Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (634 page)

KING COPHETUA’S WOOIN
G

A SONG DRAMA IN ONE ACT

Dramatis Personae
Cophetua, King.
Christine, A Beggar Maid.

(Scene discovers
Cophetua,
dressed as a beggar, seated beneath a thorn on a hillside. In the distance
,
a road running down to the sea; at its verge a small chapel. An early morning in May.)

COPHETUA.
COULD I but keep my beggar’s staff,
And change my cares for my beggar’s laugh,
And keep my gown with its sleeve and a half,
And just lay down my orb and crown,
I think my heart would weigh more light,
And I should sleep more sound at night.
But the day’s come round, and sweet Christine
Must doff her robe of faded green
And know herself for a burdened Queen.

(To him enters the
Beggar Maid.)

BEGGAR MAID.
Here am I in my bridal attire;
I sat all night by the fire
And stitched in the sheltered byre,
And the sun is so bright
And my heart is so light
It hasn’t a care, and it’s all your own.
It’s yours, just yours, and yours alone.
Last night I dreamt a weary thing,
That you were you and I the King,
With a heart so sad I could not sing,
And I came pricking along the way
And you sat here beneath the may.

CHRISTINE.
Lay off your dreams, the church bell rings,
And were you ten times king of kings,
And ten times Kaiser, you could be
No more a king than you’re king of me.

COPHETUA.
If I were King and made you Queen?

CHRISTINE.
And were I that, would the green-wood sheen
Be a whit less glad or the gay green sward
Less dear were you King and Over-lord?
Would you love me less? I trow not so.

I saw the King a while ago
Go pricking by with his haughty crew
While I sat here in the morning dew
Before I ever thought of you.

He cast me this rose noble. See!
And I thought, “This shall be my wedding fee
To the man I love and the man I wed.”

(I’ve thought when I looked at the good King’s head
That the noble bears, that he favours you
In the nose and the mouth and the forehead too.)

COPHETUA.
But if I made you Queen...

CHRISTINE.
What yet
I’ the track o’ dreams, see! I will set
My hawthorn crown upon your brow;
The dew hangs on it even now.
And where is there a fairer gem
Set in a fair queen’s diadem
Than this one lustrous drop?

COPHETUA.
Christine,
What if I made you such a Queen?
There is a cloud doth dimn my mind
But if —

CHRISTINE.
Oh, love...
The bell sounds down the wind,
The priest will soon pass down the hill,
And we’re to wed, and you are dreaming still.

Cophetua (
speaking after a long pause).
I love your face, I love your hands, your eyes
Are pools of rest for mine. I love your feet,
Your little shoes, the patches in your gown...
CHRISTINE.
I know your tongue now...

COPHETUA.
If I make you Queen...

CHRISTINE
I would all “ifs” were sunk beneath the sea —
There is a proverb ties them to us beggars —
And make, why make, not made?

COPHETUA.
It was a thought,
A passing cloud — the shadow of a dream.

CHRISTINE.
Ah, love, no more of dreams, they frighten me.
The sun is up, look at the streak of sea
Between the hills. And love — no more of dreams,
The larks thrill all above the downs with songs
To shatter dreams. And there’s a song about it:

(singing)
“
If you and I were King and Queen,”
I’ll sing it if you’ll join me in the lilt;
I’d rather sing than dream the time away.

(she sings)
If you and I were King and Queen

(a silence)
Now join me if you love me, dream if not.

(she sings again)
She.
If you and I were King and Queen —
He.
Sweet Christine —
She.
Would you come courting me?
He.
You should see.
She.
Would a crown spoil my face,
Or a throne mar my grace?
Would you keep me the same high place in your heart?
Must we still part to meet, should we still meet to part,
If we were King and Queen?
Together.
Ah then! ah then!
How should we fare with our cates rich and rare,
We beggars, we lovers of roadsides, we rovers
Of woodlands and townlands and dalelands and downlands?
We lovers...

(COPHETUA
is silent and the song ceases.)

CHRISTINE.
I think you do not love me any more,
Now you forget my songs.

COPHETUA.
I — cannot think of songs, nor hear the lark,
Nor feel the glad spring weather. In my ears
Is nothing but the tramping of the hoofs,
And in my eyes the flash of swords and silks
Of a proud cavalcade that comes anow
To bear us hence.

CHRISTINE.
Oh, God, your mind is sprung,
Your thoughts, gone wand’ring into other fields,
Have left poor me in mine.

COPHETUA.
Not so, not so;
My mind’s come back from long sweet sojournings
In a free land of hill and down and sea,
To a sad world of walled towns and courts
And carks and cares.

CHRISTINE.
No, no, the sun’s there yet.

COPHETUA.
He shines no more on me — no more on me,
I — am a King again — a King — and you
Must either leave the life you love, to lead
With me the life I loathe, or let me live
Alone, unaided, all alone and sad,
The life that leads a King.

