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SCENE.—A room on the northern bank of the Thames.
Enter CANUTE.
Canute. She dared not wait my coming, and shall look | |
| No more upon my face.—A vacancy, | |
| A blank! that scarf left trailing on the floor, | |
| A shred too of her robe,—I must have trampled, | |
| Have hurt her, as I thrust her off. A shred, | 5 |
| A tag, and is it thus that women suffer? | |
| We can inflict so little on such natures; | |
| We cannot make reprisals. Slavish tears | |
| For Edric, and,—O Hel!—a bloody gleam | |
| Across her eyes, when I proclaimed the rights | 10 |
| Of Edmund’s children. I am cut adrift, | |
| Far, far from the great, civilizing God,— | |
| Dull, speechless, unappraised. | |
| [A voice singing.] Is that a child | |
| At babble with his vespers?—Silver sweet! | 15 |
| It minds me of the holy brotherhood, | |
| Chanting adown the banks. As yesterday | |
| I see all clear, how as they moved they chanted, | |
| And made a mute procession in the stream. [Gazing abstractedly on the water.] | |
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| Merrily sang the monks of Ely, | 20 |
| As Canute the king passed by. | |
| Row to the shore, knights, said the king, | |
| And let us hear the Churchmen sing. | |
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| Still are they singing? It was Candlemas, | |
| My queen sat splendid at the prow and listened | 25 |
| With heaving breast. ’T was then the passion seized me | |
| To emulate, to let her know my ear | |
| Had common pleasure with her, and I thrilled | |
| The story out. The look she turned on me! | |
| The choir shall sing this music. I resolved | 30 |
| In the glory of the verse to civilize | |
| My blood, to sweeten it, to give it law, | |
| To curb my wild thoughts with the rein of metre. | |
| Row to the shore! So pleasantly it ran, | |
| A ripple on the wave. I grew ambitious | 35 |
| To be a scholar like King Alfred, gather | |
| Wise men about me, in myself possess | |
| A treasure, an enchantment. For an instant | |
| I looked round royally, and felt a king. | |
| The abbey-chant, the stream, the meadowland, | 40 |
| The willows glimmering in the sun;—a poet | |
| Wins things to come so close. A plash, a gurgle! | |
| There ’s a black memory for the river now; | |
| And hark! strange, solemn, Latin words that toll, | |
| And move on slowly to me … Up the stair. | 45 |
| Without the door. A wail, a litany! | |
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Enter Child singing.
Child. Miserere mei, Deus, secundam magnam misericordiam tuam; | |
| Et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam. | |
| Can. How perfectly he sings the music! Child, | |
| Who art thou with that voice, those dying cheeks? | 50 |
| Art thou an angel sent to wring my heart, | |
| Or is it mortal woe? Thine arms are full. | |
| Child. Green, country herbs, they say, will staunch a wound, | |
| And I have run about the fields and gathered | |
| Those I could catch up quickly:—for the blood | 55 |
| Was leaping all the while. But here is clary, | |
| The blessèd thistle, yarrow, sicklewort, | |
| And all-heal red as gore. I knew a wood | |
| So dark and cool, I crept for lily-leaves; | |
| Then it grew lonely, and I lost the way. | 60 |
| But, oh, you must not beat me; it is done. | |
| Father, I stabbed him, throw away the whip! | |
| Now God will scourge me. So I plucked the flowers, | |
| And sang for mercy in the holy words | |
| Priest Sampson taught me, Miserere! | 65 |
| Can. This | |
| Is Edric’s child, the little murderer, | |
| Who did my deed of treason. Edmund, turn | |
| Those trustful eyes from off me. | |
| Child. Take me back. | 70 |
| He will be dead … He fell, O father, fell, | |
| And when I put my cheek against his side, | |
| Gave a great pant. Let ’s pray for him together. | |
| Can you sing Miserere? For I did it, | |
| And then he looked … Once in the ivytod | 75 |
| I caught an owl, and hurt its wing. ’T was so | |
| He looked. Oh, quickly tell me where he lies— | |
| Next room? or down the passage? Do you know | |
| He was my uncle, and was kissing me, | |
| One, two, three, on my head. | 80 |
| Can. Cease! From these lips, | |
| White, childish penitents, how awful sounds | |
| The wild avowal of their treachery. | |
| Child, it was I who struck your uncle’s side, | |
| Who falsely kissed him; it was I who set | 85 |
| Your father on this wickedness; ’t was I | |
| Who drove your frantic innocence to work | |
| The sin of my conception. Can you learn | |
| That I alone am guilty, and God’s wrath | |
| Will visit me with judgment? | 90 |
| Child. Come along, | |
| And take me where he is. How can I go? | |
| I do not know the path or time of day. | |
| The leaves are fading. Can the blood flow long | |
| Before it kills? I saw it spirt and jump; | 95 |
| I could not see it now. I ran and ran… | |
| Perchance I stayed too long about the fields. | |
| ’T is dark; no trees and hedges. He is gone, | |
| And I am damned forever; the fresh herbs | |
| Could once have saved me. | 100 |
| Can. He is chill and fainting; | |
| Give me these hands. | |
| Child. I am not much afraid. | |
| Before I struck at him my skin was hot; | |
| Now dew is falling on me; it is cool. | 105 |
| Let me lie in your arms where I can look | |
| Up at the sky. There ’s some one … and he grows | |
| So kindly. Oh, he smiles down all the way, | |
| Quite golden in my eyes. | |
| Can. He sees the moon. | 110 |
| How pale and cold he ’s growing! All the flowers | |
| Are slipping down. I cannot bear his weight. | |
| ’T is condemnation. There is just a spot | |
| Here on his garment, one bright drop of blood, | |
| Sprinkling his spirit; he is saved; on him | 115 |
| It is the very mark of Christ; on me | |
| The blot that makes illegible my name | |
| I’ the book of life. | |
| Child. If I should fall asleep, | |
| It will not matter, for I could not see | 120 |
| The healing plants by night; besides, my eyes | |
| Will open wide at morning. I must hold | |
| The blessèd thistle in my hand, and pray; | |
| And God may so forgive me. Miserere! | |
| Can. The child is dying on my breast. He closes | 125 |
| His frightened eyes; the notes are on his lips, | |
| His arm still round my shoulder. | |
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| Sharply flows | |
| The Thames now he is dead; the rush, the hum, | |
| Are like a conscience haunting me without. | 130 |
| I cannot bear it. I will fling him forth | |
| To the engulfing river, and forget him. | |
| Rank, pagan impulse! I would learn the prayer, | |
| Recall the gracious song,—and stormy sagas | |
| Come hurtling through my brain. I am a stranger | 135 |
| To our sweet Saviour Christ; I cannot pray; | |
| I love the slaughter of my enemies, | |
| And to exact full vengeance. Little one, | |
| Thou shalt have fair, white cere-cloth, and a circlet | |
| Of purest gold. Now that I look on thee, | 140 |
| It grows soft in my heart as when they chanted | |
| Across the stream,—Canute the king passed by,— | |
| And listened. They shall sing about thy grave. [He bows himself over the child and weeps.] | |
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