|
|
|
Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE MASTER OF PALMYRA, by ADOLF VON WILBRANDT
First Line: I've lost my way - no tree, no spring; naught else
Last Line: (curtain.)
Subject(s): Palmyra, Syria; Roman Empire
First Line: I've lost my way - no tree, no spring; naught else
Last Line: (curtain.)
Subject(s): Palmyra, Syria; Roman Empire
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
APELLES, the "Master of Palmyra"
LONGINUS, his friend
PAUSANIAS, the Lord of Death, a symbolic figure
PUBLIUS SATURNINUS, a Roman general
TIMOLAUS
JULIUS AURELIUS VAHBALLAT
SEPTIMIUS MALKU Noble citizens of Palmyra
JAMBLICUS, son of Longinus
HERENNIANUS, leader of the Christian community in Palmyra
NYMPHAS, grandson of Apelles
SABBAEUS, an insurgent against the Christian rule
AGRIPPA, a Christian, citizen of Palmyra, son of Jarchai
MAEONIUS, an old man
FIRST CITIZEN OF PALMYRA
SECOND CITIZEN OF PALMYRA The FIRST CITIZEN is afterward known as
JARCHAI
SLAVE OF APELLES
AN OLD MAN
A BLIND MAN
A VOICE
BOLANA, mother of Apelles
ZOE, a Christian enthusiast
PHOEBE, a Roman girl
PERSIDA, sister of Herennianus
TRYPHENA, daughter of Persida
ZENOBIA, a prophetess
SLAVE OF BOLANA
A WOMAN
Priests, soldiers, people of all classes, male and female slaves
PLACE: In or near Palmyra. Time of the Roman Empire before and after
Constantine.
ACT I
In the desert near Palmyra. Complete desolation; low yellow cliffs shut in the
background and make a sort of cave, before which a rough slab of rock is
arranged as a resting-place.
SCENE I
ZOE enters left, in simple white costume, a veil or kerchief round her face.
She walks languidly as if exhausted. Looks dully about.
ZOE. I've lost my way.—No tree, no spring; naught else
But dreary solitude. My limbs are faint,
And with the burning glare of yellow sand
And steely heavens mine eyes grow dim; nor yet
Do I behold Palmyra.—Here I'll rest.
[Sits down on the bench of rock.]
O soundless desert! all thy waves are sleeping.
Each living thing is still, except the eagles
That circle noiseless in the sea-blue air
As if they sailed to distant shores unseen,
Like mighty beings whom no thirst consumes,
No weariness weighs down.—O heavenly spirits!—
Should such be passing o'er this desert sea—
Be near me, waft me coolness with your wings,
Make strong my heart and guide me on my way.
A pale, sick WOMAN and a blind and feeble OLD MAN, both ill-clad,
enter left, walking painfully. The WOMAN leads the OLD MAN, who coughs
feebly from time to time. The WOMAN carries some half-withered flowers which
she lays on the ground near the bench; then with arms crossed she bows deeply
toward the cliff.
WOMAN (somewhat impatiently).
You too must bow.
OLD MAN. What, are we there?
WOMAN. Have I
Not told you so? (Raising her voice.) Come forth, oh Cavern-
Dweller.
Where art thou?
BLIND MAN (coughing). Come, ah come!
ZOE (in surprise). Whom do ye call?
WOMAN (looking distrustfully at ZOE).
The aged hermit here.
ZOE (gazing about in astonishment).
What, mid these rocks?
WOMAN (more confidentially).
Were you no stranger, you would hardly ask.
Hermits inhabit the Egyptian desert
Amid the rocks, and so does this man here.
(More softly.)
Yet do the wisest people of Palmyra
Think him no mortal, but a mighty spirit,
The Lord of Life. Seldom he shows himself;
And if he will not, we must needs go back.
Then too, alas! instead of him may come
The other, the Black Spirit whom we hate,
(Yet more softly.)
The Lord of Death.
ZOE (smiling incredulously).
You deem so?
WOMAN (pushing the blind man).
Call him, you.
BLIND MAN (coughing, in a weak voice).
Come Lord, ah come.
WOMAN. He's chirping like a cricket.
[She bows again deeply, with crossed arms.]
Appear! oh Lord of Life, to us poor mortals.
SCENE II
PAUSANIAS steps suddenly from behind the cliff, as out of a cleft. He is pale,
shrouded in black from head to foot.
PAUSANIAS. What would you here? While all Palmyra else
Is thinking only of her warrior band,
Who fight for you against the Persian host,
What seek you for yourselves?
WOMAN (bending even more deeply).
Great Lord, oh give
Some remedy, some blessing, some enchantment
So that I die not. I am sick; thou seest it—
PAUSANIAS. I see.
WOMAN. My suffering! My sore disease!
The doctors say: There's nothing that can help you,
Submit. But I have crawled here painfully
And slowly, almost dying on the way.
PAUSANIAS. And yet, oh strange and miserable creature,
You still would live, you crave not for relief
From this your great distress and tribulation?
WOMAN. One yet would gladly live, oh Lord. And death
Is dreadful.
PAUSANIAS (to the OLD MAN).
Well, and you, so old and blind?
OLD MAN (coughing).
Give but a remedy, that we may live.
PAUSANIAS. Fools! ye none the less must perish,
Perish as your fate ordains.
Think you that the Lord of Being
Is so lavish of the holy
Precious gift of life, that he
Lets it molder in such rotten,
Brittle and corrupted vessels?
Know, the withered leaf must fall
That the new may bud and burgeon!
BLIND MAN. That is hard!—And yet they say
To some lucky man or other
Life immortal may be given.
PAUSANIAS (sternly).
Might I rule, 'twould fall to no man.
One, however, shall attain it:
Only one by God's high pleasure,
No one else may gain this goal.
WOMAN. Lord, where is he? Lord, when comes he?
PAUSANIAS. E'en today.
WOMAN. What, hither?
PAUSANIAS. Hither.
WOMAN. I am here.
PAUSANIAS. But 'tis not you.
(To the OLD MAN.) No, nor you. Be off!—So many
On the battle-field today
Died in combat with the Persians,
Young men in their bloom,—and you,
Withered leaves, would you not fall?
Go!
WOMAN (staring at him, suddenly cries out).
Alas!
BLIND MAN. What is't?
WOMAN (whispers, trembling). The Lord of
Death it was that spoke with us.
We must fall then, we must perish.
BLIND MAN. We must perish!
WOMAN. Yes, 'tis he.
I did scan him, and I knew him;
With his pale eyes coldly gazing
How he pierced me to the heart!
We must perish—
PAUSANIAS (commandingly). Get ye back
To Palmyra!
OLD MAN (trembling, coughing).
Yes, we're going.
[The two, hand in hand, slink out, left, without looking back.]
SCENE III
PAUSANIAS. Pitiable slavish creatures,
Dust-born children of mankind!
Like to limpets of the ocean
Fastened on a slippery rock,
So they cling to bare existence;
Suffer and endure, but die not.
ZOE (who has risen and turned back, steps forward; quietly).
Nay, not all.
PAUSANIAS. What, thou so young a maiden,
Thou fear'st not death?
ZOE. Not I.
PAUSANIAS. Well said. So vaunt
A many, proud or spiritless; but trust me,
'Tis light to say what scarce can be made good.
From behind the rock there steps, as did PAUSANIAS, a noble-looking OLD
MAN, with white hair but with a fresh youthful countenance, clad in yellow of
the color of the desert.
PAUSANIAS. Ask him!
ZOE. Who is he?
PAUSANIAS. Mightier he than thou.
The wise man whom Palmyra's fools were seeking.
[The OLD MAN, with mild and friendly mien, advances toward
ZOE, who bows reverently before him.]
OLD MAN. Thou wanderest from Damascus through the desert.
What drives thee to Palmyra?
ZOE (simply and quietly). God's decree.
I go to preach the tidings of salvation.
OLD MAN. Unto the heathen?
ZOE. Yes.
OLD MAN. A Christian?
ZOE. Yes.
OLD MAN. The Spirit drives thee?
ZOE. Thou hast said.
OLD MAN. Thou fear'st not
To face these heathen? What if they should spurn
And hate thee? What if they destroy
Thy tender life with stones?
ZOE. God's will shall guide
Both hearts and stones alike.
OLD MAN. And what if God
Should prophesy unto thee by my lips
That thou today shalt stain with maiden blood
Palmyra's earth? Should tell thee that thine eye
Must needs be quenched in darkness ere the night,
If thou Palmyra seest?
ZOE. I dread.—And yet
I wish to see it, father. Then ere day
I'll be in Paradise.
OLD MAN. If some false dream
Should cheat thy credulous soul? Should'st thou sleep on
And never waken?
ZOE (staring at him). Wherefore questionest thou
My soul so deeply?—Thou! who art thou, then?
[Soft mysterious music. ZOE listens astonished, but with
visibly wearied senses and the look of one gradually falling asleep.]
ZOE. The air breathes music.—In mine ear 'tis day;
But night comes o'er mine eyes. My soul is bright
And dark.
[Sinks back on the stone bench, in such a way that PAUSANIAS is
standing at her head and the OLD MAN at her feet. She closes her eyes.]
ZOE. What happened to me? Who art thou?
OLD MAN. I?—Though I should wish to tell thee,
Thou could'st never understand it,
Or thy spirit comprehend.
O thou spirit, born to die—
PAUSANIAS. Thou must perish—
ZOE (repeating as in a dream). I must perish.
OLD MAN. Yet shalt thou behold a wonder.
[Trumpets and horns at some distance; first a short note like a
signal, then a swelling fanfare. ZOE listens, slightly raising her head, but
with her eyes more and more tightly closed.]
OLD MAN. Hear'st thou, maiden?
ZOE. Horns are sounding.
War-notes.
PAUSANIAS. Victors home-returning.
MANY VOICES (behind the scenes).
Hail the Conqueror! Hail Apelles!
ZOE. Now they're calling.
PAUSANIAS. "Hail the Conqueror!
Hail Apelles of Palmyra!"
OLD MAN. Aye, Apelles of Palmyra!
Come, and let thy spirit's portals
Open! Let thy proudest wishes
Fly forth boldly like to eagles!
VOICES (as before, but nearer).
Hail the Conqueror! Hail Apelles!
APELLES (behind the scenes).
Silence! Leave me! Praise the gods!
Home!
PAUSANIAS. He's coming!
OLD MAN. Let him come then!
[Draws a yellow veil from his head and lays it over ZOE's
face.]
Let his eye see no one here,
(To ZOE.)
Neither thee, nor him, nor me!
SCENE IV
ZOE seems to sleep, with the OLD MAN and PAUSANIAS motionless behind
her to right and left. APELLES and LONGINUS enter right, in armor;
APELLES in the prime of manhood, LONGINUS still a youth. The music
ceases.
APELLES (as he enters).
This way, Longinus.
LONGINUS. What's come o'er you, man?
The others wait for you.
APELLES. Well, let them go;
They know the roads that lead into Palmyra
Without my help. Look back of you. "The Cave
Of Life" they call it.
LONGINUS (looking around). 'Tis a dreary place.
APELLES (pointing to the stone bench).
You see yon naked block? 'Tis said that he
Who sleeps and dreams thereon shall never die.
(Smiling.)
I'd like to prove it, friend.
LONGINUS. A superstition
O' the silly rabble!
APELLES. Who can tell? You said
Yourself that 'twas a miracle today
How mid the throng of foes death found me not.
"You are immortal!" you did shout. (Gaily.) And therefore
I'd seek now if some god may not fulfil
The saying of a man.
LONGINUS. And would you then
Live ever, on and on?—Now in your eye
The glow of victory gleams; the sunny goddess
Of Fortune loves and showers on you her blessings;
But—is she constant, think you?
APELLES. Fortune? Fortune?
I know life's burden. Fortune did but hold
The ladder which with panting steps I mounted,
Slow, patient, of good cheer; because for hardship
I feel that I was formed, and bless the toil
As I thereby am blest. Since Work and Pleasure
Are twins, each living only in the other,
I live in both, and they preserve for me
The joy of being, even as sleep and waking
Preserve the form of being. If those black mice,
Trouble and Sorrow come to vex my state—
I know they serve grim Death, I hear them gnaw;
But still my watchmen, those twin friends of mine,
Stalwart and true, can fright the vermin off.
LONGINUS. So you would fain live ever?
APELLES. Ever—while
This power of soul, and strength of arm are mine,
To feel the joy of life and hold it fast!
(Smiling again.)
Which lures me to lie down here—
[He approaches the bench. The soft mysterious music sounds again.
APELLES remains standing in bewilderment.]
APELLES. What was that?—
Do you hear music?
LONGINUS. I hear nothing.
APELLES. Nothing?
But still it sounds; nor far, nor near; within there,
And yet outside.—Why shrink or tarry? No;
I've willed it and I'll do't.
[Goes again to the stone bench; stands suddenly still as if
bound.]
Longinus!
LONGINUS. Yes?
APELLES (struggling against a sensation of dread).
A force mysterious!—Before my sight
Is naught but air, and yet—a giant arm
Is stretched before my breast to hold me back,
Letting me not come near yon bench of stone.
(Summoning his courage, with raised voice.)
What art thou, Force unseen? Why hinderest thou
My strength of body and my manly will
From here demanding of the gods my fate?
OLD MAN (without moving).
That which hinders, fain would warn thee.
Search thy will, and see thou ask not
What may prove to be thy bane!
APELLES (after listening in astonishment and confusion).
Hark, Longinus!
LONGINUS. What's the matter?
APELLES. Did you hear it?
LONGINUS. I?
APELLES. Yes, you.
That strange voice, so far—yet near.
LONGINUS. I heard nothing.
APELLES. Yet I heard it.
Words I caught, but they resounded
In the hollow of my ears,
Flying off like birds nocturnal
Ere their voice was understood.
Hark!
OLD MAN (as before). Apelles of Palmyra!
APELLES. Clearly am I called by name.
OLD MAN. Have a care! For what thou seekest,
Thou, and thou alone, shalt win—
So the Almighty hath decreed,
If thou will'st it. But beware!
Endless life may only be
Endless time for vain repenting.
So beware!
APELLES. I hear thee now,
Voice of one that warns unseen;
But thou warnst in vain. A mighty
Blessing cannot grow a curse.
Naught deters me; no, not even
This thy threat. Ye Powers Exalted!
Masters over death and life,
Give but certainty that neither
Soul nor body shall grow weary,
And I press the gift of life
Ever, bridelike, to my heart.
OLD MAN. Good! 'Twill be as thou desirest.
For the Lord of Life has heard thee,
And he holds thee to this earth.
APELLES. Clearer! Louder! From the distance
Hearing, scarce I comprehend.
