No More Learning

Against thee is not Heaven, and thou must
Endure the hatred men will throw upon thee.

* * * * *

The shining place where Ishtar looked at her
Empty the Queen beheld; and into mist
The glory fainted, and the stars came through
Untroubled. Into the night the Queen went on.




PART II


IMPERFECTION




MARY

[A LEGEND OF THE FORTY-FIVE]


I

_A street in Carlisle leading to the Scottish Gate. Three
girls_, MARY, KATRINA, and JEAN.

_Katrina_.
What a year this has been!

_Mary_.
There's many a lass
Will blench to hear the date of it--Forty-five,--
Poor souls! Why will the men be fighting so,
Running away to find out death, as if
It were some tavern full of light and fiddling?
And when the doors are shut, what of the girls
Who gave themselves away, and still must live?
Are not men thoughtless?

_Katrina_.
Leaving only kisses
To be remembered by.

_Jean_.
That's not so bad
As when the dead lads went beyond kissing.

_Mary_.
Poor souls! Well, Carlisle has at least three hearts
That are not crying for a lad who's gone
Listening to the lean old Crowder, Death.
We needn't mope: and yet it's sad.

_Jean_.
Come on,
Why are we dawdling? All the heads are up,
Steepled on spikes above the Scottish Gate,--
Some of the rebels rarely handsome too.

_Mary_.
Won't it be rather horrible?

_Katrina_.
A row
Of chopt-off heads sitting on spikes--ugh!

_Jean_.
Yes,
And I daresay blood dribbling here and there.

_Mary_.
Don't, Jean! I am going back. I was
Forbid the gate.

_Katrina_.
And so was I.

_Jean_.
And I.

_Katrina_.
But a mere peep at them?

_Jean_.
Yes, come on, Mary.

_Mary_.
We might just see how horrible they are.

_Jean_.
Sure, they will make us shudder;

_Katrina_.
Or else cry.

[_A_ MAN _meets them_.

_Man_.
Are you for the show, my girls?

_Jean_.
We aren't your girls.

_Katrina_.
Do you mean the heads upon the Scottish Gate?

_Man_.
Ay, that's the show, a pretty one.

_Jean_.
Are all
The rebels' heads set up?

_Man_.
All, all; their cause
Is fallen flat; but go you on and see
How wonderly their proud heads are elate.

_Katrina_.
Do any look as if they died afeared?

_Man_.
Go and learn that yourselves. And when you mark
How grimly addled all the daring is
Now in those brains, do as your hearts shall bid you,
And that is weep, I hope.

_Mary_.
O let's go back.

_Jean_.
We have no friends spiked on the Scottish Gate.

_Man_.
No? Well, there's quite a quire of voices there,
Blessing the King's just wisdom for his stern
Strong policy with the rebels.

_Mary_.
Who are those? --
I think it's fiendish to have killed so many.

_Man_.
The chattering birds, my lass, and droning flies:
They're proper Whigs, are birds and flies,--or else
The Whigs are proper crows and carrion-bugs.

[_He goes on past them_.

_Katrina_.
A Jacobite?

_Jean_.
That's it, I warrant you.
One of the stay-at-homes.

_Mary_.
Now promise me,
We'll only take a glimpse, girls, a short glimpse.

_Jean (laughing)_.
Yes, just to see how horrible they are.

[_They go on towards the gate_.


II

_The Scottish Gate, Carlisle. Among the crowd_.

_Mary_.
O why did we come here?

_Jean_.
One, two, three, four--
A devil's dozen of them at the least.

_Katrina_.
Poor lads! They did not need to set them up
So high, surely. Which is the one you'ld call
Prettiest, Jean?

_Jean_.
That fellow with the sneer;
The axe's weight could not ruffle his brow,--
How signed it is with scorn!

_Katrina_.
Ah yes, he's dark
And you are red: Mary and I will choose
Some golden fellow. Which do you think, Mary?

_Jean_.
O, but mine is the one! Look--do you see? --
He must have put his curls away from the axe;
Or did they part themselves when he knelt down,
And let the stroke have his nape white and bare?
O could a girl not nestle snug and happy
Against a neck, with such hair covering her!

_Katrina_.
Now, Mary, we must make our yellow choice;
You've got good eyes; which do you fancy? --Jean!
What ails her?

_Jean_.
How she stares! which is the one
She singles out? That topmost boy it is,--
Pretty enough for a flaxen poll indeed.
Is that your lad, Mary?

_Katrina_.
She's ill or fey;
They are too much for her; and I truly
Am nearly weeping for them and their wives and lasses.
Her eyes don't budge! She's fastened on his face
With just the look that one would have to greet
The ghost of one's own self. See, all her blood
Is trapt in her heart,--pale she is as he.

_A Man in the Crowd_.
Can't you see she's fainting? 'Tis no sight
For halfling girls.

_Jean_.
Halfling yourself.

_Katrina_.
Mary!

_Mary_.
Let us go home now: help me there, Katrina.

_Katrina_.
Yes, dear, but are you ill?

_Mary_.
No: let us go home.

_Katrina (to Jean)_.
Come, Jean. Did you not hear her gasp? We must
Be with her on her way home.

_Jean_.
You go then.
I've not lookt half enough at these. Besides--

[MARY _and_ KATRINA _go_.

Well, sir, how dare you speak to girls like that,
When they're alone?

_The Man_.
You needn't be so short;
I guess you're one to take fine care of yourself.

_Jean_.
Yes, and I'ld choose a better-looking man
Than you, my chap, if I wanted company.

_The Man_.
Come this way, you'll see better.

_Jean_.
Impudence!
Who said your arm might be there?

_The Man_.
O, it's all right.

_Jean_.
And what do you think of the rebels now they're dead?