CHRISTINE.
There is a weary horror in your eyes,
And I must needs believe you. I’m a beggar,
So were my sire before me and his sires,
For generations and for ages past
We’ve lived free lives and breathed the good free air
You came among us in a free man’s guise
And wooed me — wooed me — and I gave my heart
To you a freeman.

COPHETUA.
Oh — a weary King...
For a short breathing space I doffed my crown,
Laid down my cares and walked without a load.
The task remains myself did set myself
Duly to reign, to shape a people’s ends.
As I deem just. Here have I neither end
Of travel, nor an aim for life to hit,
Or miss i’ the shooting.

CHRISTINE.
Could we not live free?

COPHETUA.
Not free, not free, my task would call me back.
It calls me now. It calls me, calls me now.

CHRISTINE.
Is this all true, no summer morning’s dream?
Oh, here is then that parting of the ways
I dreamt of yesternight.

COPHETUA.
There lie the roads,
Here travel I.

CHRISTINE.
And I must choose, must choose
Between my love and life, the old free life.

Then choose I this, in good or evil weather,
Up hill or down, on moorland and in fen,
On white sea sand or’mid the purple heather,
To travel on with you, and where or when
The mists o’erwhelm us, meet them, and together
Uphold with you the burden and the pain.

Oh, all the love I bore you and still bear you
Make light our feet, and temper time and tide,
And each day’s setting out shall find me near you,
And each day’s close shall find me at your side.
(A long pause. At last)

CHRISTINE.
And it was you rode by upon the horse?

COPHETUA.
And you it was sat there upon a stone —
But hark, ah hark, there wind the distant horns,
They come, they come, the old free life is passing.

CHRISTINE.
Oh, hide me from their eyes, such cruel eyes
They had that rode with you that day of days.

COPHETUA.
Those are the eyes must look upon us now
For ever and for ever till the end.

CHRISTINE.
The horns, the horns, the old free life is passing.

COPHETUA.
Oh, yonder, there’s the glimpse of sun on steel,
And there’s my oriflamme. And there,
Beyond the chapel, is another band
Comes trooping from the ships.

CHRISTINE.
They come, they come,
The old free life is passing.

COPHETUA.
It is past,
The bell has ceased to toll.

CHRISTINE.
Oh, let us wait,
I could not bear their eyes. Oh, clasp me round,
And let me die to-day.

COPHETUA.
You must be bold,
And there, before the altar, shame them all.

CHRISTINE.
Ah, there, before the altar, I’ll be proud,
And show them all a brow serene and clear
For love of you. But now I’m what I am,
And needs must tremble for the time to come.

COPHETUA.
The horns have played their last and we must go.

CHRISTINE.
You know the old lament they sing at sea
When the last rope’s cast off. My dear dead father
Would have us sing it just before he died.
We’ll never sing again, for brooding hearts
Cry, “Silent, voices, hush,” and now we sail,
And sing to drown our thoughts and singing, die.
So now set sail, set sail. Loose the last rope
That binds us to the past.
(As they go, she sings
“
The Farewell of those that go away in ships”)

(
Christine
sings)
Fare thee well, land o’ home
(Oh, the sea, the sea’s a foam)
Fare thee well, land o’ home,
  
Blue and low.
Fare thee well, house o’ home, where the mellow
wall-fruits grow,
Old fields, fields o’ home, where the yellow paigles glow.
Fare thee well, land o’ home,
  
Blue and low.

Fare thee well, pleasant land
(Ah the foam beats on the strand)
Fare thee well, my forbear’s land
  
Blue and low.
Fare thee well, mother mine, with the pure pale brow,
Fare ye well, quiet graves, fare ye well who rest below.
Fare thee well, land o’ home,
Over miles and miles of foam,
Fare thee well, land o’ home,
  
Blue and low.

THE MOTHE
R

A SONG DRAMA

Characters
THE SPIRIT OF THE AGE.
THE MOTHER.
THE LITTLE BLADES OF GRASS.
THE LITTLE GRAINS OF SAND AND OF DUST.

SCENE.
— Just outside a great city. Battalions of staring
,
dun-colouredy brick houses
,
newly finished
,
with vacant windows
,
bluish slate roofs and yellow chimney pots
,
march on the fields which are blackened and shrouded with fog. Innumerable lines of railway disappear among them
,
gleaming in parallel curves. Fog signals sound and three trains pass on different levels; the lights in their windows an orange blur. A continuous hooting of railway engines.
THE SPIRIT OF THE AGE,
leaning on the brick parapet of the upper embankment
,
speaks towards
THE MOTHER,
who
is unseen in the fog above the fields.

The Spirit of the Age.

IT’S I have conquered you.
It is over and done with your green and over and
done with your blue.
Conquered you. Where is your sky?
Where is the green that your gown had of late?

The Mother.
Wait

The Spirit of the Age.
I have trampled you down, you must die.
It is only begun
Yet it’s over and done
With the green of your grass and the blue of your sky.
Even your great constellations
Blaze vainly, are hid by the dun
Of the smoke of my fires...

