a squib.
_Hamish_.
Not love you enough? Death, I'll show you then.
_Jean_.
Hands off, Hamish. There's smoke in you, I know,
And splutter too. Hands off, I say.
_Hamish_.
By God
Tell me to-morrow there's no force in me!
_Jean_.
Leave go, you little beast, you're hurting me:
I never thought you'ld be so strong as this.
Let go, or I'll bite; I mean it. You young fool,
I'm not for you. Take off your hands. O help!
[MORRIS _has come in unseen and rushes forward_.
_Morris_.
You beast! You filthy villainous fellow! --Now,
I hope I've hurt the hellish brain in you.
Take yourself off. You'll need a nurse to-night.
[HAMISH _slinks out_.
Poor girl!
And are you sprained at all? That ruffian!
_Jean_.
O sir, how can I thank you? You don't know
What we poor serving girls must put up with.
We don't hear many voices like yours, sir.
They think, because we serve, we've no more right
To feelings than their cattle. O forgive me
Talking to you. You don't come often here.
_Morris_.
No, but I will: after to-night I'll see
You take no harm. And as for him, I'll smash him.
_Jean_.
Yes, break the devil's ribs,--I mean,--O leave me;
I'm all distraught.
_Morris_.
Good night, Jean. My name's Morris.
_Jean_.
Good night, Morris--dear. O I must thank you.
[_She suddenly kisses him_.
Perhaps,--perhaps, you'll think that wicked of me?
_Morris_.
You wicked? O how silly! --But--good night.
[_He goes_.
_Jean_.
The man, the man! What luck! My soul, what luck!
II
JEAN _by herself, undressing_.
Yes, he's the man. Jean, my girl, you're done for,
At last you're done for, the good God be thankt. --
That was a wonderful look he had in his eyes:
'Tis a heart, I believe, that will burn marvellously!
Now what a thing it is to be a girl!
Who'ld be a man? Who'ld be fuel for fire
And not the quickening touch that sets it flaming? --
'Tis true that when we've set him well alight
(As I, please God, have set this Morris burning)
We must be serving him like something worshipt;
But is it to a man we kneel? No, no;
But to our own work, to the blaze we kindled!
O, he caught bravely. Now there's nothing at all
So rare, such a wild adventure of glee,
As watching love for you in a man beginning;--
To see the sight of you pour into his senses
Like brandy gulpt down by a frozen man,
A thing that runs scalding about his blood;
To see him holding himself firm against
The sudden strength of wildness beating in him!
O what my life is waiting for, at last
Is started, I believe: I've turned a man
To a power not to be reckoned; I shall be
Held by his love like a light thing in a river!
III
MORRIS _by himself_.
It is a wonder! Here's this poor thing, Life,
Troubled with labours of the endless war
The lusty flesh keeps up against the spirit;
And down amid the anger--who knows whence? --
Comes Love, and at once the struggling mutiny
Falls quiet, unendurably rebuked:
And the whole strength of life is free to serve
Spirit, under the regency of Love.
The quiet that is in me! The bright peace!
Instead of smoke and dust, the peace of Love!
Truly I knew not what a turmoil life
Has been, and how rebellious, till this peace
Came shining down! And yet I have seen things,
And heard things, that were strangely meaning this,--
Telling me strangely that life can be all
One power undisturbed, one perfect honour,--
Waters at noonday sounding among hills,
Or moonlight lost among vast curds of cloud;--
But never knew I it is only Love
Can rule the noise of life to heavenly quiet.
Ah, Jean, if thou wilt love me, thou shalt have
Never from me upon thy purity
The least touch of that eager baseness, known,
For shame's disguising, by the name of Love
Most wickedly; thou shalt not need to fear
Aught from my love, for surely thou shalt know
It is a love that almost fears to love thee.
IV
_The Public House_. MORRIS _and_ JEAN.
_Jean_.
O, you are come again!
_Morris_.
Has he been here,
That blackguard, with some insolence to you?
_Jean_.
Who?
_Morris_.
Why, that Hamish.
_Jean_.
Hamish? No, not he.
_Morris_.
I thought--you seemed so breathless--
_Jean_.
But you've come
Again! May I not be glad of your coming?
Yes, and a little breathless? --Did you come
Only because you thought I might be bullied?
_Morris_.
O, no, no, no, Only for you I came.
_Jean_.
And that's what I was hoping.
_Morris_.
If you could know
How it has been with me, since I saw you!
_Jean_.
What can I know of your mind? --For my own
Is hard enough to know,--save that I'm glad
You've come again,--and that I should have cried
If you'd not kept your word.
_Morris_.
My word? --to see
Hamish does nothing to you?
_Jean_.
