PSYCHOLOGIES

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

BOOKS OF VERSE

PHILOSOPHIES

THE SETTING SUN

FABLES

NEW NOVEL

REVELS OF ORSERA

PSYCHOLOGIES

BY RONALD ROSS

LONDON

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

1919

All Rights Reserved

NOTE

These five studies are parts of a series of which I hope to publish more examples at a later date.

The first two originally appeared in The Nation of September 27th and December 13th, 1913. The last piece contains passages from a drama called Edgar, published in Madras in 1883. The Marsh was intended to be a melodrama, but the music for it has not yet been developed.

My thanks are due to Mr. John Masefield and Mr. Cloudesley Brereton for helping me in the correction of the proofs.

The Author.

CONTENTS

PSYCHOLOGIES

OTHO

Otho.

Soldiers.

[After Otho had been partially defeated by Vitellius, his soldiers clamoured to be led again to battle. Otho refused in the manner shown here in brief.]

Soldiers.Once more to battle, Otho!

Otho. Soldiers.Once more to battle, Otho!No, not for Rome’s sake.

Soldiers.Cæsar, once more!

Otho. Soldiers.Cæsar, once more!Is Rome forgotten then?

Soldiers.To battle, Cæsar!

Big Soldier. Soldiers.To battle, Cæsar!Hear us, little Cæsar!

Bearded Soldier.Are we, then, dogs that Cæsar will not lead us?

Soldiers.Ah!

Bearded Soldier.Did we fly? Are we mercenaries?

Soldiers.Ah!

Young Soldier.Blood, blood, blood!

Big Soldier. Young Soldier.Blood, blood, blood!Listen, pretty one, listen!

Soldiers.Once more, Otho, once more!

Centurion. Soldiers.Once more, Otho, once more!You mongrels, peace!

Small Soldier.I smoke for battle, Cæsar. I’ll fail thee no more.

Soldiers.God Cæsar, lead us!

Young Soldier(beating his shield). Blood, blood,

blood, blood, blood!

Soldiers. To battle, Cæsar!

Bearded Soldier. Soldiers. To battle, Cæsar!Are we Egyptians?

Centurion. Bearded Soldier. Soldiers. To battle, Cæsar!Are we Egyptians?Peace!

Big Soldier.Hear, pretty one, hear!

Otho. Big Soldier.Hear, pretty one, hear!For this your love these thanks.

For your great hearts my heart. My blood for yours

As yours would flow for mine. This life for all,

And for my country.

Soldier. And for my country.Let us die for it then.

Another.These kisses for your feet.

Young Soldier(gashing his arm). This blood to wash them!

Another(doing the same). And this to keep you Cæsar.

Otho. Another(doing the same). And this to keep you Cæsar.I am that—

And would not be it. For about the world

The warlike pest is blown, and Cæsar stands

Knee-deep in blood, or is not Cæsar. Cease!

Keep me no more with Fortune. She and I

Are wedded-weary of each other.

Soldiers. Are wedded-weary of each other.War! War!

Centurion.Dogs! Listen while great Cæsar speaks.

Soldiers. Centurion.Dogs! Listen while great Cæsar speaks.To war!

Old Soldier.See, Cæsar, how these wounds burst out once more

With blood that clamours to be shed for thee!

Otho.For this great love my thanks, brave hearts. My tears

Do thank you. So my country’s bitter wounds

Burst out with blood once more for me. O there!

Too much already have those dreadful wounds

Bled gouts and gushes of black blood for me—

For nothing. What am I—no god, a man—

To loose the life of myriads and to make

Italy a charnel for a name? Enough.

The battle was against us. Let it be.

The gods have spoken, and love not to warn

In vain. I am resolved. I’ll war no more.

Soldiers.Ah! Ah!

Small Soldier. Soldiers.Ah! Ah!We are not vanquisht!

Otho. Small Soldier. Soldiers.Ah! Ah!We are not vanquisht!But not victors.

The omens are adverse. Vitellius wins.

What matter if he win? So let him win.

Shall Rome be river’d with her children’s blood

That he or I should wear a purple rag?

What is’t to Rome who should be Cæsar? Hear.

We Cæsars rise, and rule, and rot—yet are

But as the names of nothing for a time;

The marks on foolish calendars of days

For farmers’ fruit-trees and memorial stones—

Notches on sticks, and gossip for winter nights;

Add not a corngrain to the goodman’s store,

A word to wisdom, nor a stave to song;

Nor worth the delving of a ditch to hide

Our bones in, less a dreadful sepulchre

To hold the harvest of a continent.