OLD MAN. Marked in forehead thou shalt wander,
Waking without sleep of death—
ZOE (repeating, as in a dream).
Waking without sleep of death—
APELLES. Words! Mere words! I cannot grasp them.
OLD MAN. Thou to all the sons of earth
As a picture, an example
That shall preach the lore of death,
Clear the mystery of living.
From this blessing, grown a curse,
Thou shalt never find redemption,
Till thy spirit—(Is silent.)
ZOE (as before). Till thy spirit—
OLD MAN. Dark in silence is the end.
Go and live thou!
PAUSANIAS. Go and live thou!
APELLES (after a pause).
Stillness.—Did you hear no voice?
LONGINUS. None.—You're dreaming.
APELLES. A mad dream.
Like a promise 'twas—but doubtful.
Hearing, I could not be sure.
"Go and live thou!" was the end;
"Go and live thou!" 'twas repeated.
(With a forced smile, rousing himself.)
We'll be off, then. Come, let's go!
AURELIUS (calls, behind the scenes).
Good Apelles!
SEPTIMIUS (ditto). Ho! where are you?
LONGINUS. Hark, they're calling!
APELLES. Yes, our friends.—
Fare you well then, wonder-cavern.
"Go and live!" is now the word.
(Smiling.)
Good, I've heard and will obey it.
To Palmyra, friend Longinus!
[Exit left, pulling LONGINUS with him.]
ZOE (dreaming).
To Palmyra—
OLD MAN (to ZOE, solemnly). Follow him!
Traveling on thy journey death-ward,
Showing him the path of fate.
Thou that givest life so lightly
For thy dream of joy celestial,—
In the name of the Almighty,
To a wondrous work I call thee,
Servant of the Eternal Will.
Thou shalt come again, but not
In this form, for thou shalt pattern
Life eternal ever changing.—
Him to lead and to enlighten
Who in self would fain persist.
Wander thou from form to form,
Eager spirit, quick to alter!
Going forward, though at random,
And in every transformation
Meeting him as new and strange,
Thou unknown and he unknowing,
Till God's purpose be accomplished.
[Takes the veil from ZOE's face.]
Eye, awaken! Dream, depart!
In the hour of fate appointed
Dimly shalt thou dream this dream.
Blindly o'er the sand thou wentest,
(Pointing.)
Seek Palmyra with the others.
Go to perish!
PAUSANIAS. Go to perish!
[The OLD MAN and PAUSANIAS disappear; the music ceases.]
ZOE (murmuring).
Go to perish—
[Awakens suddenly; starts up and stares all about her.]
Was I here?
Did I sleep? and dream?—I dreamt, sure.
(Recollecting.)
Of Apelles—of my spirit—
[Stares helplessly into space, lifting her hand to her forehead.]
It has left me.—Daylight fair
All around; within here darkness.
(As in a dream.)
"Seek Palmyra with the others"—
With what others? Who commanded?
[Makes a few steps and takes her bundle from the rock bench.]
But how strong my wearied limbs are!
Throat and spirit fresh as morn.
Thanks! thou pleasant place of resting,
Fare ye well, ye lovely dreams!
[Trumpets and horns from the left far off. ZOE glances in the
direction of the sound.]
There they go then,—"Seek Palmyra
With the others."—Lord, I follow,
And commend me to Thy will. [Exit left.]
[The next three scenes contain nothing pertinent to the main action of the
play. In Scene V Bolana, the devoted mother of Apelles, is discovered in front
of her house in Palmyra, anxiously waiting for news of the battle. Scene VI
introduces Timolaus, the old cynic, who has a bad word for every one except his
idol Apelles. The Seventh Scene brings Apelles back in triumph. First he is
publicly thanked by the Roman general Saturninus as chiefly responsible for the
day's victory over the Persians. Saturninus also mentions that the hero, with
his friends Aurelius Vahballat and Septimius Malku, have supplanted the previous
weak and unjust government of Palmyra by one based on the consent of the people.
Apelles, in returning thanks for his honors, tells that he is of mixed Greek and
Syrian blood; on the Greek side a lover of art and an architect, on the Syrian a
patriot devoted to the honor of his city Palmyra. The Roman general then decrees
that the spoils of victory shall be devoted to a temple of Fortune, which
Apelles, the "Master of Palmyra," is to build on a site in full view of his
house. After the general's departure the ambitious Vahballat says to Apelles
that he supposes they will stand together to preserve their leadership. "To
preserve freedom, you mean," answers Apelles. From Timolaus we have learned that
Malku is a miser. At the end of the scene Apelles is finally left alone with his
mother Bolana.—TRANSLATOR.]
SCENE VIII
(As in the three previous scenes)
An open square in Palmyra. Left, the house of APELLES, a stone bench
before the door. In the right foreground a small olive hedge, behind it the
lofty entrance-door of a pillared hall which retires into the wings. In the
background several palms on a slight elevation to which steps lead up; still
further back is visible part of the city wall and above it a bare, moderately
high range of mountains.
APELLES and BOLANA alone. PAUSANIAS steps out on the elevation from
the right. He is in Græco-Syrian dress like the others, but with black
turban-like head-gear and strikingly pale face.
BOLANA. You're coming home now, son?
APELLES. You see I'm here.
BOLANA. Yet not in spirit here.
APELLES. I'm with my fortune,
Both present and to come.
[Looks again toward the site of the future temple; sees
PAUSANIAS.]
APELLES (aside). Who's that stands there?
Whence did he come? Just now I noticed no one. (Goes to BOLANA.)
What else, impatient mother, would you have
Than me in quiet here?
BOLANA (diffident and hesitating). I want to kiss you,—
And then to beg you come.
APELLES. Within?
BOLANA. Why, don't you
Need any rest then?
APELLES (smiling). No.
BOLANA. Your wounds?
APELLES. Nor they.
Don't call them "wounds" so proudly, they're but scratches
And will alas! I fear me, leave no scars
That might recall the exploits of this day.
BOLANA. Then come and rest.
APELLES. Oh, later, mother, later.
BOLANA. Do spare yourself.
APELLES (smiling). The ancient mother-song.
BOLANA. You'll kill yourself unless you spare yourself—
APELLES (gently embracing her).
There, mother, mother. Kill myself? What I
Who'd live forever, and hate nothing more
Than that grim bloodless enemy of man,
The rascal, Death?
[PAUSANIAS moves and comes slowly nearer.]
I'd gladly shun him, mother,
Save than I fear him not. Who e'er begins
To fear this foe, he ceases then to live.
Come, mother, do not sigh. Who is so happy
As you and I are? Life soars up for us
Toward heaven and with carol of a lark
Foretells us happy days. Just leave me here
And let me hearken all that he predicts,
Then will I come inside—and spare and rest me.
Go, mother, you go first.
(Kisses her.)
BOLANA. You should go now—
(Submitting.)
Still, as you like.
[He goes with her to the door; she embraces him again.]
My everything!
[Goes into the house. PAUSANIAS has meanwhile sat down on the
bench before the house. APELLES advances again.]
APELLES. Good mother,
Tell me, who's sitting there?—An unknown guest.—
Why do you rub your leg?
PAUSANIAS. 'Tis itching still
From the bad words that you've been throwing at me.
APELLES. Strange fellow, I at you? And when?
PAUSANIAS. Erewhile.
But don't you know me?
APELLES. Yes, I know you now.
You were in camp outside there on the night
When we were stationed opposite the Persians,
Waiting the dawn. Around the fire were seated
Many young warriors—Romans and Palmyrans—
Who listened as you played upon the lyre
And sang, too, as you played. The tune was eerie,
Straight to the marrow through the flesh it stole,
And seemed to breathe along the skin—yet somehow,
I can't tell how, it pleased me.
PAUSANIAS. That I noted.
APELLES. And others even more.
PAUSANIAS. They're lying now
Stretched on the sand, where they hear no more music.
APELLES (startled).
What are you saying, man? Whoever hears
Your lyre with joy—
PAUSANIAS. Is hearing his last song;
For what they sing who come to bury him,
That slumbers in his ear.
APELLES. You bloodless visage,
Who were you, then?
PAUSANIAS. He whom you hate, my friend,
"The rascal, Death."
APELLES (after a pause). You sit there on the bench
Before my door, and guests one may not scorn;
Therefore I'll use no unkind word with you.
PAUSANIAS. Much thanks.
APELLES. But not from fear.
PAUSANIAS. I know that well.
APELLES. Why grace me with this visit then?
PAUSANIAS. Because
So haughtily and boldly you detest me,
As few do of your kind. Of course, my friend,
I've seen a-many clinging to the light;
But at the last a time came when the load
Of life weighed heavily upon their breast,
Till they groaned out: "Come hither, Night and Death,
And roll away this stone." For harder then
Was life to them than death.
APELLES. Pale ghost of night,
Whose joy is but to slay, you cannot feel
The magic strength, the holy glad desire
That glows through me to clasp life to myself.
If in thy stead the Lord of Life stood here—
He whom today I sought, but found him not—
And offered endless being on this earth,
Here in this body, ne'er to be your prey,
I'd answer: "Give it me!"
PAUSANIAS. A haughty word.
APELLES. A true man's word.
PAUSANIAS. Give heed; he'll come perhaps
And take you at your boast. But otherwise—
SCENE IX
1ST CITIZEN (outside, left).
Come, let her speak no more. Away with her!
2D CITIZEN (ditto).
No, let her speak and tell us of salvation!—
Don't be confused, but speak!
APELLES. What's all this noise
And strife after so hard a day?
ZOE (outside). Ye men
And women of Palmyra!—
1ST CITIZEN (outside). No, be still there!
Out with her from Palmyra, from our town!
MOB (outside).
Out with her! Out with her!
1ST CITIZEN. Out with the Christian!
Or stone her, stone her!
2D CITIZEN. We will save you yet!
This way! This way!
[SECOND CITIZEN and others hurry past from left, dragging ZOE
with them. FIRST CITIZEN and a great mob rush after them.]
APELLES. What's here? Whom hunt ye so
Along our streets?
2D CITIZEN. Help her, Apelles, help!
1ST CITIZEN. Away with her! Seize her!
MOB (confusedly). Away with her!
Strike her to earth!
APELLES (with mighty voice). Stand back! That man is dead
Who dares to touch her!—I, Apelles, son
Of Hermes, say it. I protect her here!
[General silence.]
APELLES. Who are you, maiden?
2D CITIZEN. Hail, most noble sir!
This maiden—
APELLES. 'Tis herself I ask.—Say on.
Who and whence are you?
ZOE (softly, with modest dignity). Zoe is my name.
I come here from Damascus through the desert.
For when the spirit moveth me—
APELLES. What spirit?
The wild enthusiasm of Nazareth
That still unwearied wanders through the world,
From town to town, from door to door, and bears
A tale of sin and godhead crucified,
Preaching damnation unto all who doubt?
ZOE. We do but what the Holy Spirit's voice
Within commands us. We receive salvation
That we may preach it; only stones keep silence.
In fear and trembling all the sons of men
Long for the revelation, are athirst
For freedom from the fetters of this world
And for the bliss that waits the sons of God.
And who can bring, shall that one hesitate
Because it vexes him or him?
APELLES. We hold
Here in Palmyra to the elder gods
And do not call to you. In all the towns
O' the Roman Empire ye have spread abroad,
But in our desert land ye do not thrive.
Then stay outside! Preach, multiply and grow
Like grains of corn—only within our walls
Leave us to serve in peace the elder gods!
1ST CITIZEN. That's what I say.
APELLES (imperiously). Be still!
ZOE. What is Palmyra?
'Tis not alone the wise, the fortunate;
For sorrow and affliction walk your streets,
And anguish of the soul that yearns for balm.
To these I come here, as the Lord commands me.
Will you forbid my coming?
APELLES. Marvelous creature:
So young and earnest; fair yet strange to earth.
You, maiden, to my thought should rather marry
Than roam unwed, a pilgrim through the world.
ZOE. We each must live, methinks, as 'tis ordained.
Who weds, must learn to please a mortal bridegroom;
Who doth not wed should suit her life to please
The holy will of Heaven. The Lord hath called,
And shall not I obey?
APELLES. A woman, weak.
ZOE. 'Tis not alone the strong, the wise are chosen;
They that seem weak and foolish to the world
Are called of God, that they may turn to shame
The wise and strong.—Yet, pray you, be not angry
At what I say.
APELLES (haughtily). No. What are you to me?
Beware though of the others. Ye are grown
Too great in the realm, both emperor and people
Are threatening, if ye learn not to be still.
ZOE. I know: a new decree of blood hangs o'er us;
The Emperor Diocletian is about
To raise his sword against us. Yea, the heathen
Wax angry with us, as they learn to fear us;—
But we fear nothing. They may battle with
The Lamb, and yet the Lamb will overcome them.
God is with us!
1ST CITIZEN. Who are you, to blaspheme?
Vagabond! Hussy! Keep your tongue in order!
ZOE (with a questioning look at APELLES).
This man protects me.
APELLES. Yes, but have a care.
Try not, as Christians do, with scorn and pride
To rouse the lion, that he rend the lamb;
Make not yourself a sacrifice. A lamb
Is easily slain—
ZOE. 'Tis well. I fear it not.
(Laying her hand on her arm.)
This is but dust. The Children of the Lord
Have never loved their lives even till death;
Therefore are they with God.
APELLES. Unthinking girl!
Do you cast off this present life so lightly
For that which none has known? your blossoming youth,
The strength and fairness of your limbs; eye, ear
And feeling, thought and love but for a dark
Fancied "Perhaps?"
ZOE. It may be dark to you,
Not me. (Turns from him.) Ye men and women of Palmyra,
Follow and hear me! for the day will come.
Leave off idolatry! Your gods are but
Fanciful pictures, stone and bronze, not living,
Not strength, or love, or hope, or yet compassion.
They give no consolation in your grief,
They offer not themselves to cleanse your sin,
They let you perish in eternal death—
1ST CITIZEN. Enough of blasphemy! Silence!
2D CITIZEN. No, speak on!
ZOE. Why build ye temples? He who made the world
Dwells not in houses that are made with hands.
Nor dwells he in the gold-wrought images
Which ye call gods; they are the work of men
And melt away as ye. The temples, too,
As many as ye build, shall fall—
APELLES. Enough!
By thunderous Jove, enough! "The temples fall"—
What are you, miscreant, that you dare to scorn
What you lack eyes to see and comprehend?
Splendor of temples, glorious forms of gods,
And noble art—
1ST CITIZEN. Away with her!
APELLES. Why do ye,
Blind that you are, cry out on eyelids thus
And shriek "Fall down!" because you cannot build?—
Away with you, ye enemies to this world!