The fiend take Hamish!
Do you think I'ld be afraid of him? --It's you
I ought to be afraid of, were I wise.
_Morris_.
Good God, she's crying!
_Jean_.
Cannot you understand?
_Morris_.
O darling, is it so? I prayed for this
All night, and yet it's unbelievable.
_Jean_.
You too, Morris?
_Morris_.
There's nothing living in me
But love for you, my sweetheart.
_Jean_.
And you are mine,
My sweetheart! --And now, Morris, now you know
Why you are the man that ought to frighten me! --
Morris, I love you so!
_Morris_.
O, but better than this,
Jean, you must love me. You must never think
I'm like the heartless men you wait on here,
Whose love is all a hunger that cares naught
How hatefully endured its feasting must be
By her who fills it, so it be well glutted!
_Jean_.
I did not say I was afraid of you;
But only that, perhaps, I ought to be.
_Morris_.
No, no, you never ought. My love is one
That will not have its passion venturous;
It knows itself too fine a ceremony
To risk its whole perfection even by one
Unruly thought of the luxury in love.
Nay, rather it is the quietness of power,
That knows there is no turbulence in life
Dare the least questioning hindrance set against
The onward of its going,--therefore quiet,
All gentle. But strong, Jean, wondrously strong!
_Jean_.
Yes, love is strong. I have well thought of that.
It drops as fiercely down on us as if
We were to be its prey. I've seen a gull
That hovered with beak pointing and eyes fixt
Where, underneath its swaying flight, some fish
Was trifling, fooling in the waves: then, souse!
And the gull has fed. And love on us has fed.
_Morris_.
Indeed 'tis a sudden coming; but I grieve
To hear you make of love a cruelty.
Sweetheart, it shall be nothing cruel to you!
You shall not fear, in doing what love bids,
Ever to know yourself unmaidenly.
For see! here's my first kiss; and all my love
Is signed in it; and it is on your hand. --
Is that a thing to fear? --But it were best
I go now. This should be a privacy,
Not even your lover near, this hour of first
Strange knowledge that you have accepted love.
I think you would feel me prying, if I stayed
While your heart falters into full perceiving
That you are plighted now forever mine.
God bless you, Jean, my sweetheart. --Not a word?
But you will thank me soon for leaving you:
'Tis the best courtesy I can do.
[_He goes_.
_Jean_.
O, and I thought it was my love at last!
I thought, from the look he had last night, I'd found
That great, brave, irresistible love! --But this!
It's like a man deformed, with half his limbs.
Am I never to have the love I dream and need,
Pouring over me, into me, winds of fire?
HAMISH _comes in_.
_Hamish_.
Well? What's the mood to-night? --The girl's been crying!
This should be something queer.
_Jean_.
It's you are to blame:
You brought him here!
_Hamish_.
It's Morris this time, is it?
And what has he done?
_Jean_.
He's insulted me.
And you must never let me see him again.
_Hamish_.
Sure I don't want him seeing you. But still,
If I'm to keep you safe from meeting him--
_Jean_.
To look in his eyes would mortify my heart!
_Hamish_.
Then you'ld do right to pay me.
_Jean_.
What you please.
_Hamish_.
A kiss?
_Jean_.
Of course; as many as you like--
And of any sort you like.
KATRINA
I
_On the sea-coast. Three young men_, SYLVAN, VALENTINE,
_and_ FRANCIS.
_Valentine_.
Well, I suppose you're out of your fear at last,
Sylvan. This land's empty enough; naught here
Feminine but the hens, bitches, and cows.
Now we are safe!
_Francis_.
Horribly safe; for here,
If there are wives at all, they are salted so
They have no meaning for the blood, bent things
Philosophy allows not to be women.
_Valentine_.
But think of the husbands that must spend their nights
Alongside skin like bark. It is the men
That have the tragedy in these weather'd lands.
_Francis_.
No thought of that! We are monks now. And, indeed,
This is a cloister that a man could like,
This blue-aired space of grassy land, that here,
Just as it touches the sea's bitter mood,
Is troubled into dunes, as it were thrilled,
Like a calm woman trembling against love.
_Sylvan_.
Woman again! --How, knowing you, I failed
So long to know the truth, I cannot think.
_Francis_.
And what's the truth?
_Sylvan_.
Woman and love of her
Is as a dragging ivy on the growth
Of that strong tree, man's nature!
_Valentine_.
Yes. But now
Tell us a simpler sort of truth. Was she---
_Sylvan_.
She? Who?
_Valentine_.
Katrina, of course: who else, when one
Speaks of a she to you?
_Sylvan_.
And what about her?
_Valentine_.
Was she too cruel to you, or too kind?
_Sylvan_.