For which of us shall Italy be more fair?

Will yonder sun more brightly beam for me

Than for Vitellius? Or her labour’d fields

More richly bear, her rivers run, her hills

Brighten the more, for me than for Vitellius?

Upon the sands the silvery waters play;

The deep endellèd woods are rich with flowers;

And all her maidens call. Laughing they call

Amid the morning dew: but not the more

For me than for Vitellius. Let him reign!

I will contend with him in battle no more;

I will contend with him in nobleness.

So let him then give Rome a Cæsar. I

Will give her peace.

Soldiers. Will give her peace.Cæsar, Otho, Cæsar!

Young Soldier.Make way there, comrades; I’ve a word to move him. (He stabs himself.)

See, Cæsar, what we dare for thee. If thus

For nothing we die—how shall we die for thee? (He dies.)

(Otho covers his face. Silence.)

Otho.But ere I give it I must win that peace.

Ah, thou hast taught me how to win it, friend.

Give me his sword that I may kiss his blood.

O Italy, O Rome, if thus for me

Thy children die, how should I die for thee?

(He stabs himself. The soldiers rage round him.)

Soldier.O noble Cæsar!

Centurion. Soldier.O noble Cæsar!Back! let him have more air.

Soldier.He is not dead.

Centurion. Soldier.He is not dead.Fall back, you dogs!

Soldier. Centurion. Soldier.He is not dead.Fall back, you dogs!He dies.

Otho(dying). He gives thee Cæsar. I will give thee—peace.

Soldier.I’ll see him die at least.

Soldiers. Soldier.I’ll see him die at least.Hack him to death

For breathing Cæsar’s air.

Soldier. For breathing Cæsar’s air.Cæsar, I follow thee.

Another.And I.

Another. Another.And I.The sun is set with him.

Another. Another. Another.And I.The sun is set with him.You cowards!

Because you ran in battle he dies.

Another. Because you ran in battle he dies.Who ran?

Another.You.

Another(striking him). Run then after that.

Centurion. Undisciplined dogs.

More air, you curs!

Soldier. More air, you curs!He dies.

Soldiers. Soldier. More air, you curs!He dies.Cæsar! Cæsar!

(Otho dies.)

THE TRIUMPH

Theodora.

Ostyn.

A Forest of Great Trees. Tempest.

Enter Theodora, followed by Ostyn waving a sword.

Theodora.Triumph, my friend!

Ostyn. Theodora.Triumph, my friend!So perish all oppressors!

Theodora.So let them die!

Ostyn. Theodora.So let them die!So let them perish all!

Theodora.So let God help us ever!

Ostyn. Theodora.So let God help us ever!And for ever!

Theodora.God has been with us.

Ostyn. Theodora.God has been with us.Let us kneel, dear friend,

And thank Him. Aye, before this bleeding sword,

As at an altar, let us kneel to Him.

Theodora.Whose justice, smiting in your hand, laid low

My children’s murderer!

(They kneel before the sword, laid on the grass. The tempest pauses for a moment. The sun gleams on the sword.)

My children’s murderer!From this dungeon’d world,

Where death and madness fill the dark with shrieks,

We thank Thee, uttermost God, for that Thy light

Hath smitten one moment for us. From Thy throne

The lightning came; the bright exceeding flash

Came down and smote him; the lightning of Thy wrath

Devour’d him.

Ostyn. Devour’d him.Fearless he stood aloft, and strong;

Fearless of death and lord of many crimes.

Men crept beneath him. He was terrible

And took them by the scruff and flung them down

For pleasure.

Theodora. For he was fill’d with hate and love;

And where his love fell, fell his hate also,

Like thunder blasting that it kisses.

Ostyn. Like thunder blasting that it kisses.Mighty,

His people groan’d beneath him; for he slew

A pathway to his passions.

Theodora. A pathway to his passions.My lord he slew,

Beloved; my children, for I scorn’d him.

Ostyn. Beloved; my children, for I scorn’d him.Herself,

Like that dark angel leaping down from heaven,

He visited.

Theodora.Like that dark angel came.

Ostyn.But she made ready the hidden sword. O God,

Hear! She made ready the sword. Hear, O God.

The sword she laid in secret. God of Wrath,

Be with us for our cause was just.

Theodora. Be with us for our cause was just.He fell;

Not like a tyrant in the poison’d night;

Not like a victim of the shuddering dark;

But front to front with anger in his eyes,

And arm’d to smite again. Triumph!

(Tempest. They raise their arms.)