Ye timid lambs that mock at Cæsar's self,
Ye shaven pale-faces with bloodless veins,
Which yet are full of poison—
ZOE. Cease, Apelles!
No more!
APELLES. Away with you! Palmyra needs
None of your like. Away from out these walls!
1ST CITIZEN. Apelles too condemns. Away with her!
MOB. Out from Palmyra! [They seize her.]
ZOE (tears herself free). No, I've done no wrong.
(Drawing back from the oncoming mob and mounting the steps in the
background.)
Seize not on me, but purify your hands,
Ye sinners! Are you clean? Is not Palmyra,
Your boasted city, filled with every crime?
The flesh your god, the body your true temple—
1ST CITIZEN. Stone her!
MOB (several). Aye, stone her!
ZOE. Wherefore shout ye so,
World-lust in heart, and blood-lust on your lips?
Ye god-forsaken creatures,—empty clouds
Borne by the wind of chance—
MOB (confusedly). Make her be still!
She shall not live!
[A fresh mob comes from the wings right and left, above, partly
armed with swords, bows and arrows.]
ZOE. Ye savage waves of ocean
That foam on high with shame ... The angels cry
Woe, woe upon you for your evil deeds!
And Babylon shall fall, Palmyra fall—
1ST CITIZEN. Throw stones! Shoot arrows! Swords here!
APELLES (pressing forward in the throng).
Hold your hands!
No further!
MOB (both on and off the stage).
She must perish! She must perish!
[They lift stones and throw them; arrows fly from the wings to the
stage.]
ZOE. The Lord—(Struck by an arrow, she sighs forth) Ah Saviour!
(Collapses.)
APELLES. Hold your hands!—She's falling.
Accursèd murderers! Which of you has struck her?
[Forces the mob back, raises ZOE; her eyes are closed.]
APELLES. Let no one touch her!
[Half dragging her he brings her to the house. She lays a hand
upon her heart and sinks from out his arms.]
ZOE. I am dying; leave me.
[The mysterious music of the earlier scenes begins again. ZOE
opens her eyes and sees APELLES kneeling beside her. Her expression
changes to a deep, mysterious look.]
ZOE. 'Tis you—as in my dream.—Why blame the others?
You gave me up and let them work their will.
Yet God will punish you in what you covet:
For the Lord of Life hath heard you,
And to earth securely holds you—
APELLES (staring at her discomposedly).
Who are you?—So it sounded from the cavern.
ZOE. Marked in forehead thou shalt wander,
Waking without sleep of death.
But I must die—[Music ceases.]
APELLES. No, if you are a spirit,
'Tis an illusion, and you cannot die.
ZOE (gazing with transfigured look toward heaven).
And then there was a voice went forth from heaven,
Which said: 'tis finished.—Oh ye martyred saints,
As ye with sound of singing went to death,
So I would sing.
(Sings with firmer, then with weakening voice.)
"Oh God, be thou my judge,
And do thou guide my cause against this throng
Unrighteous, and deliver me"—(Dies.)
[SECOND CITIZEN and others kneel down by her, some weeping, some
covering their faces. APELLES stares at her as if unable to comprehend.]
APELLES. By Zeus!
But that is death.
[PAUSANIAS, previously hidden in the crowd, now stands behind
ZOE.]
PAUSANIAS. It is.
APELLES. Are you still here?
PAUSANIAS. You have now what you wished for. Fare you well. [Turns to go.]
AURELIUS (behind the scenes).
Way for the governor Publius Saturninus!
ACT II
A room in the house of APELLES at Palmyra, adorned with frescoes and
statues in the Græco-Roman style, joined by a row of pillars at the back to
a second chamber, through the door of which one looks out into a small garden.
Entrances (closed by tapestries) right and left; the second chamber has also
entrances on both sides. In the front room is a table, set, and surrounded by
beautiful chairs.
[Scenes I and II, though witty, are merely introductory to the action. We
learn that the time is some twenty years later, but just the day of the year
when Zoe was killed. The Christians, under the Emperor Constantine, are in
power, and Apelles' intimate, the politician Aurelius Vahballat, has joined the
new religion. To the distress of his mother Apelles has brought from Rome as his
mistress the beautiful Phoebe, with whom every one (especially the vain miser
Septimius) is in love. In a prose scene, reminding one much of Falstaff, the
cross-grained but keen-witted epicurean Timolaus rails at all in Palmyra except
Apelles; at the end he brings Septimius into especial ridicule. Timolaus,
Longinus, Aurelius and Septimius are on the stage at the beginning of the next
scene.—TRANSLATOR.]
SCENE III
(As in the two previous scenes)
APELLES and PHOEBE enter from the second chamber; APELLES but little
aged, more richly dressed than in Act I: PHOEBE in sumptuous Roman attire.
The part is taken by the same actress who played ZOE; but in dress, in the
arrangement of the hair, and in wordly appearance she looks as different as
possible.
APELLES. How? Is there war?—What's wrong?
PHOEBE. Septimius angry?
Fie on you!—Clear your looks!
SEPTIMIUS. This fellow here,
This quarrelsome—
PHOEBE. Hush! I will not hear of quarrels,
Nor see your gracious countenance o'ercast.
Quick, smile again, or else I'll turn my back
This day upon Palmyra and be gone
To my beloved Rome.
APELLES. Look out! Septimius.
Phoebe's in earnest. For this hour and more
She only speaks of Rome, yearns for the Tiber,
Rails at Palmyra as the Land of Shades
And says we're all stark mad.
PHOEBE. You are so, too.
Jackals no doubt should live here, but not men;
Here, where Palmyra like a dot of green
Lies in a sea of sand, mid mountains bare
And desolate as the ever-empty sky.
"Show me a thing of beauty, my Apelles,
A bit of Paradise," I said, "or else
I'll die." What then? He leads me to a gorge
Where like some ugly giants turned to stone
Rise monuments of the dead: the burial-place
Of the Palmyrans! That's your fairest sight,
The eyelid of your eye!—Alas, my Rome!
Ah, what a fool am I!
APELLES (somewhat vexed). You are—in judgment.
Learn first to know the magic of this desert,
Where like a jewel-case Palmyra rests—
PHOEBE (with a charming gesture lays a hand on his lips).
Stop! Not so serious. Why did you not stay
In Rome? You were not there a year. They prized
The "Master of Palmyra"—he that built
The temples and arcades—they loved you well
And bade you: "Stay!"—Then why don't you go back?
Why cleave here to the sand?
APELLES. I love Palmyra
And my good mother.
(Embracing PHOEBE tenderly.)
Ask no more. The wine!
Why do we stand? Sit here and be our queen;
And let this crown, to which our "desert sand"
Gave birth, adorn your fair capricious forehead.
[Takes a rose garland from the table and places it on her hair.
They set themselves to the table; slaves wait upon them.]
APELLES. Crown yourselves all!
PHOEBE. And drink! I'll show you how.
(To the slaves.)
Take off the meats though! When I look at meat
I see that we're but beasts; and for today
We'll bear ourselves like men—nay, like the gods.
You all have eaten, though. (Smiling.) If you wish more,
Take of these noble fruits, that smell so sweet
And well might grace the table of the gods.
Send out the meat! The slaves, too! Every one
Shall serve himself; that is the high decree
Of mighty Circe!
AURELIUS. Circe, did you say?
PHOEBE. So was I called in Rome erst: "the enchantress,"—
Though all my magic was my merry mood,
As it shall be today.
(To the slaves, imperiously.)
Be off with you!
[APELLES gives a sign to the slaves, who depart through the
second room right and left.]
PHOEBE. Now we're in Fairyland; my reign begins.
[Takes from a flower-vase a palm branch, which she raises as if
it were a sceptre.]
SEPTIMIUS. Then must we fear, fair Circe, you'll transform
Us all.
AURELIUS. To beasts.
PHOEBE. Aye truly, whomsoe'er
This wand shall touch, 'twill change at least his name.
And first of all the grave philosopher,
Who thinks but never speaks. (To LONGINUS.) How shall I call you?
TIMOLAUS. Call him the pelican, pattern of all thinkers,
The solemnest of sages.
PHOEBE (laughs). Good.
(Touches LONGINUS with the palm.)
Be like
The pelican, be worthy of your model!
SEPTIMIUS. And I, enchantress?
PHOEBE. What's the beast deserves
You for its like? Only the handsomest,
The noble horse.
(Touches him.)
APELLES. And I?
PHOEBE. My desert lion
Are you; my not too gentle lord and monarch,
At whom I tremble.
(Touches his hand, which she then kisses. To AURELIUS—)
But what name for you,
The wise man of the state?—The eagles look
Down from on high—
TIMOLAUS (interrupting). No, let him be the stork,
Lord of the frog-pond. What is wiser than
The contemplative stork? Who on one leg
Ponders: how will it end, will Constantine
The Christian or Maxentius the heathen
Be victor? If the one, I'll be a Christian;
And if the other, heathen. [APELLES laughs.]
AURELIUS (rising in anger). How, you nettle?
You want to sting me?—me, the city's lord?
And you, Apelles, will you let this weed
Mock me within your walls?
PHOEBE. O Zeus! so angry—
AURELIUS. My patience is worn out. We've worn the name
Of friends these many years, have he and I—
I mean Apelles; and I held the ladder
To all his honors, helped him to his fame,
Cloaked with the mantle of my dignity
All that was doubtful. What's the thanks I get?
He keeps here this tarantula to sting us—
Even me, the lord, Aurelius Vahballat—
And laughs and nods assent!
APELLES (has risen, fighting with his indignation).
You speak not well,
Aurelius Vahballat. Free was ever
The speech within my house; true wit I laugh with;
But poisonous malice here was never hatched.
You "held the ladder" for me? You, for me?—
Is your remembrance drunk?—You cloaked for me
"All that was doubtful"—What was doubtful, pray?
By the great Zeus, speak out.
AURELIUS. I pray you, let us
Not here—
APELLES. Where else? We've men of honor here,
Such as you don't see everywhere. Speak out!
What wrong did I commit?
AURELIUS. Not wrong—
APELLES. And yet
Not right. By Cerberus! speak out, or else
I'll tear it from your throat.
AURELIUS. You're mad with rage.
I only meant the money, when you built
More than had been intended; for the temple
First of the Goddess Fortune at your door,
Then for the colonnade—
APELLES. Go on!
AURELIUS. And last
For the six towers that reinforce the wall.
APELLES. What man condemns my work? 'Tis good throughout
And ornaments your city.
AURELIUS. And it cost
A fifth more than you reckoned—
APELLES. But it is
A third more strong and beautiful, I got
Never a penny more than was my due.
Why were you silent then, and did not knit
Your brows at me as now, nor yet accused
Me of extravagance before the Council?
AURELIUS. I was your friend. The Council and the people
Had pressed you hard, grumbled, or angrily
Demanded, "Pay yourself the extra share
We did not bargain for." Therefore I hushed
The matter up, not to annoy the Master,
And got the money elsewhere as I could,
And what was needed here saved there. So was I
Your friend, (pointing to SEPTIMIUS) and he with me.
APELLES. You acted wrongly,
And I accuse you. I will not beg off
A single penny, nor will I beseech
For favor either you or yet Palmyra.
Give here your false account, for I will pay
My debt, the extra fifth.
SEPTIMIUS. Have you your wits?
You'll be a beggar.
APELLES. Better be a beggar
Than to become your debtor—and your like.
I've seen enough to gall me; I have watched
The new-won freedom often in your hands
Wrenched to the old misuse; I saw how deftly
You swayed the sceptre, but I held my peace,
For ancient friendship willingly forbears,
And I bethought: we all are fallible.
But to be false along with you, to take
Favors from dirty hands? I'd rather creep
Among the snakes or beg before the jackal.
Give me the audit! What Apelles owes,
That should he pay. So house and home farewell,
Farewell the utmost farthing. I can then
But say: Depart! This hand is clean, it took
Nothing from yours and therefore owes you nothing.
PHOEBE. O Zeus! You will not—
APELLES. Cease! My word is rock.
(To AURELIUS.)
You'll send to me at once and I will pay.
AURELIUS. If you desire it. "Whom the gods destroy"—
But no, I'll not revile as you do. Have
The last word; else, I fancy, you'll have nothing.
I'll send to you, and your haughtiness will pay.
Farewell! [Exit rear.]
TIMOLAUS (aside to LONGINUS, dumfounded).
The man is mad!
LONGINUS (aside). But wise.
PHOEBE. Alas!
What is all this?—Apelles, call him back!
Apelles, let me teach you reason.
APELLES (harshly). Hush!
You know not what you say.
(Goes toward the door, left.)
LONGINUS. Where?
APELLES. To my mother,
To tell her this before another shall,—
Our pleasure is destroyed. Leave me, I pray,
Until tomorrow!
LONGINUS (pressing his hand). Then good-night.
[Exit APELLES, left.]
SEPTIMIUS. Longinus,
I'm sore perplexed and troubled.
LONGINUS. Let us go.
[Beckons TIMOLAUS, who follows him hesitatingly.]
TIMOLAUS (in going, aside).
A noble man, but mad!
LONGINUS (ditto, with a gentle smile). As mad as noble.
One thought in two words. Come.
[Both exeunt rear.]
PHOEBE (holds SEPTIMIUS back as he starts to follow).
No, you must stay.
Desert me not, Septimius. Ah, ye gods,
But what a stroke from heaven!
SEPTIMIUS. I deplore him,
My foolish friend Apelles.—More than all though
I pity you.
PHOEBE. Then help him.
SEPTIMIUS. You have heard
Whether 'tis possible. He thrust you out.
Your lovely eyes are swimming still with tears.
PHOEBE. How rough he was!—Is all, is all then lost?
SEPTIMIUS. Surely.
PHOEBE. He passed for rich—
SEPTIMIUS. Yes, rich he was.
A fifth of all the cost!
PHOEBE. Poor as a beggar?
SEPTIMIUS. Poor, if not quite a beggar; and at strife
With one all-powerful to do him harm.
PHOEBE. Was ever man so rashly proud?—Apelles,
Apelles! (Goes toward the door, left.) No, he'd only thrust me
back.
He leaves me here. He knows not if I live.
And poor. Ye gods! Why, poverty is death.
He lets me die here, even at his threshold.
[Throws herself in a chair, weeps, covering her face with her
hands.]
SEPTIMIUS (with choking voice).
I pray you, do not weep. I cannot bear it,
It tortures me at heart. If I were not
Apelles' friend, I'd fall here at your feet
And tell you what I suffer; for the god
O' the bow and arrows has undone me quite,
And I'm defenseless. On my friend's behalf,—
Though sore he wronged me, yet must I be still.
But do not weep, for then my heart mounts up
As high as to my tongue.
PHOEBE. Alas! Apelles.
Alas! my Rome.
