King Lear's Wife; The Crier by Night; The Riding to Lithend; Midsummer-Eve - LightNovelsOnl.com
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LAODICE, _watching_ DANAe.
Make ready fragrantly and freshly Chamber for Sophron next to that of Smerdis.
Then send Smerdis with knives and drugs to me.
_DANAe opens her mouth as if to speak--the flames fall as she holds the bowl poised motionlessly._
BARSINE.
Sophron--none can find him; he has gone.
_DANAe lets the contents of the bowl slide into the brazier; a shaft of flame flares high, she averts her face._
LAODICE.
Ho, are we dropping roses all the time?
Men; bring me men and torches and sharp spears-- A boat to cut the Centaur's rudder-ropes-- I will go down and take him back.... Hui....
_She sweeps out followed by_ BARSINE.
DANAe.
O, Sophron, out by the land! Nay, he knows more-- And she, and she; watch-towers divide this earth, Horses go here; and he may save a s.h.i.+p.
_She draws aside the curtain to look beyond._ May women's skirts impede you, ravening queen.
_She ascends swiftly to the colonnade: a starry night shows her form dimly._ Fishers' small lights, be drenched--you show too much At height of settling gulls above the water....
Ah ... h, nothing, nothing. Something will not happen, And let this life go on again. Nothing.
Yet ... yet ... the air is beating on my temples As though a rabble murmured beyond hearing.
_RHODOGUNE enters._
RHODOGUNE.
Danae, are you here?
DANAe. I am here.
RHODOGUNE.
Where is the Queen?
DANAe. Nearing the sh.o.r.e by now.
RHODOGUNE.
I have a drunken woman with nine snakes That follow her as freshets a drowned body, Then lift wise sibilant heads in guardian swaying; Her lair could well be traced by emptied streets.
She is too drunk to speak, but sings the better A praise of poisonous snakes and the fools of wine, While in the night they circle and streak for answer Like wine-cups' lines of light, black rubies' gleams.
Shall I not bring her for the Queen to use, Who loves delights like dangers come too near?
DANAe.
Put her away in a safe place till morning-- The Queen is smouldering again to-night, And, if she sees your epileptic mummer, Will make us tie her up with her own serpents....
Babble no more to me--I must be watching.
RHODOGUNE.
You are not the Queen, although the Queen's plaything; Deign not your high commandments unto us.
_She goes out._
DANAe.
Sophron, your bare grand neck's a tawny pillar To lean a cheek against in burning noons; Your careless eyes look deeplier than you know; You must be kept in life.... Down there, down there Is something darker, swifter than the sea....
An unseen smoky glare is mirrored now....
That was his boat: he is gone.... Sophron, Sophron!
The sea is suddenly empty--and all places.
I have given him to mine enemies. She'll not kill him.
Now I must waken and repent my dreams: Ay, Sophron, get you gone--I am whole again; I am the Queen's--and O, farewell, farewell.
_She descends the stair slowly._
I am the Queen's indeed. Is she yet mine?
Ditizele--
_A VOICE, from within the cedar lattice._
Who is it calls me?
DANAe. Danae.
THE VOICE. Yes?
DANAe.
The queen has spoilt my rose--throw me a young one.
_A rosebud falls from the lattice: DANAe sets it in her hair._
Thanks, dear.... She has put up my hair awry-- It will remind her she put up my hair.
_She shakes down her hair and knots it again, holding the rose-stalk in her mouth until she can replace it._
These Asiatic nights ruin the hair, Their humid heat puts out its inner lights-- Mine waves with gleams no more than manes of Iran....
Now she has left the sh.o.r.e--now she will set Her feet upon the stairs like setting-of teeth....
_The child cries a little once: DANAe goes to it._
O, baby, the old silence of palaces Is settling on you steadily. Your crying Is shut within--and shall be farther enclosed.
One light small cry shows all so much too quiet.
_LAODICE, who has entered noiselessly and come close behind DANAe._
Ay, do you consort with mine enemies?
DANAe, _wailing._ Ah ... Ah ... I sickened with the secret thing, The too faint sound that crept about my neck.
LAODICE, _slipping an arm about her._ Nay, Rose-Locks, calm thy heart; I did but tease Thy mothering this lost child, kings' waif and surplus.
Rare nurses his: the next will be the last: Some treachery will ever draw toward him.
Rest you again upon the Persian couch, And I will sit with you and comfort you.
_Leading her to the divan._
