Chapter I: Front Matter

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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

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TWO MOTHERS

BY
JOHN G. NEIHARDT

New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1921

_All rights reserved_

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Set up and electrotyped. Published, January, 1921

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ALICE AND MONA

CONTENTS

PAGE

EIGHT HUNDRED RUBLES 3

AGRIPPINA 27

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EIGHT HUNDRED RUBLES

GIRL’S SONG

NOBLE KREIDER

[Music]

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

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

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

TWO MOTHERS

EIGHT HUNDRED RUBLES

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

GIRL

(_Singing._)

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

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

(_Ceases singing and stares into the fire._)

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

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

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

(_Sings low._)

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

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

MOTHER

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

FATHER

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

MOTHER

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

GIRL

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

Hush, Mother dear, you’ll wake him!

MOTHER

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

GIRL

O Mother, he has come——

MOTHER

(_Her body straightening slightly from its habitual stoop_)

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

FATHER

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

MOTHER

(_With the old weary voice._)

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

(_Peevishly to the girl._)

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

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

What ails the hussy?

FATHER

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

MOTHER

(_At the fireplace._)

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

(_To girl._)

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

GIRL

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

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

MOTHER

The girl’s gone daft!

FATHER

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

GIRL

(_Arousing suddenly._)

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

MOTHER

Who came?

GIRL

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

MOTHER

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

GIRL

O Mother, wasn’t Jesus Christ a tramp?

MOTHER

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

FATHER

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

MOTHER

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

GIRL

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

(_Shows a gold piece._)

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

MOTHER

(_Taking the coin._)

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

GIRL

No—eight hundred rubles in a sack!

MOTHER

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

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

Eight—hundred—rubles—

GIRL

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

MOTHER

Satan can outsmile God.

GIRL

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

MOTHER

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

(_To the father._)

What’s the thing to do?

FATHER

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

MOTHER

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

GIRL

(_Aghast._)

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

MOTHER

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

GIRL

O Mother! ‘twould be sin!

MOTHER

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

FATHER

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

MOTHER

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

(_Pause: then to girl._)

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

GIRL

(_Pleadingly._)

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

MOTHER

(_Seizing a stick from the fireplace._)

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

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

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

FATHER

(_Startled._)

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

MOTHER

Eight—hundred—rubles.

FATHER

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

MOTHER

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

FATHER

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

MOTHER

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

FATHER

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

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

MOTHER

(_Alone._)

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

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

Eight hundred shining rubles in a sack!

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

When folks get rich they find their fingers dirty.

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

Eight and twenty—nine and twenty—thirty—

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

FATHER

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

(_Rushes toward the side door._)

Ivan! Ivan!

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

God! What have you done!

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

GIRL

(_Outside._)

AGRIPPINA

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

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

CAPTAIN

(_Pointing toward sea._)

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

ANICETUS

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

CAPTAIN

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

ANICETUS

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

CAPTAIN

Aye, Master!

(_Exit Captain toward sea._)

ANICETUS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HERALDS

(_Crying within._)

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

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

AGRIPPINA

(_Lifting her face to the moon seaward._)

How fair a moon to crown our happy revel!

NERO

(_Gazing blankly at the moon._)

Eh? Veil the hussy!

AGRIPPINA

Son, son!

NERO

She’s a devil!

AGRIPPINA

(_Placing a loving arm closer about Nero._)

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

NERO

Ha ha—‘twas snuffed—ho ho!

AGRIPPINA

(_Stroking his hair._)

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

NERO

(_Still staring at moon and pointing unsteadily._)

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

AGRIPPINA

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

NERO

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

AGRIPPINA

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

NERO

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

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

AGRIPPINA

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

NERO

(_Clinging closer._)

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

(_Laughter in banquet hall._)

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

AGRIPPINA

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

(_Places hand on heart._)

NERO

(_Staring into his mother’s eyes._)

Too harsh perhaps—

AGRIPPINA

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

NERO

That other one—

AGRIPPINA

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

NERO

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

AGRIPPINA

Only to Bauli.

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

NERO

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

(_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._)

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Two MothersChapter I: Front Matter

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