SEPTIMIUS. Did you but call on Rome
And not Apelles too, I'd seek to help you,
And dare a word. Then would I say to you:
What do you in Palmyra further, banished
Here in this desert place, which grieves your eye
And makes your heart feel homesick; where foes rule,
Sorrow invades your house, and soon the Persian
Perchance again will levy war—for he
Learns never to keep peace. I therefore think
I too may leave this land with all my treasure
And take my way to your far paradise,
The queen of cities, Rome.
[She raises her head in surprise, looks at him in silence.]
Would you come with me,
I'd go at once. Tomorrow; yes, tonight;
Soon as you will. Come with me!
PHOEBE (after a short silence). You are base,
And think I too am base, that you speak so.
SEPTIMIUS (cautiously).
Forgive. I meant it well. I said not how
My heart desires you; let it break in silence!
I think but: what of you? You that are made
For pearls and roses, gold and happiness,
As in the sand the vine will never flourish,
So you in poverty must droop and die.
And what then of Apelles? He but loved you
Because you sang, you beamed with radiant joy,
And laughed; when you begin to weep and wither,
He'll go to others. Do not wait for that,
But do you go to others—
[She starts and looks at him unwillingly. He goes on quickly.]
Not to me.
I spoke not of my heart, nor shall I speak.
Only had you yourself said: let it speak,
I'd have laid all before you—all I am
And all that I possess—and you as empress
Should have commanded all that I call mine.
Of that I do not speak. Merely as guide
Would I companion you to Rome, to save you.
I'll come to you that hour when you shall call;
Submissive, true as no man else on earth,
And yet without a wish.
SCENE IV
APELLES has entered left, drawing back the curtain, and listening for a time
in silent surprise, has not moved. He now advances.
APELLES (with wrath still suppressed). So talks Septimius
And Phoebe hears in silence. (PHOEBE starts.) No, be seated,
And list to him yet further, till he says:
Treachery is holy, faithlessness a virtue,
Apelles but a beggar.
PHOEBE. Sacred gods!
Listen to me, Apelles.
APELLES. Yes, I will;
Not before him, though.
(To SEPTIMIUS.)
Wait until she calls,
Then come and rescue her.
(As SEPTIMIUS tries to speak.)
If you say more,
I shall forget how frank and true you are—
My very friend of friends—and strangle you
Like to a Persian dog. Go dumbly out
And write her what you think!
[SEPTIMIUS goes toward APELLES as if to speak; at a beseeching
gesture of PHOEBE he turns in silence and exit, right.]
APELLES. And now to you,
Oh Circe lost to shame. My heart you stole,
And witched it to a cooing dove-like heart,
That, fluttering round you, hung upon your finger
And freely sprinkled with the dearest drops
Of its warm blood that little snow-cool hand.
You'd draw the hand away because the drops
No longer flow red gold, but common blood?
Because I now am nothing but this head
And this right-arm to earn in daily toil
By honest means an honest livelihood.
What's honor, or my honor, though, to you?
Or what am I? A statue made of sand,
That pleased you for awhile because 'twas gilded;
The gilding gone, I now am but the dust
Which you will shake from off your fleeing foot
To seek the man of gold.
PHOEBE. Have you now chidden
Me long enough, and can you hear a little?
Apelles, churlish bear! what have I done?
Have I been faithless to you? When you left me
I wept for you alone here in distress,
That you're so noble as to be a fool.
If, helpless with despondency, I then
Yielded mine ear to strengthening consolation—
Is that a crime?
APELLES. Seduction then consoles.
O woman!
PHOEBE. He spoke honorably.
APELLES. You think so?
Innocent creature!—Go to Rome, depart
Hence with your man of gold! You shape of air,
Of vapor wrought, and foam and fickleness.
Cling to the solid gold, embrace it, cobweb,
And let yourself be saved ere comes the storm!
Farewell, farewell. My blessing go with you,
The last thing I possess: hate that is born
Of love, regret, compassion and—contempt!
PHOEBE. How madly you do chide. I quiver, tremble,
And yet I can't be angry with you.
(Sinking before him.)
Strike me,
If I deserve it! Strike! I do deserve it,
I heard of Rome, and thought: yes, flee to Rome!
I would have dared to die for you, but oh
My woman's blood shrinks at the thought of life
After the brow is wrinkled. Oh Apelles,
How weak a child you love!
APELLES. I love you not.
Stand up!
PHOEBE. You love me still. You're trembling, and
Your harsh-feigned voice is fighting with your tears.
[Draws him down to a seat, while she remains on her knees.]
PHOEBE. Sit down. Yes, that way. Now I'll kiss your hands
And kiss your knees as well—my Jupiter!
Or no, my desert lion, wild and fearsome,
Because you scold me so.—Did I deceive you?
At Rome 'mid kisses I did say: I'm fickle,
Free I'll remain. Bethink, the day will come
When Fortune shall take wing!—What if that time
Were here?
[He seeks to rise; she detains him, kissing his hands again.]
Oh no, it has not come.—But tell me:
What can I do? I am your chain, your sorrow;
No more your bird, to sing your Fortune back.
Besides, your mother hates me.—
(As he makes a movement.)
Hush! I'll not
Scold the good lady whom you love so much.
Yet, why stay here, in the hot desert wind
That wearies me and presses shut mine eyes—
E'en now, you see?—Let's go then! Take me back
To Rome! (Clasping him.) Rome!
APELLES (shakes his head).
Here I'm rooted—and my mother.
If that is all, depart!
(Stands up and goes away from her.)
PHOEBE (rises). What, rough again;
The lion's thunder?—Well then, we'll remain;
In peace, though, and in unity.
[Follows him; presses him softly down upon a couch, right; sits by
him.]
But smile!
I am but as I am. What would you? Young,
Yet early ripe; and early wont, a moth,
To fly toward Fortune, and to fear and hate
The groveling worm that mortal men call sorrow.
And therefore—but I'm tired—yet one word more.
I once was good, earnest as ye, all formed
For thought, for virtue, wisdom—what you will.
Within my childish bosom often stirred
The holiest feelings—strangely, secretly,
Like an inheritance from a former life—
I can't find words for it. But (hesitatingly) my mother's blood,
Example and temptation—Kiss, forgive me
That I'm this Phoebe that I am, just this one!
APELLES (kisses her).
'Tis her I love, whether I would or no.—
But now your eyes are closing like the cups
Of the convolvulus when the sun grows hot.
PHOEBE (sinks upon his breast).
Too hot it glows today.—I'm like the children;
When they have cried their fill, they fall asleep.
Let me but slumber,—so.
APELLES (gazing at her, after a pause). She sleeps indeed.—
Yes, like a child. Fleeing away from sorrow
To dreamland, now she's lying there; her breath
Soft as a whispering wind, above her floats
A perfume as of cedar. ... Yet so still
And earnest, petrified in sleep, she's like
The Christian from Damascus.—Very strange,
That two so different should be so like:
As day from night, frivolity from holiness,
World-love from martyrdom!—But when she died—
The Christian—and with mystic glance proclaimed
"And thou shalt wake without the sleep of death "—
Or did the Lord of Life I summoned say it?
Why does this sleeper, who intoxicates
My heart, remind me of that child of death,
As 'twere the selfsame spirit in both forms?—
My mother comes.
SCENE V
BOLANA enters, left, gray and much aged, with quiet melancholy, almost with
embarrassment.
BOLANA (as APELLES starts to rise).
No, stay; don't wake her up.
(With hardly perceptible bitterness.)
Why trouble her for an old woman's sake?
I will speak softly. But I'm urged, my child,
To tell you of a thing that slipped my mind
When with your evil news you frightened me—
APELLES (with lowered voice)
What's that?
BOLANA. I have a little country-place
In Lebanon, near Heliopolis.
An excellent soil it has. We'll sell it off,
And it shall pay a portion of your debt.
APELLES (touched, smiling).
What, shall I rob you? Sooner die, dear mother.
No, speak no more of that.
BOLANA. My child, you've taken
Already much from me—and willingly.
(With an uncertain glance at PHOEBE.)
Nurture and love, I mean; for of my thoughts
Your obstinate and independent soul
Has taken naught since long. (Submissive.)
But—as you will (sighing),
For you know better.
APELLES (smiling kindly). Stop; I'll come to you.
[Stands up cautiously and gently, laying PHOEBE'S head on a
pillow; then goes to BOLANA.]
She sleeps on peacefully.—Come, mother mine,
Out of the bottom of my heart I long
To pleasure you in all I do and am.
But deep within me fiery moods prevail,
Hunger for beauty, riddles of the heart,
Which, like the wanderer's longing for his home,
Increase and drag us on.
BOLANA (a hand on her heart, yet controls herself).
Child, so you say;
And so it is, no doubt.—I'll go again.
(Aside.)
Ah Zeus!
APELLES. A word still, mother. You look pale.
BOLANA. Child, I am old.
APELLES. Unhappy too.
BOLANA (shakes her head). Not greatly.
And if I told you why I am so, child,
You'd only scold.
APELLES (smiling). Not greatly.—What disturbs you?
BOLANA (taking courage).
She who lies there.—I thought that Chryse's daughter
Would rule as mistress here, that was my wish.
'Twas that which brightened like a star of hope
The evening of my life.—But the strong moods
Drag you away.—I go.
(Goes to her door.)
APELLES (shocked). You're jesting, sure.
BOLANA. Not that I know. Except—Oh Zeus!
[She sinks as in a faint; APELLES catches her.]
APELLES. What is it?
Oh mother, mother!
[She revives a little, and points weakly to the door.]
Come, I'll lead you in.—
The door swings back. Who's there?
SCENE VI
PAUSANIAS enters, left, in Greek costume, pale.
PAUSANIAS. The doctor.
APELLES. Help, then.
Give her an arm—(With sudden terror.)
No, come no nearer! I
Remember you. You spectre of destruction,
Muffled within this garment, which deceived me—
I have not seen you since that fatal hour.
What would you here today?
[PAUSANIAS looks in silence toward BOLANA. APELLES,
horrified.]
My mother?
PAUSANIAS. Hush!
You'll wake the sleeper there.—Your arm is trembling,
You'll let the old dame fall.
APELLES (collects himself and presses BOLANA, whose eyes are still shut,
closer to his breast).
No, I defy you.
I'll wrest her from you yet, you foe to mortals.
Don't touch her!
PAUSANIAS. There's no need. Within are gnawing
The "black mice" that you wot of.
APELLES (shaken). Then I curse you,
That joy so in destruction.—I will chase
Them off, and you as well. For mighty too
Is a man's will.—She is awakening. Mother!
(Caressing her.)
Come, come! I'll lead you.
BOLANA (with a faint voice). Child! My own Apelles!
APELLES. Yes, your Apelles.
(To PAUSANIAS, with low but firm voice.)
Back there from the door!
I'm doctor here—not you.
(To BOLANA.)
Come on! I'll lead you.
[Exit left with BOLANA. PAUSANIAS stands looking at the
door. PHOEBE, who has already stirred, awakens.]
SCENE VII
PHOEBE (looking about).
Where am I?—Here.—Apelles gone.—Who stands there?
[A SLAVE, who has come from the second chamber, right,
approaches PHOEBE with a sealed scroll in his hand.]
PHOEBE. What bring you, Lydus?
SLAVE. 'Tis a scroll, my lady,
Brought by a slave. For you.
PHOEBE (takes the scroll, speaking low). Who is yon man,
So pale?
SLAVE (glances hurriedly toward him).
The doctor.—He departs.
PHOEBE. Go you.
[Exit SLAVE. PHOEBE opens the scroll.]
Who sends me this letter? (Surprised.) Septimius! (Reads.)
"Septimius to his mistress Phoebe: greeting and submission!—The
gods so ordain it that this very night I undertake the journey to our beloved
Rome. Our ancient friendship Apelles has severed; honor commands me no less than
sympathy to offer you yet again assistance to save you from a sea of undeserved
sorrow. He who writes this desires nothing, neither thanks nor aught else, savew
the uncertain glimmer of a distant hope. Five steps from here is my house; there
I await you or your message."
SCENE VIII
LONGINUS enters right, in excitement which he seeks to master. It grows
dark.
LONGINUS. Where is Apelles?
[PHOEBE does not notice him, but stares before her.]
Only you.—Forgive me:
Why are you deep in thought?
PHOEBE (looks at him). And why are you
So gloomy and so moved?
LONGINUS. On your account.
Where is Apelles?
PHOEBE (stands up). Speak. On my account?
What has occurred?
LONGINUS. 'Tis but what might occur.
Let me inform Apelles—
PHOEBE (goes to him). No. Tell me
That which concerns me so!
LONGINUS. Aurelius threatens—
That noble man, all wrath and hate—
PHOEBE. He threatens?
LONGINUS As guardian of this city and its morals
He goes to bid the City Fathers make
A notable example.
PHOEBE (trembles). Speak!
LONGINUS. They shall
From out Palmyra banish you, he threatens;
The man of virtue is sincerely shocked!—
But fear not. Trust Apelles; and yet he—
What is it? Whither will you go?
PHOEBE. What! I?
What was I doing?
LONGINUS. That it is I ask.
You wandered—as your eyes do still. Afraid?
PHOEBE (seeking words).
For him—yes for Apelles. (Aside.) Help! ye gods.
Is this an omen? Must I go? Then say so
And end my misery!
LONGINUS. What have you there
All crumpled in your hand?
PHOEBE (looks at the scroll; aside). Septimius' letter.—
That is the omen, for he asked me there.
The gods have willed—I must depart.—Apelles!
I to desert you? But the gods have willed;
Even though my heart refuse.—Would you but come—
Yet no; don't come, don't come! I must depart;
Be it without farewell, farewell were death!
LONGINUS (aside).
What works in her, that she nor hears nor sees?
She sighs.
PHOEBE (aside). Farewell, farewell!—My heart is heavy—
And yet in craven anguish it would flee.
Farewell; forgive me!
[Goes toward the back, tottering unsteadily. PAUSANIAS steps
forward again from where he disappeared, stands between the pillars.]
LONGINUS. Going? Where?
PHOEBE (with broken voice). I know not.—
Say to Apelles—
[Her consciousness departs, she is about to fall. PAUSANIAS
catches her; the letter falls from her hand, a shudder goes through her.
Anxiously she opens her eyes.]
Who are you? (More quietly.) The doctor.—
I thank you. (Tries to smile.) I am living. Let me go.
(Frees herself from his arms. To LONGINUS.)
Say to Apelles—No.—I'll come again.
(Aside.)
Good-night, Apelles!
[Totters out from the right, back. PAUSANIAS takes up the
letter.]
PAUSANIAS (aside). You'll not come again.
LONGINUS. How is't with Phoebe? Whither will she go?