III

_Mary lying awake in bed_.
O let me reason it out calmly! Have I
No stars to take me through this terror, poured
Suddenly, dreadfully, on to my heart and spirit?
Why is it I, of all the world I only
Who must so love against nature? I knew
Always, that not like harbour for a boat,
Not a smooth safety, Love would take my soul;
But like going naked and empty-handed
Into the glitter and hiss of a wild sword-play,
I should fall in love, and in fear and danger:
But a danger of white light, a fear of sharpness
Keen and close to my heart, not as it proves,--
My heart hit by a great dull mace of terror!

* * * * *

So it has come to me, my hope, my wonder!
Now I perceive that I was one of those
Who, till love comes, have breath and beating blood
In one continual question. All the beauty
My happy senses took till now has been
Drugg'd with a fiery want and discontent,
That settled in my soul and lay there burning.
The hills, wearing their green ample dresses
Right in the sky's blue courts, with swerving folds
Along the rigour of their stony sinews--
(Often they garr'd my breath catch and stumble),--
The moon that through white ghost of water went,
Till she was ring'd about with an amber window,--
The summer stars seen winking through dusk leaves;
All the earth's manners and most loveliness,
All made my asking spirit stir within me,
And throb with a question, whose answer is,
(As now I know, but then I did not know)
There is a Man somewhere meant for me. --
And I have seen the face of him for whom
My soul was made!
Ah, somewhere? Where is that?
Have I not dreamt that he is gone away,
Gone ere he loved me? Now I lose myself.
I only have seen my boy's murder'd head.

* * * * *

Yes, again light breaks through and quells my thought.
The whole earth seemed as it belonged to me,
A message spoken out in green and blue
Specially to my heart; and it would say
That some time, out of the human multitude
A face would look into my soul, and sign
All my nature, easily as it were wax,
With its dear image; but after that impress
I would all harden, so that nought could raze
The minting of that seal from off my being.
And yesterday it fell. An idle whim
To see the rebels on the Scottish Gate,--
And there was the face of him I was made to love,
There,--ah God,--on the gate, my murder'd lad!
Did any girl have first-sight love like this?
Not to have ever seen him, only seen
Such piteous token that he has been born,
Lived and grown up to beauty, the man who was meant
To sleep upon my breast, and dead before
The sweet custom of love could be between us!
To have but seen his face? --Is that enough
To make me clear he is my man indeed?
Why, sure there are tales bordering on my lot
In misery? --Of hearts who have been stabbed
By knowledge that their mates were in the earth,
Yet never could come near enough to be healed;
Of those who have gone longing all a life,
Because a voice heard singing or a gesture
Seen from afar gospell'd them of love;
And no more than the mere announcement had.
Ah, but all these to mine were kindly dealing;
For not till they'd trepann'd him out of life
Did he, poor laggard, come to claim my soul. --
O my love, but your ears played you falsely
When they were taken by Death's wily tunes!

* * * * *

Am I so hardly done to, who have seen
My lover's face, been near enough to worship
The very writing of his spirit in flesh?
For having that in my ken, I am not far
From loving with my eyes all his body.
What a set would his shoulders have, and neck,
To bear his goodly-purposed head; what gait
And usage of his limbs! --Ah, do you smile?
Why, even so I knew your smile would be,
Just such an over-brimming of your soul.
O love, love, love, then you have come to me!
How I have stayed aching for you! Come close,
Here's where you should have been long time, long time.
It is your rightful place. And I had left
Thinking you'ld come and kiss me over my heart!
Ah lad, my lad, they told me you were dead.


IV

_At Dawn. The Scottish Gate_.

_Mary (on her way to the gate, singing to herself)_.
As a wind that has run all day
Among the fragrant clover,
At evening to a valley comes;
So comes to me my lover.

And as all night a honey'd warmth
Stays where the wind did lie,
So when my lover leaves my arms
My heart's all honey.

But what have I to do with this?
And when
Was that song put in hiding 'mid my thought?
I might be on my way to meet and give
Good morrow to my--Ah! last night, last night!
O fie! I must not dream so.

[_At the Gate_.
It _was_ I!
I am the girl whose lover they have killed,
Who never saw him until out of death
He lookt into my soul. I was to meet
Somewhere in life my lover, and behold,
He has turned into an inn I dare not enter,
And gazes through a window at my soul
Going on labour'd with this loving body. --
Did I not sleep last night with you in my arms?
I could have sworn it. Why should body have
So large a part in love? For if 'twere only
Spirit knew how to love, an easy road
My feet had down to death. But I must want
Lips against mine, and arms marrying me,
And breast to kiss with its dear warmth my breast,--
Body must love! O me, how it must ache
Before it is as numb as thine, dear boy!
Poor darling, didst thou forget that I was made
To wed thee, body and soul? For surely else
Thou hadst not gone from life. --
Ah, folk already,
Coming to curse the light with all their stares.


V

KATRINA _and_ JEAN.

_Katrina_.
Where are you off to, Jean, in such a tear?

_Jean_.
I'm busy.

_Katrina_.
O you light-skirts! who is it now?
You think I can't guess what your business is?
Is it aught fresh, or only old stuff warmed?

_Jean_.
Does not the smartness in your wits, Katrina,
Make your food smack sourly? --Well, this time,
It's serious with me. I believe I'm caught.

_Katrina_.
O but you've had such practice in being caught,
You'll break away quite easily when you want.
Tell me now who it is.

_Jean_.
The man who spoke
When we were at the Scottish Gate that day.
O, he's a dapper boy! Did you mark his eyes?

_Katrina_.
Nay, I saw nought but he was under-grown.

_Jean_.
Pooh! He can carry me.

_Katrina_.
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?