Ostyn. And arm’d to smite again. Triumph!He died!

Theodora.He perisht!

Ostyn. Theodora.He perisht!Let the world triumph!

Theodora. Ostyn. Theodora.He perisht!Let the world triumph!Let it shout!

Ostyn.Hear us, O God of Wrath!

Theodora. Ostyn.Hear us, O God of Wrath!O God of Love,

Hear us, Thy children, and forgive!

(They rise.)

Ostyn. Hear us, Thy children, and forgive!My friend,

You weep—altho’ we triumph. That must be,

Alas! But wipe this horror from you now,

Nor let it ache for ever, like some despair

Whose secret hamper to the soul we feel

But name not. Wipe it from you—like this blood,

Which thus I purge from off th’ untarnisht steel

Once and for all. Come, we must take the time,

And move. The servants of that evil man

Will seek him. Yonder too another storm,

Ere yet the trees have shed their scope of tears,

Stands muttering in the zenith. Come then, friend.

I have an aged cousin living in the city,

And she will shelter you. As for myself—

If’t please you that I may remain with you,

Your servant, I’d be glad indeed. That once

I loved you ere you wedded (and do still),

If such a poor humpt creature as myself

Dare call his sighing love, will not disgust you

Who know it—for I never have conceal’d it.

You are the noblest woman in the world;

But my poor love is such a thing to laugh at,

You need not heed it. Now you are alone,

I may indeed give up my life to you

And be your servant.

(The tempest pauses. Silence.)

Theodora. And be your servant.Your sword is clean, you say,

But look upon those startled flowers there,

Those innocent flowers—what smearèd stains of death

Would make them seeming-guilty. What have they done?

Not they have pierced a man’s heart, poor white things,

That yet look unwasht murd’rers; while the sword

Gleams icy pure, like some fire-eyèd angel

New-born in Heaven.

Ostyn. New-born in Heaven.What of it?

Theodora. Ostyn. New-born in Heaven.What of it?I am the sword;

You are the flowers. The load of guilt I had

Is smear’d on you, who to your dying day

Shall wear such stains no rain of mercy ever

Can wash from off you.

Ostyn. Can wash from off you.What guilt?

Theodora. Ostyn. Can wash from off you.What guilt?The guilt I had,

But like the noblest woman of the world

Have smear’d upon another.

Ostyn. Have smear’d upon another.I do not take you.

Theodora.My friend, I should have done the deed alone,

Or let him kill me!

Ostyn. Or let him kill me!That would have been clear murder.

Now, he being slain in combat, we are pure.

Theodora.Reason acquits me, but my heart is sour.

Ostyn.Except one thing, I laugh at it.

Theodora. Ostyn.Except one thing, I laugh at it.What is that?

Ostyn.Oh nothing—no matter.

Theodora. Ostyn.Oh nothing—no matter.Tell me, friend.

Ostyn. Theodora. Ostyn.Oh nothing—no matter.Tell me, friend.Oh leave it.

The thing is done—what matter.

Theodora. The thing is done—what matter.Except what thing?

Ostyn.This, that you toucht his arm. That was not wise,

And lends some colour to peevish conscience.

Tho’ huncht and small, believe it I am strong;

And sober-blooded; tuned with exercise

Which ever to ennoble this frail form

I have used. Single, I knew myself his match.

You needed not have toucht him.

Theodora. You needed not have toucht him.He was a soldier.

Ostyn.Rather for that I scorned him.

Theodora. Ostyn.Rather for that I scorned him.I fear’d for you.

Ostyn.Did I not wound him ere you toucht his arm?

I saw it in his eye he dreaded me—

As venomous-narrow’d as a guilty moon

Shrinking against the sunrise.

Theodora. Shrinking against the sunrise.Was that murder,

To touch his arm?

Ostyn. To touch his arm?No, truly, I would have kill’d him

Anyway.

Theodora.Oh, oh!

Ostyn. Theodora.Oh, oh!You noble woman, cease!

Let not your heart be weaker than your mind.

It is a curse to have a heart that boils

When reason bids be calm.

Theodora. When reason bids be calm.Is reason in it?

Ostyn.Yes, yes.

Theodora. Ostyn.Yes, yes.Where does the reason dwell then—here,

Or here?

Ostyn. Or here? Come, my dear mistress, this is vain.

You work yourself to it.

(She looks around.)

Theodora. You work yourself to it.Where is the wind that blew?

What is this silence?—Ah! I dare not speak!

Each leaf here hangs its head at seeing me.