SCENE X
Enter APELLES left.
APELLES (looking back, more cheerfully).
She sleeps now, peacefully.
[Advances, sees PAUSANIAS. Starting back.]
You here still? Waiting?
Where tarries Phoebe?
PAUSANIAS (pointing away). Gone.—But for this price
You may retain your mother there within.
[Holds out the letter to him. APELLES takes it, glances at it;
the letter trembles in his hand.]
APELLES (cries out).
Gone with Septimius!
PAUSANIAS (nods). Gone.
LONGINUS. Speak, what has happened?
APELLES. Monster, do you rejoice?—She's left me, basely
Deserted! Faithless!—
(With quivering voice.)
'Tis my life that's gone,
My fortune, ecstacy.—My light, my muse—
Her weeping was a song, her laugh a rapture;
Her soul so gentle, and her heart so formed
For every virtue—save for strength and truth.
Then let her go! (With a gesture.)
Away from out this breast—
With her my throbbing heart, and blood and life!
[Throws himself on a couch; buries his face.—After a pause
LONGINUS goes to him and silently lays a hand on his shoulder. APELLES
slowly lifts his head; gazes on PAUSANIAS, who is standing motionless.]
APELLES. And does your stony eye demand, pale spirit,
Whether this wounded bosom still desires
To breathe forever and behold the day?—
Yes; I defy your question. Do not think
I hesitate or tremble. In your teeth
I summon life again; I seize it fast,
And like Antaeus thrown on Mother Earth
I raise myself the stronger from her breast.
Yes, I will strive, will work, with sweat on brow
And victory in heart, a man's true worth
And life's true worth forever to declare!
LONGINUS (listening in wonder).
Well said; but whom conjure you? Why appeal
So solemnly to the doctor here—
APELLES (controls himself, smiling). My spirit
Has erred, it seems. Horror and grief. ... I wake now.
(To PAUSANIAS.)
What did you say? For this price I retain
My mother there within. Good, be it so.
Be that my comfort!—Come, philosopher,
Let's to my mother.
PAUSANIAS (as the two depart, with muffled voice).
We shall meet again.
ACT III
[As the dramatic movement of this act is very slow in starting, a large
cut, including the first four scenes, has here been made. We learn from a letter
that Phoebe died young, repentant of her sins, in the consolation of the
Christian religion. Apelles has devoted himself to his art and to his mother,
though he did not fulfil her wish that he should marry the daughter of Chryse.
Some years after Bolana's peaceful death, Apelles became strangely drawn to a
maiden named Persida, in whom he seemed to find the glorified spirit of Phoebe.
Finally he married her, and at the time of Act III their daughter Tryphena is
old enough to love and be loved by Jamblicus, the noble-spirited son of
Longinus.
But Persida and her daughter have become Christians, and Persida's brother
Herennianus, a bigoted elder of the new sect, discovers Tryphena's attachment to
the "heathen" Jamblicus and resolves to break it at all costs. Apelles, despite
the request of his zealous wife, remains faithful to the older religion, but his
"goddesses, Art and Wisdom," have permitted him to build a temple to the God of
the Christians. He is therefore tolerated by the community. But Herennianus
urges upon Persida that another heathen marriage will certainly be resented by
the mob, which is under the influence of Jarchai, formerly a persecutor but now
a fanatical leader of the Christians. When Persida asks, "What of Apelles?" her
brother reminds her of a vow made on a sick-bed to leave her husband and enter a
religious life. He assures her that this is the only way to atone for her sin of
living with a heathen and assures her that "The hand of God shall wipe away the
tears from out the eyes" of those who give up all for Him. Thus adjured, Persida
leaves her home for the house of her brother, who has already entrapped the
unwilling Tryphena.
In the course of these scenes we learn that Septimius has died. Apelles is
reconciled to Aurelius, now broken with age, who gives him the letter of Phoebe
already mentioned. Persida, played by the same actress who appeared as Phoebe
and Zoe, resembles the latter, but is more matronly and dignified. Timolaus
appears in his regular rôle of ironic commentator. Apelles is represented
as gray-haired but otherwise in full vigor. In the following scene we infer that
Longinus has just been asking Apelles to let his daughter marry Jamblicus, the
lover of her choice. Apelles has not learned that his wife and daughter have
been taken from him.—TRANSLATOR.]
SCENE V
The open square before APELLES' house as in the latter part of Act I;
but altered: at the back, where previously was the rising ground with the
palms, now stands a temple in the Grecian style; to the right, in place of the
olive hedge, is a Christian basilica of the oldest type, seen in profile.
Enter APELLES, LONGINUS and JAMBLICUS, from APELLES' house.
APELLES (in conversation).
What, you to doubt so of me—you, my friend?
LONGINUS. Only because I thought—
APELLES (to JAMBLICUS). Did Persida
Go out the door there?
JAMBLICUS. Yes, 'twas she.
APELLES (to LONGINUS again). You thought
Your friend Apelles had become a woman,
One who obeyed a master in his house!
A calculating coward—
LONGINUS (smiling). Nay, but listen—
APELLES. I'll hear no more. This is my word, my last:
Tryphena shall be his, if she desires it;
She could not find a better; him I wish.
And if the Christians came—
JAMBLICUS. As, take my word,
They surely will, to hinder you—
APELLES. What! me?
Is she not mine then?
LONGINUS. Listen. We are clear
Of self-deceit because we cherish wisdom;
Let us be wise, that we may keep our freedom.
He who makes too much noise will rouse the echo;
Quiet and busy is the better plan.
Are you resolved to give my son your child?
APELLES. By Zeus!
LONGINUS. Work softly then. We'll send them to
A guest-friend at Emesa; they shall wed there,
And he with money that he holds for us
Shall care for them. Here meanwhile will be storm,
Then wind, then quietude; for what is done
Must be endured; the honor of your name
Stands high here in Palmyra. And at last
The two return together—two?—perhaps
A third along with them.
APELLES (with a half-smile). How wise. For me
Too wise, man. How my heart swells, when I think
That basely I'm constrained to hide myself.
To save my child's right and her father's right—
That, too, within the city of my fathers,
Where once the Christian used to hide!—But time,
But time goes by, goes by.—And so the heart
Must wisely bow, nor make itself too great.
LONGINUS. So 'twould be better.
APELLES. Better.—Yes.
[Confused tumult behind the scenes, right.]
What's that
There in the Street of Pillars? Tumult—
LONGINUS. 'Tis
As if I heard the shrill voice of old Jarchai,
The wild fanatic.
JAMBLICUS (goes toward the rear).
Some one's fleeing hither—
Tryphena!
SCENE VI
Enter TRYPHENA.
TRYPHENA (rushing in).
Father, father, rescue me!
[Sinks at his feet.]
They follow—hark! They follow me to seize me.
You, you must not forsake me! To your knees
I cling and pray: oh father, save your child!
APELLES. Were I your father if I did not shield you?
Rise. Tell me what has happened.
TRYPHENA. They have sought
To force from me a vow—I must forever
Abjure the bridegroom of my heart, or else
In a far country, far from you must perish.
But rather will I die here at your feet
Than yield to him. O save me! When they threatened,
The voice of desperation cried out: Flee!
And forth I fled, through all the mob that stood
Outside I fled away and hasted hither,
And now I'm here with you.
APELLES. And in good care.
Stand up. (Raises her.) Who dares so foully to constrain
The daughter of Apelles?
[The tumult has come nearer.]
PERSIDA (behind the scenes). Spare her, spare her!
She is my child.
JARCHAI (behind the scenes). The Lord's child is she now,
And would defy him.
Enter JARCHAI and an excited throng, also PERSIDA and HERENNIANUS.
(NOTE.—JARCHAL, formerly the FIRST CITIZEN of Act I, is now
white-haired and supported by a stick, but is not enfeebled.)
JARCHAI. Look you, there she stands.
'Tis true! And there's the heathen she would wed,
Standing beside her. She defies the Lord.
Tear her away!
APELLES. What's that you scream, old man?
'Tis I stand here, her father.
JARCHAI. Heathen too!
You have no word in this affair, for she's
A Christian. Let her go. Herennianus,
Why are you still? Speak out!
HERENNIANUS. You hear, Apelles.
The word of God has spoken by his mouth.
Tryphena would defy the sacred law.
Give her to me, the shepherd; and submit.
APELLES (interrupting).
I? Has the child no father then, or mother?—
There stands her mother Persida. Let her
Speak the right word for you; a Christian she.
HERENNI. Well, Persida, speak out!
PERSIDA (struggling within herself, aside). Oh God!
HERENNIANUS (more softly). You must.
The Lord expects you to obey His will,
Not that of men. Speak out!
JARCHAI (comes nearer). Proceed, proceed!
PERSIDA (with trembling voice, which gradually grows steadier).
Come here, Tryphena. Yield unto the Lord
And them who are His servants. And perform
That which His wrath commands you.
APELLES (after a blank pause, with difficulty). Persida!—
I did not hear aright.
HERENNIANUS. You did. She spoke
Just as she should.
JARCHAI. In her the Lord has spoken.
Do you come here, Tryphena!
[The crowd grows gradually from right and left. APELLES'
slaves have been coming one by one from the house.]
APELLES. Persida!
Do you then list to me. This child, who trembles
Here in my arms—whom you forsake and give
An offering to your God of Wrath—this life
And blood of mine I'll hold
(With a grim look toward JARCHAI.)
despite yon jackal
And all the Jarchais of this crazy earth.
You I renounce, if you do me renounce;
You must from out my bosom, if the Jarchais
Command within your breast. Come here to me
Away from him, or else let love and faith,
Duty and happiness leave me with this breath.
HERENNI. What would you? Why so sorely do you threaten,
And solemnly—you see how she is trembling?
She follows but God's will—
APELLES. Are you her mouth?
I spoke to Persida.—Give answer! Are you
Apelles' wife, Tryphena's mother, or
The slave of Jarchai's slaves? (Pause.) Tell me!
[PERSIDA, her hand on her heart, tries to speak, moves as if to go
to APELLES; HERENNIANUS takes a step forward and checks her with a
glance.]
JARCHAI. She's dumb!
The Lord has sealed her lips.—Give here Tryphena
To us!
APELLES. You jackal!
JARCHAI. Listen how the heathen
Refuses us the Lord's child. Down with him!
Tear her from out his arms there!
CROWD (in wild confusion). Give her up!
Give up Tryphena!
PERSIDA (weakly). Hold your hands!
[She sinks; HERENNIANUS holds her up in his arms. The crowd
presses toward APELLES; JAMBLICUS steps forward to shield him and
TRYPHENA.]
APELLES (motioning JAMBLICUS back). Give me
But a clear path.—Come on! I yet have might
To hurl the hate your barking rouses in me,
And let it crash like lightning to your heart.
Ye dogs without a master, that the simoon
From o'er the sand makes mad—for all that's holy
In you turns frenzy hot as desert winds—
Come on, shatter on me your hollow skulls,
So shall the craziness which drives you on
Float off as vapor!
[The crowd remains huddled some distance off, gives back a
little.]
JARCHAI (to the crowd). What! you'll leave to him
A Christian maid?—Tryphena, here to me!
Here to your people!
[TRYPHENA shrinks trembling into APELLES' arms.]
See, she will not come,
Defying the Lord's people.—Seize her, seize her!
HERENNI. Hold back there!
PERSIDA (sinking from his arms).
I am dying.
A CITIZEN (from the midst of the crowd).
Stone them! Stone them!
APELLES. Who cries out "stone them?" That man I will kill
With this bare hand.
[Rushes madly at the crowd. All flee toward the rear; only
PAUSANIAS remains. Dressed like the others, he has joined the crowd
unseen.—He gazes steadily and quietly at APELLES. APELLES,
recognizing him, in his first surprise goes a step back.]
APELLES. You spectre of the Pit,
Are you too here? Crow, do you scent the victim?
I am immortal, I am strong as you—
I am the Lord of Death. Then, fiend of hell,
Down on your knees.
[Seizes him violently and brings him down on one knee.]
I fear you? No, I fear
Nor Death, nor Life;—not even Life I fear.
Though Life a hundred times with rage and hate
Should come, with howling madness and with grief,
I would defy it, hold it, cling unto it,
(Enfolding in his arms TRYPHENA, who flees to him again.)
As I embrace this child.—And you, sworn foe,
I'd shake from me like dust.
(To the terrified crowd.)
Give place, or you
I'll hurl to death, but me you cannot slay.
Palmyra shall be yours; faith, hate and all.
Give me but room to go.
JARCHAI (timidly, as though stunned). He's talking wildly.
PERSIDA (on the ground, sustained by several citizens).
They're going.—Saviour!
HERENNIANUS (near her, softly). Expiate your sin.
So saith the Lord: Be faithful unto death,
And I will give to thee a crown of life.
APELLES (to LONGINUS and JAMBLICUS).
Come friends, let's go. There's no one who can stay.
Within the land of Persia's king dwell men.
There's room enough on earth yet. Come,
Tryphena (after a glance at PERSIDA),
Now doubly mine, all mine!
[The timidly retreating crowd has made a wide lane for them.
APELLES, TRYPHENA, LONGINUS and JAMBLICUS exeunt, left.]
PERSIDA (as they go, aside). The hand of God
Shall wipe away the tears from out their eyes. ... (Suddenly
aloud.)
Apelles!—Help me!
[Closes her eyes.]
ACT IV
[In the opening scene Longinus and Apelles are discovered alone in the
mountains near Palmyra; Longinus very old and feeble, Apelles vigorous as ever.
We learn that all the other persons of the play, including Jamblicus and
Tryphena, have died; but that Nymphas, the stripling son of these two is now
dwelling with his two grandfathers. At the close Longinus says "We die and come
not back," to which Apelles answers that the Indian sages believe we have been
and shall be again. "Slowly ripens the soul of man, not in one life. To become
godlike it must pass through many and various forms."—TRANSLATOR.]
SCENE II
(As in Scene I)
Lonely mountain region near Palmyra. In the background, naked rock to which
leads a path; in the foreground on both sides, vegetation—wild fig-trees, a
shady chestnut, boulders with blossoming shrubbery. Left, near the chestnut tree
the remains of an old building, the part which is standing arranged as a hut,
the door of which opens upon the stage. Under the chestnut tree a bench of stone
and rough seats.
(APELLES continues his argument with LONGINUS.) NYMPHAS appears on the
rocky path; a charming youth, played by the impersonator of PERSIDA, like
her as well as like PHOEBE. He descends slowly.
APELLES (does not notice that LONGINUS is nodding, nor does he see
NYMPHAS. Speaks on, looking in front of him).
Why might it not be?—Sometimes I lie down and say to myself: Who
was that Zoe with the mysterious look? And Phoebe, and Persida—did Zoe's
spirit go on in them? And you Nymphas, my darling boy—have I ever known you
before?—Sometimes it comes to me that I have known you before.
NYMPHAS (stands for a while behind APELLES, then lays a hand on his
shoulder. Smiling exuberantly).
I was a sacred mongoose on the Nile, or again a priestess of Vesta
whom they buried alive; the historians haven't worked it all out yet.
APELLES (as if shaking off his thoughts, with an affectionate glance).
It's you!—Look, Longinus is asleep.
NYMPHAS (smiling).
But he will deny it.
(Softly at LONGINUS' ear.)
Grandfather Longinus! Are you asleep?
LONGINUS (awakes).
I? How should I sleep? I never sleep in daytime. (Aside.)
How much he is like Persida today. (Aloud.)
You were in Palmyra, Apelles told me.
NYMPHAS. Yes, this afternoon, while you—were waking. I was clever—more
than usually so—I found it out with circumspection. They already know in
Palmyra that we live here behind the mountains; an old beggar who one night
recently slept under this tree, had in the morning seen the "Master of Palmyra."
But they don't trouble themselves about us, they will not seek us out; those who
formerly were angry at you are old or dead. Besides, the Palmyrans have now
other things in their hearts.
LONGINUS. H'm!—What are they doing?
NYMPHAS. Quarreling and disputing—
LONGINUS. I believe it; they are human. What are they quarreling about?
NYMPHAS (with spirit).
About the man who is now turning the world upside down, about the
great Emperor Julian. Some curse him—I heard it in the open market
place—because he has fallen off from the faith of his uncle, the Christian
Constantine, they call him the Renegade, the Apostate; the others proclaim to
the people how wise and good he is, and prophesy a rebirth of the old times. If
he overcomes the Persians whom he is now fighting, he will come as conqueror to
Palmyra and here too cast down the spite of the Christians before him. And the
fallen grandeur of the old Roman Empire will arise again.
LONGINUS (sadly smiling).
You think so?—It lies dead, will never rise again. When an
elephant is sunk in a swamp, only elephants can help him. Such a giant will not
come. Those times are past.
[A shepherd blows his pipe.]
APELLES. Let us leave time alone. To live timeless, as we do, is happiness for
man.—'Tis well with me in the evening stillness. Of strife and misfortune
we've had enough; long, restless wandering through the countries of men. Here
sorrow does not croak at us, and our desires sleep. Wild Palmyra, the city of
our fathers, so near and so far; the silent ocean of the desert beneath our
feet; (looks up) and above us the ever steadfast citadel of peace, the dome
wrought by the world's Master-Builder, of unfathomable blue—till those
silver mysteries, the flames of night, break through it. O solitude sublime!
only thou canst enkindle in us sublime thoughts, the inextinguishable fire of
the soul upon the summits of life.
LONGINUS (nods).
On the poison-tree of life grow two good fruits: wisdom and
friendship.
[Takes APELLES' hand and presses it.]
NYMPHAS (has been looking away).
No others, you think.
LONGINUS (weary again).
Poisonous ones enough.
NYMPHAS. I know. Young as I am, I've had much experience. But the gods,
methinks, gave us the world that we should make it better.
LONGINUS. H'm! [Doses off.]
NYMPHAS (smiling).
He sleeps.
APELLES (likewise smiling). Your youthful wisdom must have sung
Him e'en asleep.—Yet, child, I feel in you,
From glance and word, from every token of
Your wingèd life: the world's awake in you,
You're drawn to it.—My young philosopher,
My early ripened scholar, do you feel
Too lonely, live too old here with the old?—
Yet for a time, my child, be patient here.
Then will we break our camp, and wander off,
Since it must be so, back into the world,
Which you would fain make better.
(Laying both hands on his shoulders.)
But believe me,
It soon will disappoint you. You, so honest
And good and noble, and so clever too,
Will see into its heart. In there, a wheel
With brightly-colored spokes is turning round;
For all things change and then come back again,
And all the souls of men are bits of glass
Of various hues, through which the single Spirit
Of Life—or call Him as you will—doth shine.
He stands invisible behind each soul,
As its true self, and lives in us His life.
NYMPHAS. But we who do not see Him, we should seek
Him out amid these others of our kind
And love Him in the best of them.
APELLES. Ay, love!
You're young, and delicate, and tender-hearted;
You will love women also. Ah, good Nymphas,
Believe me, women are no goddesses;
And none, I fear, will make you wholly happy.
For they that love, can never fascinate;
And they that fascinate, love more the magic
By which they charm, than you.—But let's not speak
Of that which was and is no more.—You now
Are wife and child and all.
NYMPHAS. And you to me
The dearest upon earth.
APELLES. Am I, in sooth?
Then tell me what is wrong, confess it freely.
For days, for weeks you've shown a strange unrest.
You hasten to Palmyra, finding still
Excuse to go there, and when you come back,
You're deeply moved, you dream.—A girl?
NYMPHAS. No, no.
APELLES. You're sure?
NYMPHAS. Do I ever lie?
APELLES. What then?—I found
You yesterday behind a rock, you brandished
The ancient sword which had so long lain buried
In this inclosure, and you fought, cheeks glowing,
As with an unseen enemy. Pray what
Made you so warlike? If it was this brawl
Below there—
SCENE III
PAUSANIAS comes down the rock path, in Greek costume, with full beard, a
gilded lyre hung over his shoulder. (It has grown dark, after a time it
becomes bright moonlight.)
APELLES (casually glancing out).
Who is that? the shepherd boy?
NYMPHAS. A stranger.
APELLES (surprised).
What should bring him here to this
Retired corner?—Ask him what he wants.
[NYMPHAS goes a few steps toward PAUSANIAS. LONGINUS awakes,
looks around in wonder.]
APELLES. 'Tis night, Longinus. But the moon will come;
'Twas full moon yesterday.
LONGINUS (considering). True, yesterday.
NYMPHAS (to PAUSANIAS).
Greetings to you. What brings you here?
PAUSANIAS. My wanderings.
I come from the Euphrates?
NYMPHAS. From the Euphrates?
Why come you then to us?
LONGINUS (pointing backward). There lies the west—
Damascus, not the Euphrates.
PAUSANIAS. I have strayed,
I'm for Palmyra—but am very weary.
Pray, if the stranger here is not unwelcome
Grant me a little rest.
LONGINUS. The tired wanderer
Is never sent away. Sit down.
NYMPHAS. And drink.
PAUSANIAS (declining).
Thank you, I've drunk already.
NYMPHAS. Where?
PAUSANIAS. I struck
Upon a caravan of more than fifty
Camels, which journey to the north, toward Sura.
They listened to the music of my lyre,
Praised and refreshed me, then I went my ways.
[Lays aside the lyre. They sit beneath the chestnut tree; only
APELLES stands aside, sunk in thought, afterward surveying the moon,
which—invisible from the front, right—begins to shine.]
LONGINUS (wondering).
You are a traveling singer?
PAUSANIAS. Yes.
LONGINUS. And wander
Across this desert?
PAUSANIAS. To the sea—my home.
NYMPHAS. You are a Greek?
PAUSANIAS. I am. My name—Pausanias.
NYMPHAS. Pausanias! A good name for a singer:
The Care-Releaser.
PAUSANIAS (gazing fixedly at the countenance of NYMPHAS).
Yes, men call me too
The Care-Releaser.
NYMPHAS. Pray, if you are not
Too sorely tired, tell me one thing more.
You're from the Euphrates; did you learn there aught
About the Emperor Julian and his army?
PAUSANIAS. I saw the Emperor.
NYMPHAS (rises in surprise). You?
PAUSANIAS (smiles). Why should I not?—
I crossed his line of march. The gods had then
Smitten him sorely: the great general,
Victor in west and east, such that the flatterers
Were likening him to Hercules and Bacchus,
Who conquered west and east—he on the Tigris
Within his foes' chief city Ktesiphon,
Had to return. A treacherous deserter
Induced him as he went to cross the waste,
Where sand and heat and thirst and Persian arrows
Consumed his army, till the victory-march
Became a wild retreat. But in this need
He showed himself a hero. Full of patience,
Wise, disciplined and brave. I felt his power
On seeing him. He sat before his tent,
Generals and soldiers near; his face was pale
With a great sickness that had come upon him,
Yellow and lean he looked, his temples gray;
But in his eye dark fire, his glance was lofty,
As if the Persians lay beneath his feet.
He sat as on his throne there, and his voice,
Though weak, yet rang as with a trumpet's tone
Through the clear desert air. "And when we get
To Syria," he said, so that I heard it,
"Then will we turn the wheel. The goddess Fortune,
The goddess of old Rome once more shall rise,
And the gods' enemies shall bite the dust!"
NYMPHAS (who has sat listening to the account with lively changing gestures,
springs up involuntarily).
Lay on! lay on!
LONGINUS (starts). How now?
APELLES (has been looking away, glances around with interest). What is it,
Nymphas?
NYMPHAS (composes himself, tries to smile).
Forgive.—'Twas but an impulse in my body
Went to my tongue.—You see me now again
Your philosophic pupil. (To PAUSANIAS.) Tell me how
You left the Emperor.
PAUSANIAS. On yester evening—
That was the latest—when his eye beheld me,
He had me called to play and sing for him.
I did—it pleased him.
NYMPHAS. What, the Emperor!
To think this lyre has sounded before him!
PAUSANIAS. Yes, e'en before great Julian.
NYMPHAS. And may I
Look at the lyre?
[Takes it and runs over the strings.]
I pray you play for me
That very tune.
PAUSANIAS. Surely. It was a song
Of your Adonis, in the Grecian style:
How from the upper to the under world
Adonis changes, by the gods' decree.
NYMPHAS. I sing that too.
PAUSANIAS. Then sing, and I will play.
NYMPHAS (after a short prelude by PAUSANIAS, sings).
So decrees all-powerful Zeus: thou must now,
Deep beneath the blossoming earth descending,
Kiss the lips of shadowy Persephoneia,
Lovely Adonis.
APELLES (listens a while indifferently, delighting in the voice of NYMPHAS;
then becomes astonished, excited. Aside).
What sort of harp-playing is that? So plays
But one that ever I heard.
NYMPHAS (begins the second stanza).
When once more in springtime the brooks are babbling—
APELLES (has sprung up, steps in front of NYMPHAS).
Stop! You are—
I know you now!
[LONGINUS and NYMPHAS look up in wonder; PAUSANIAS does
not move.]
PAUSANIAS. Who am I?
APELLES. Stop, you monster!
Let not your name be named, by you or me!
And for this lyre—accursèd be its tone!—
Take it and go!
PAUSANIAS. You err—
APELLES. Away!
PAUSANIAS (stands up). I go then.
You err though; you have never seen me. Why
Blame you the lyre? It is not different
From others; look at it. And if its sound
Was pleasing to yon youth—[NYMPHAS nods.]
APELLES (looks at it, with horror). Away with you!
(As NYMPHAS looks at him surprised and questioningly, he
tries to compose himself. More quietly.)
Leave him and us; go forward to Palmyra—
And come not back!
PAUSANIAS. So be it; to Palmyra.—
You have mistaken me—
(After a gesture of APELLES.)
Nay, I'll be silent.
The moon shines bright. Farewell.
[Exit right, front. APELLES looks after him till he has
disappeared. NYMPHAS regards APELLES in silence; at last timidly lays a
hand on his arm.]
NYMPHAS. What is it, father
Apelles?
APELLES. Hush. (Aside.) At last he's gone.
LONGINUS. You said
You recognized this man!
APELLES. I saw him once.
Perhaps I'm wrong though. Leave it as it is.
I would his way may lead him to Palmyra.
'Tis late, Longinus, and your hour is come.
I'll lead you to the house.
LONGINUS (leans on APELLES, to depart).
He played right well,
I thought—
APELLES (starts). No more! Let's go.
LONGINUS (smiles good-naturedly). Eh, so imperious.—
You'll follow, Nymphas?
NYMPHAS (awaking from his thoughts).
Soon.—The night is fair,
My soul yet sleepless.
APELLES (overcome by his attitude). Nymphas!
NYMPHAS. Did you call?
APELLES (composes himself; quietly).
No. It can wait.
LONGINUS (at the hut). Sleep well.
NYMPHAS. Sleep well.
[LONGINUS and APELLES exeunt into the hut.]
SCENE IV
SABBAEUS, young and beardless, girt with a sword, comes warily reconnoitering,
from right. He steps behind a boulder which conceals him from the hut.
NYMPHAS. He grieved
Tahe stranger.—Should one grieve one's fellow-mortals?
Is not their right compassion?
[SABBAEUS advances warily.]
Who goes there?
Sabbaeus!
SABBAEUS (softly and quickly).
It is I, come here to fetch you.
Tonight it must be done.
NYMPHAS (in sudden exultant joy). Tonight!—O Zeus!
SABBAEUS. The friends assemble in the shrine of Fortune,
In secret, armed. A fire will then be lighted
Beside the Street of Tombs. When by its glare
The city shall be frighted and confused,
We'll break from hiding and perform our part,
Just as agreed.
NYMPHAS. 'Tis well.
SABBAEUS. So arm yourself
And come.
NYMPHAS (pointing behind a boulder).
There lies my sword.
[Goes thither.]
SABBAEUS (with a gesture toward the hut).
And he—Apelles?
NYMPHAS (halting).
Impossible. He never would consent.
SABBAEUS. 'Tis pity. In the "Master of Palmyra"
We'd have a leader all should reverence.
(Decisively, smiling.) Ah, well, if not with reverence, then with
fear.
NYMPHAS (terrified).
The door swings back.
SABBAEUS. Then I must go.—You'll follow.
[Flees hurriedly away, right.]
SCENE V
Enter APELLES from the hut. He gazes after the fleeing man with anxious
unrest.
APELLES. Nymphas!
NYMPHAS (with uncertain voice).
My father!
APELLES. Who was here? Who yonder
Descends the pass? The—Greek was't?
NYMPHAS. No.
APELLES. The singer?
Tell me, by all the gods.
NYMPHAS. I told you: No.
Why should he be so dreadful?
APELLES (with a breath of relief). Hush.—'Twas not he.—
Who then? Who spoke with you, at this late hour
And in this solitude?
NYMPHAS (hesitating). Oh, let me, pray,
Be silent.
APELLES (after a pause). Nymphas! Nymphas!
NYMPHAS (uneasily). Are you angry,
Father Apelles?
APELLES. Has it come to this?
The first concealment between you and me?
This bond of soul, more deep than any else,
Is't but a half-bond like the rest?
NYMPHAS. Oh father!
[Deeply moved, about to speak; refrains.]
APELLES. Aye, for you still are silent. Let me then
Divine your secret. In Palmyra quarrel
The Whites and Reds—or howsoe'er they call
The colors of the factions that contend.
And you, you quarrel too.
NYMPHAS (after a short hesitation). And need you speak
So scornfully about it, when we fight
For what is holy? When we fight to aid
The Emperor and help him to fulfill
All he would fain accomplish for the world?
APELLES. 'Tis so! It is so.—You!
NYMPHAS. And why not I?
Am not I too a scion of my people?—
You have divined it, so I'll not be silent;
Long this deceit has weighed upon my breast.
(Pleading.) Let me. I must go down now to Palmyra.
APELLES. Tonight?
NYMPHAS. Tonight.
APELLES. To slay the Emperor's foes?
NYMPHAS. We will slay none that do not seek to die.
Our enemies—and they are yours as well—
Are masters and they shall not be so more.
The Christian bishop governs in Palmyra;
The craven praetor serves him. Both we'll take
Tonight and banish them from out the land,
Proclaiming freedom and the ancient gods.
APELLES. Bishop and praetor—will they freely go?
NYMPHAS. The garrison have all gone off to Persia.
The crowd's divided, and the waverers
Will join the valiant victor.
APELLES. Why not wait
Till Julian comes, and let him bring for you
What you desire?
NYMPHAS. The Emperor is too mild
And cautious.
APELLES. Prudent.
NYMPHAS. And he waits, may be,
Until the people rise up of themselves:
Great is the Christians' power. But he'll approve
What we accomplish and will bless our work.
APELLES. He'll die, and then a Christian emperor
May rule again? Oh child, my child, would you
Turn back the wheel? Do you not hear the roar
O' the wind that drives it on?—If ye should win
Tonight for this one time, how will it end?
We too once freed the city of our fathers
And gave new rights to everyone, but then,
Since mortals will be mortals, all our work
Grew rotten, spoiled and useless like the old.
"To save the world!" My child, what is the world?
This man it stones today, tomorrow that.
Give up your dream and stay.
NYMPHAS. Forgive, I honor
Your word as 'twere the gods'; and yet I must
Go down, for I have sworn it. [Starts to go.]
APELLES. No! No! No!
I will not let you. (Steps before him.)
Nymphas, look on me!
Upon this earth I've no one else but you,
None else, and you would go to your destruction.
To your destruction! The Adonis song
Rings in mine ear still, and the harp of Death—
(Breaking off.)
Oh stay with me, my child. A dread foreboding
Thrills in this fear-numbed bosom. You have been
My best, my sweetest, dearest, purest joy;
The sun which never sank for me. Your mother
Bequeathed you to me—and your mother's mother
Whom grief soon freed from life—her image, you,
On whom yet shines the golden light of day,
Of sun-bright gladness, perfect symmetry,
In whom there is no blemish. Ah, my Nymphas,
Why do I praise you? With clear eyes you see
All that you are to me. And now your spirit,
Nobly exalted on the wings of youth,
Flies from me toward the terrible abyss.—
No, I'll not bear it! I will live with you
And die with you, but not weep over you.
NYMPHAS (sinks on his breast).
O my dear father, and my god on earth!—
But let me, let me go. I must depart.
'Tis honor that commands me, and the gods.
APELLES (holds him fast).
One only calls you: Death.
NYMPHAS. But I have sworn;
Shall I be perjured?
[A fiery glow, gradually increasing, falls on the stage from
right.]
Oh ye gods, alas!
Already shines the signal through the night.
I must, I must. Farewell.
[Tears himself free.]
APELLES (wildly). Why then, ye call
Me too, ye gods—me too along with Nymphas.—
I will not leave you. Come, then. Noble folly,
The father must go too; my child will I
Protect, and with him conquer or go down.
Apelles of Palmyra wields yet once
Again his sword for idols or for gods;
The fire calls; away!
NYMPHAS. You'll come then, father?
APELLES. My sword, my trusty sword!
[Flings open the door, enters. NYMPHAS hurries to the boulder
behind which lies his sword, takes it.]
LONGINUS (unseen, from the hut).
What's wrong?—Apelles!
APELLES (comes out again with his sword).
The glow increases, and our courage. Forward!
"Down with the enemies of the ancient gods!"
[Rushes off with NYMPHAS, right.]
LONGINUS (in the hut).
Apelles! Nymphas!
SCENE VI
LONGINUS (entering). What is wrong? Apelles
Gone without answering?—Not a sound?—Is that
A red glow in the sky, or is it only
In my old eyes?—Apelles! Man, where are you?
VOICE (behind the scenes, loud, mysterious).
Julian the Apostate is no more!
The Emperor is slain!
LONGINUS (listens confused, terrified).
Who calls?—The voice
Is like a spirit's.—So men say, that once
The voice of one unseen cried through the world:
"The great god Pan is dead." And all things listened.
VOICE (farther off, from the height).
Julian the Apostate is no more!
The Emperor is slain!
LONGINUS (trembles). 'Tis further off
And going toward Palmyra.—Yes, I heard it;
I did not dream.—Where are you?—Nymphas!—Would you
Leave an old man alone?
[Totters, supported on his staff, toward the right.]
Apelles! Nymphas!
[Exit right.]
SCENE VII
(The scene is changed without lowering the curtain)
The square before APELLES' house in Palmyra, as in Act III. Night, as
before; moonlight and the glow of the fire. The door of the temple at the rear
is open; the basilica seems to be burning.
Enter APELLES, NYMPHAS, SABBAEUS and a band of armed "young Palmyrans";
partly from the temple, partly from the pillared gate behind the basilica.
Trumpets resound on all sides, even during the change of scene.
APELLES (angrily).
Who was it threw the brand into yon church?
Who dared set fire to it?
SABBAEUS. We do not know,
Worthy Apelles.
APELLES. That infuriates
The Christians, who gave way, to righteous wrath;
Alarms our friends and multiplies our foes.
[Fresh trumpet-calls.]
Listen!—I knew it well: you undervalued
The praetor and his forces.
SABBAEUS. He escaped us.
VOICE (behind the scene).
Julian the Apostate is no more!
The Emperor is slain!
APELLES (alarmed). Who calls!
[All stand amazed.]
NYMPHAS. The Emperor dead?
SABBAEUS. Was that a human voice?
AGRIPPA (behind the scene). Hark, citizens!
The Emperor has fallen. Hark, the last
O' the heathen emperors dead! Then charge! for God
And all His host are with us.
SCENE VIII
AGRIPPA (the son of JARCHAI, a citizen, in armor) and a troop of armed
citizens enter through the gate, right. Fresh trumpet-calls, right and left.
AGRIPPA. There they stand;
See, but a handful.—Ye incendiaries,
Church-robbers! I, Agrippa, son of Jarchai,
Demand of you in God's name to surrender.
APELLES. What, we surrender?—Nymphas, stand near me,—
Our goal is to be free, not to surrender.
[Motioning with his sword for his band to attack.]
Down with the enemies of the ancient gods!
VOICE (as before).
Julian the Apostate is no more!
The Emperor is dead!
[The Palmyrans who are pressing forward with APELLES halt as
the voice rings out; then shrink slowly back in timid hesitation.]
AGRIPPA (to his band). You hear it! God
Foretells our victory by his messenger.
See, fear has turned the miscreants to stone.
NYMPHAS (overcoming his dread).
My brothers, why shrink back there? You who came
To fight with gods and mortals, if need were,
Does a mere voice affright you? Listen how
The martial trumpets shout encouragement,
Freedom and victory!
[Advances; tears himself free from APELLES, who involuntarily
tries to hold him back.]
Let go!—On guard,
Agrippa, son of Jarchai. [Wounds him.]
AGRIPPA (staggers, but recovers). I'll repay that
Before I fall, though.
[Wounds NYMPHAS; falls. NYMPHAS sinks on one knee, lays a
hand on his breast.]
APELLES (shrieks). Nymphas!
AGRIPPA (on the ground). Strike them down!
God is with us. [Trumpets from left.]
Those are our people—hear ye?—
Send them to seek their emperor!
[The band of AGRIPPA attacks and drives off that of
APELLES—with them SABBAEUS.—toward the left; from without
continuous tumult and clang of weapons. For some moments only AGRIPPA, NYMPHAS
and APELLES are on the stage. APELLES kneels by NYMPHAS,
supporting him.]
APELLES. Child! you're bleeding—
But surely you'll not die.
NYMPHAS. Yes, I am dying.
Don't leave me.
APELLES (in wild despair). I'll prevent it. I have willed:
You shall not die! So young, so good.—Ye gods!
You must not, must not.
NYMPHAS. I will try to live.
[Raises himself slowly. A party of the victors has come back from
left, they press toward APELLES.]
AGRIPPA (on the ground).
Victory to you! Strike him down!
APELLES (kills one of his assailants, the others shrink back).
Begone!—
Stand up, stand up, my child.
NYMPHAS (sinks back on his knee). I cannot, father.
Farewell.
APELLES. Then I'll die after you. I curse
This life that never ends!—Oh Death, where art thou?
Show me thy countenance! If thou slayest him,
Slay me along with him!—Come on, all ye;
[Throws away his sword.]
I offer to you this unarmored breast.
Come on, and strike!
[Some brandish their swords at him, but without hitting him;
then, with the others, they shrink timidly back from him.]
AGRIPPA. Can you not hit him? Are
Ye then bewitched, unmanned?
APELLES. Stay here, and kill!
Ye butchers, swing the axe,
[He goes toward them; they retire.]
I am accurst,
And none has power to kill me.—Nymphas! Nymphas!
[Goes to him again and sinks on one knee beside him.]
NYMPHAS. 'Tis you!
APELLES. What would you?
NYMPHAS (points backward). Take me to the temple
To die before my goddess—
APELLES. Come! I'll bear you;
This one time more, my child.—And you, my temple,
Take here your latest victim! Be accurst,
That none more falls to you, when this is offered!
NYMPHAS (in his arms).
Good-night, my father!
[APELLES bears him into the open temple, flings shut the door
behind him. From left and right troops of the conquering citizens throng on the
stage. Far and near trumpet-calls.]
AGRIPPA (to the citizens who would help him up).
I must perish here.
Throw fire into the temple! Burn it down!
ACT V
Square in Palmyra, as in Act III; but now a place of ruins. Before APELLES'
house stand but a few walls, of the temple only a row of pillars and several
cross-beams, the rest is debris, broken columns and mighty blocks in and before
the temple piled one upon another; grass and flowers grow between the stones.
The basilica stands open, without doors; it is also partly destroyed and burnt
out.
SCENE I
SABBAEUS (middle-aged, bearded) MAEONIUS and four young Palmyrans (other
than those of Act IV) sit about, on blocks of stone and pieces of columns;
some have garlands lying near them or hanging on their arms.
MAEONIUS (stands up).
Would you repose yet longer? I am weary
With sitting still here. Let us go.
SABBAEUS. As restless
As any hungry jackal!—Wait awhile.
MAEONIUS (smiling).
Lazy as full-gorged snakes!
SABBAEUS. Well, let us then
Lie here like snakes; the serpent and the lizard
Thrive well here—wherefore not the sons of men?
We've come in time; for to the Vale of Tombs
'Tis but five hundred paces—
MAEONIUS. More.
SABBAEUS. No more.
This is a spot for dreaming. Gaily rustles
The grass, the crickets chirp; and all the old
Pillars and walls and fragments which the tooth
Of time has gnawed—it makes one think a bit.
And when at evening from the garden there
The boys are chanting—(To one of the boys.)
Sing a song, Seleucus.
Sing us the Grecian ditty of Adonis,
Whose feast it is today. We thus perform
The rites with honor, and Maeonius grants
A further rest.
MAEONIUS. So be it. Then I'll stretch
Me out again.—Come, sing!
SELEUCUS (sings).
So decrees all-powerful Zeus: thou must now,
Deep beneath the blossoming earth descending,
Kiss the lips of shadowy Persephoneia,
Lovely Adonis.
SCENE II
APELLES appears in the background between the standing pillars; in neglected,
fantastic clothing, his gray hair disheveled, a staff in his hand. He remains
there listening, gloomy and dejected.
SELEUCUS (sings again).
When once more in springtime the brooks are babbling,
Thou shalt greet the sunlight, oh youth lamented,
And shalt kiss the golden-haired Aphrodite,
Lovely Adonis!
SABBAEUS. A pretty song; my favorite. [Notices APELLES.] (In an
undertone.) Look! Who's standing
There by the pillars? No contented man
I well believe. If such a one by night
Should meet me in the Vale of Tombs, by Zeus,
I'd think: he's coming from the burial-crypt
From lying in his coffin!
MAEONIUS (softly). He comes hither.
APELLES. Greetings to you. You sang a song which I—
Which I have heard long years since.
SABBAEUS. Of Adonis.
MAEONIUS (pointing to the singer).
Seleucus sang it.
SABBAEUS. 'Tis the festal day
Of the young god Adonis in Palmyra.
APELLES (thinks, nods).
It is the day.—And hence the garlands there.
MAEONIUS (confidentially).
And for another cause, old man. (Smiling.)
If you'll
Not tell the strict church-fathers of Palmyra:
They would look glum enough. They even want
To interdict the old gods' festivals.—
We go to deck the tombstones of our sires
Who for the sake of freedom and the gods
Fell when the Emperor Julian died.
SABBAEUS. You are
A stranger, and will not have heard the tale.
APELLES. Nay, somewhat.
MAEONIUS. They all fell
(pointing to SABBAEUS), excepting him—
He got away; years later he came back,
When 'twas forgotten.
SABBAEUS (smiling contentedly). So I'm living still,
And think to do these many days.
APELLES (to MAEONIUS). You said
They all fell.
SABBAEUS. Yes. Although there was one more,
Him whom they called the Master of Palmyra;
I saw him only once,—'twas on that night.
He fought most furiously, and in yon temple
Was burned; but others said again: he lived.
He was seen afterward—as they affirmed—
Beside this temple, now no temple more.
First was the fire and then, a year ago,
An earthquake—twice it shattered the foundations—
No temple can stand that.—The Master though
Is said to wander restless; Jesus Christ
Has damned him to live on—or it may be
Some other Christian saint. Well, they should know.—
He too was there at least.
APELLES. You deck the graves
Of those who died, young men. And you?
MAEONIUS. And we?
APELLES. Do you still hope?
MAEONIUS. For what?
APELLES. For better times.
MAEONIUS (looks at him awhile in wonder).
And where, sir, should they be?
APELLES. Perhaps in you.
MAEONIUS. You must be joking. That's all done. We're down,
The Christians up.
SABBAEUS. And for the Roman Empire,
It fares just like the temple.—Crack!—'Twill hold
Together for awhile, but then 'twill fall.
Barbarian tribes are roaming up and down
Through all the world, they overcome our armies
And sack the provinces. Well, what's to do?
We bear it, though. We drift so with the times,
That he may have us who'll but let us live.
Small has Palmyra grown; but even now
One may live well therein. The wise man says:
Bend and submit, and so enjoy the hour.
APELLES (aside).
He lives and Nymphas died!
MAEONIUS. Yes, pluck the day
As saith the epitaph: "I was naught, am naught;
Do thou who livest, eat, drink, jest and follow!"
And men upon my grave, as on that Roman's,
Shall place my marble image, in my hand
The cup from which I drank, and write beneath it:
"Drink, friend, and live; whatever else may be
Fire and earth will swallow."—You, old man,
Are not so wise. Your aspect is not merry.
Where has your way led?
APELLES. Amid many nations,
And many countries; yea, belike through all.
I've been where in the zenith burns the sun
And where it journeys on the rim of heaven;
Where night was long as is the winter here,
Where muddy craters belched and icebergs floated.
And yet I never was as wise as ye.
Jest on and drink!
SABBAEUS. He dotes, or else he mocks us.
MAEONIUS (softly).
All is not right within his head, may be.
Leave him, and come. 'Tis late. (Aloud.)
We're going.
SABBAEUS. Yes, to
The Vale of Tombs. Dream you about your bergs
Of ice that float, about your mud volcanoes,
Farewell.
[They go, softly laughing with one another.]
MAEONIUS. Farewell.—Be merry again, old man.
Despite the years you still are strongly built,
And marvelous straight in carriage. Mark the saw:
"Eat, drink and jest, and follow!"
[Follows the others, who have already gone off, left, and now
begin singing, gradually going farther away.]
SELEUCUS (singing, solo).
Rose that glowest like Aphrodite's purple robe—
ALL (chorus). Short is your pride.
SELEUCUS. Pillar, holding aloft the shrine of Father Zeus—
ALL. You may not bide.
SELEUCUS. Twin glad eyes, look out on the world, enjoy your fill—
ALL. While lids are wide.
SELEUCUS. For ere long will close you a cold but mighty hand—
By none denied.
APELLES (has listened in silence). "By none denied."
Ye happy people! To be glad and die.—
My life upon its heels is treading, as
Night upon day and winter upon autumn;
'Tis an eternal winter camped upon
The cold and snowy mortcloth of dead summer.
(Looking around.)
Ah home, ah Vale of Tombs around me here!
Like to the souls of the departed, when
Their bodies are unburied, which, men say,
Roam round the dwellings of the dead, so I,
A living dead man, haunt this field of corpses,
Bearing my slain but yet unburied life.
From the remotest wanderings I come back,
As though the spirit named Repose had called me,
Here to the home of grief.—Ye walls yet stand,
Last remnants of my house. There rang the door
Unwillingly when Phoebe fled from me
And took my spring with her.—Before you there, (Turning
toward the basilica.)
Much lauded work of mine, lay in the dust
The glory of my summer, Persida,
Who madly gave herself unto a heaven
That banished me.—And you my temple yonder,
House of my goddess, Fortune called, but curses
I called upon her last. For on her threshold
My gentle Nymphas breathed away his soul;
My late, my purest joy, my evening star,
Hope, comfort, all!—And yet I cannot die.
Longinus died—not I. The weary perish,
The weeping and the laughing—generations
And people perish—temples fall to earth—
Not I, not I! Like to the moon and stars
My life rolls on, for high in heaven stands
"Forever" written, flaming through the night
In which I restless wander.—Death, I call thee!
If ere the cry of mortals—but alas!
I am not mortal—if the fervent voice
Of a lost wanderer, weary with his crying,
May reach thine ear, thou ferryman of the dead,
Then come, I would go down!
SCENE III
PAUSANIAS comes out from the remains of APELLES' house, as in Act IV, but
without the lyre.
PAUSANIAS. You see, I hear you.
Am I now welcome, and will those twin friends
Of yours, Pleasure and Work, no longer drive
Me forth from you?
APELLES. I would go down. Away
Are pride and scorn; I'm weary unto death.
Pleasure! I have drunk pleasure to the lees.
And now my only toil is, to live on.
Ye stalwart limbs, accurst be ye! For dry
Is all the joy and impulse of existence.
Dead are my days, I wander over tombs.
He only truly lives who lives in others,—
Who grows in them, in them renews himself;
When that is over, then, oh earth, be opened,
Send a new race of mortals to the light,
And us devour, who only seem to live!
(To PAUSANIAS.)
Lead me away! And if the sign of life
Is graven on this forehead,
(Strikes his brow with clenched fist.)
be it shattered;
I am a man, I have the right of death,
And like all other mortals I would perish.
[Throws himself on the ground.]
PAUSANIAS. Though you would die, I have not power to slay you.
Here lay the Christian, and the spirit's voice
Passed judgment on you by her lips: "Thou shalt
Forever wake without the sleep of death!"
At length you call me? How you scorned me erst,
The "spirit of hell," the "monster!" Do you know
Me better? Quite so monstrous am I not.
I'm the Consoler too, the "Care-Releaser,"
Who lays the weary head upon the pillow
And heals the pain that knows no other sleep.
And who stands pledge, that I shall be the last
Of all the slumbers? that this hand does not
Slowly and softly—or with grating harshness—
Ope but the door that leads into the light?
To otherwhere? To—who can tell?
APELLES. No matter.
Be who you may. 'Tis you I want, 'tis Death.
PAUSANIAS (shakes his head).
I have no part in you.
APELLES. What's life to me?
How shall I live?
PAUSANIAS. In patience.
APELLES. That I cannot.
Patience is dead, with all in me that's dead.
Only remembrance lives within my soul,
A poison, deeply wounding, but not killing.
Give me oblivion!
PAUSANIAS. 'Tis at my disposal,
But for my chosen ones. The living only
Can give it to the living.—Look you there:
Toward yonder church you built so long ago,
Which, with the temple, earth and fire demolished,
So that the sky looks in upon the floor
You ornamented with your bright mosaics.—
Behold!
APELLES. I do but see a woman there,
Led by a boy.
PAUSANIAS. Do you but look.
APELLES. She seems
Still young, her cheek is pale though, and a mantle
Enfolding, half conceals her countenance.
Her serious air accords with melancholy,
Yet 'tis not sad—(Suddenly.) Ye gods!
PAUSANIAS. Well, what's amiss?
APELLES. That is the Christian! Zoe!
PAUSANIAS (smiling). How you're dreaming!
The dead return not.—It may be, in eye,
In hair, in this or that the two are like.
Look closer.
APELLES. 'Tis not Zoe. Her I saw
Uncounted years since.
(Pointing to his forehead.)
Vaguely glimmers yet
Her likeness here;—but suddenly methought
She walked again and looked into my face,
(Shivering.)
With that mysterious glance.—She looks away;
Yon other.—Noble is her form. Yet walks she
Slowly, with effort.
PAUSANIAS. She has lost her strength.
The time the earthquake tumbled down that roof,
It buried her, her child and husband. Them
They found both killed; her, covered with the wreck,
But by a wonder she awoke to life,
And folk believe it as a wonder still.
They also think the grace of God bestowed
On her oblivion: for none has heard her
Lament for those she lost.
APELLES. Oblivion!—
Ye gods!
PAUSANIAS. Behold her still.
APELLES. Around her stand
Women and children; men are coming, too.—
She talks with each, kindly and charmingly;—
She smiles as well. A youthful smile, it seems;
(In dreamy wonder.)
As from the days gone by; for wondrously
It minds me of—
PAUSANIAS. Let rest the days gone by.
She talks with all, because she fain would help;
These people here, who look on her as holy
And blest of God, are begging her for counsel,
Assistance, comfort, even miracles.—
Why do you start?
APELLES. She comes, and looks again
With that mysterious look; the very glance
With which she wrote on me the curse of living.
PAUSANIAS. Hush! Stand aside!
SCENE IV
ZENOBIA enters. She is young and pale, in a dark dress, her head covered, in
which she resembles ZOE. (The part is played by the same actress.) With
her a BOY on whom she leans; behind her an OLD MAN, several women and
children (all out of the basilica).
ZENOBIA (to the women). Now go. I thank you, thank you
E'en for your thanks; he who would thank yet more,
Let him give praise to God—where it belongs.
[One of the women tries to kiss ZENOBIA's dress; she prevents
her.]
Let go my dress! Would you again degrade
Yourself so far by making me august!
I'll know you, then, no more.
[The woman shrinks away in embarrassment with her child.
ZENOBIA with a friendly smile calls her back.]
A word still.—Let
Me kiss your child again.
[The child runs to her; she kisses it. Then to the mother.]
Love it with patience,
And 'twill have sunshine.—Go!
[Exeunt mother and child, after the others, who have gone out,
left. Only the OLD MAN remains.]
What would you more?
I told you freely I was no enchantress.
I cannot lengthen life—and will not either.
If you so closely cling to life, old man,
Go to the doctor and beseech his aid.
[OLD MAN moves off painfully, propped on a stick, coughing.
ZENOBIA looks after him compassionately.]
So sick!—and loves it still, his wretched life!
[She sits on a stone in contemplation. Exit OLD MAN, left.]
APELLES (has watched ZENOBIA with increasing emotion; aside).
How many faces I behold in hers!
Ye changing aspects, that my life has seen
Blossom and wither, do ye flit across
You unknown countenance like the varied hues
That tinge the rainbow wrought of dewy light?
Approaches here the spirit, reincarnate,
Which, living on from one form to another,
Has stood so often in my path, as if
To say: while thou hast clung unchangeably
To this one form which calls itself Apelles,
And as an empty shade outlived thyself;
Through form to form I passed in zigzag fashion,
But still progressing onward to my goal?—
I will, I must entreat her.
ZENOBIA (has again looked toward the left; to the BOY).
Elabel!
The old man sits down yonder. Go and give him
A gold piece. Leave me then. I want to sit here
(Smiling.)
And to do nothing. Come back in an hour.
[Exit BOY, left. APELLES approaches.]
APELLES. Forgive my prayer. You—who, if not a saint,
Are good and tender-hearted—if you be
Another aspect of the soul which has
So wondrously companioned me; or if
The grace of God has granted you oblivion
Of what you erstwhile suffered: help me too
Unto this boon, this balsam of the gods,
The half at least of death; Oblivion!
ZENOBIA (regarding him long and with deep thought).
Who are you?—For I know you not. And yet—
In dreams I saw you. In a magic twilight,
A strange, mysterious dimness of the mind
I saw you;—not so gray—first young—then older,
And older yet. ... The dimness hovers round me,
A vision of the soul.—Wonderful stranger,
Do you not know me too? I'm called Zenobia.
APELLES. Not Zoe?—Phoebe?
ZENOBIA (looks at him wonderingly). No.—And yet they run,
These names you speak of, like to distant flashes
Of lightning through the darkness of my dream.
Then living shapes rise up, come near, and grow
Into my being and are I. And more,
I see into the future ... Now the mist!—
(Smiling.)
Forgive. I often dream so. Hence believe
The mocking doubters that I've lost my wits,
The pious often hail me as a saint.
But both are wrong. I have but yielded me
Unto the will of God, who sorely proves me,
But comforts too with awful, sweet presagings.
Meanwhile I would be kind and good to all men,
And so be ripening ever for the future,
Until the Spirit calls with: Follow me,
The day is dawning!
APELLES (shaken, after a long silence). Yes, I now recall.
Thou riddle full of wonder, that so often
Hast come across my path; thou lovely flame
Of manifold life! At last I comprehend
The holy Master's meaning, but—too late.
The vital spirit leaps from form to form;
Narrow is man's existence, one shape only
Mid thousands can it seize on and evolve,
Can hold but that; then let it strive not toward
The teeming ocean of eternity,
Which only God can fill!—If it endure,
In change it blooms, as thou, from form to form
Widening its narrow nature, clarifying
Till in pure light 'tis glorified. And we,
Perchance, may slowly ripen unto God.—
A beauteous dream!—But not for me. My curse
Is fixed. I wander forth upon my way.
Farewell, Zenobia.
[Goes slowly to the columns. The mysterious music of Act I sounds
again. ZENOBIA listens with awakening spirit.]
ZENOBIA (after a pause, with changed look and solemn voice).
Apelles!
APELLES (stands still). Call'st
Thou me by name?
ZENOBIA. 'Tis but by some foreknowledge.
And now mine eye is clear: upon thy forehead
I see engraved the sign that makes thee sleepless.
And a voice cries: Let now deliverance
Be his who, sorely tested, comprehends
The mystery of life, the lore of death.
Come near to me and try if I can cool
The brow which gloweth feverish hot with life
And yearneth for refreshment.
[He sinks before her; she lays a hand on his forehead.]
APELLES. O Zenobia!—
Ah yes, thy hand is cool. A gentle shock
Of coldness thrills through me from head to heart,—
A sweet cessation.—Ah, if thus my soul
Might fade across into the night of peace,
Never to wake!
ZENOBIA. Or to some other where.
SONG (of the young Palmyrans in the distance, subdued, in chorus).
So decrees all-powerful Zeus: thou must now,
Deep beneath the blossoming earth descending,
Kiss the lips of shadowy Persephoneia,
Lovely Adonis!
APELLES (as they sing).
That is the song.—They're coming back already.—
'Twas the last song of Nymphas ... My last, too?
Is't no illusion?—Darker grow the heavens.
No, 'tis within mine eyes here.
[His gaze becomes fixed.]
Like Adonis
Shall I return to daylight?
ZENOBIA. Thou shalt learn.
APELLES. So be it then.—O Mother Earth farewell!
I loved you much—for you to me were sweet—
Bloom now for others!—All ye living things,
Oh be ye glad, and blossom in the sun!
Apelles goes to rest.
[PAUSANIAS stands behind APELLES and quietly takes his
upraised hand.]
Another hand
Touches me; cold.—'Tis thou!—I give thee thanks.
[Dies.—The song continues through the other strophes,
approaching.]
(Curtain.)
Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!
Other Poems of Interest...
CALVUS IN RUINS by CHARLES MARTIN
RUINES OF ROME by JOACHIM DU BELLAY
WHERE A ROMAN VILLA STOOD, ABOVE FREIBURG' by MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE
AN EPISTLE TO CURIO by MARK AKENSIDE
THE OLD CAMP; WRITTEN IN A ROMAN FORTIFICATION IN BAVARIA by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN
CONQUERORS by CARL JOHN BOSTELMANN
ROMAN WOMEN by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN
HORACE: CHORUS AT THE END OF ACT 4 by PIERRE CORNEILLE
TO IMAGINATION (2) by EMILY JANE BRONTE