The Spirit of the Age.
The smoke of my fires,
The dun of the lives and desires
Of the millions and millions who live
And who strive.
Only to trample you down, blot you out, foul your
face and forget.

The Mother.
Ah, and yet.
[
The fog to the north lifts a little and discloses clouds
of smoke like a pall above a forest of chimney stacks;
a square Board School playground where children
are running through puddles on the wet asphalt.

The Spirit of the Age.
And behold, they are toiling and moiling
And soiling
Your winds and your rains; yea, and hark to the noise
Of the girls and the boys
Of untold generations.

The Mother.
I wait. I have patience.

The Spirit of the Age.
They play in the waters
I grant them, the daughters
Of fog-dripped smut-showers.
Would they thank you for flowers
Or know how to play by your Ocean’s blown billows?
Who never met you,
Whose sires forget you,
These nations and nations
Who never saw sea nor the riverside willows.

The Mother.
I wait; I have patience.

The Spirit of the Age.
Old Silence, wait; old Sleeper, use your patience.
You are dead and forgotten
As a corpse that was rotten
A twelvemonth and more;
As dead as the Empires of yore,
As dead and forgotten

The Little Blades of Grass
(
whispering).
Listen, listen

The Little Grains of Sand (whispering).
Ah, we hear; you’ll see us glisten
When the Wind shall set us whirling.

The Spirit of the Age.
I am here and I shall stay
To the utter, utter day;
Tell me, you who’ve lived for ever,
Saw you ever such a fever,
Such a madness of gold-getting,
Such forgetting
Of the Thing that you called Truth —
Such contempt, such lack of ruth,
For your leisure and your dalliance,
As since Time and I joined alliance?
I shall rule and falter never,
You are dead and gone for ever.

(He pauses.
THE MOTHER
says nothing.)
The Little Blades of Grass
(
whispering
).
Are you there, O all ye others?

The Little Grains of Sand.
We are here, O little brothers.

The Spirit of the Age.
Old Silence, speak!
I had not thought to find you half so weak
In argument. Acknowledge I am he
That ever more shall be.
Be just; confess that I have won
And that your race is run.
[She still keeps silence. He goes on, excitedly.
D’you think that I am frightened by your fools
Who with their rules
And rusty saws from musty stools
In dusty schools,
Squeak. “In the very nature of the case,
Unless the sequence of the immobile earth
Shall change, the sun and tides stand still and all
The vast phenomena of peoples, kings,
And mighty Empires be for you reversed,
That day must come when your world-sway declines”?

The Little Blades of Grass.
Hearken, hearken:
Brothers, are ye there?

The Little Grains of Sand.
Brothers, when that wind blows we shall darken
All the air.

The Spirit of the Age.
I heard another fool with: “Time shall come
When the tired human brain,
That now already reels,
Shall utterly refuse to face again
The turmoil and the hum
Of all these wheels and wheels and wheels and wheels and wheels,
This clattering of feet
And hurrying no-whither; deem it sweet
To lie among the grasses,
Where no more shadow is than of the cloud that passes
Beneath the sun.” Another squeaked of strife;
Of cataclysms, plagues; and slackening grip on life,
And pictured for us street on street on street
Re-echoing to the feet
Of one sole, panic-stricken passenger;
Pictured my houses roofless to the air,
The windows glassless, doors with ruined locks,
The owlet and the fox
Sole harbourers there;
The only sounds hawks’ screaming, plover’s shriek
Above the misted swamps; the rivers burst
Their banks and sweep, athirst,
My rotting city — Horrid!... Mother, speak;
Speak, mother, speak, who are so old and wise.

The Little Blades of Grass
(
tittering
).
Ho ho! ho ho!
The braggart groweth tremulous.

The Little Grains of Sand and of Dust.
Hallo! hallo — o — o!
He is afraid of us.

The Spirit of the Age.
D’you think that I am frighted by these lies?
Old Dotard, I...
I rule; am come to stay
For ever and a day.
Behold,
Where all my million lieges toil for grime and gold.
[The fog lifts suddenly. Against a shaft of pale golden
sky
,
one sees the immense City like a watery-edged
silhouette. A great central dome
,
the outlines wet and
gilded by the rays of light;
warehouses like black iron
cliffs
,
square along a river; black barges
,
with pale
lights at the bows
,
creeping dow?i the glassy yellow
water; forests of chimney stacks and of masts of shipping.
Answer, old witch; old silent envier of my joy,
I challenge you, old Hecate.

The Mother (very softly).
Where is Troy?

The Spirit of the Age.
What’s Troy compared to me?

The Mother.
Where Carthage, Nineve,
Where Greece, where Egypt, where are all that host
Whose very names are lost?

The Little Blades of Grass whispering).
When we crave them,
Then we have them.

The Little Grains of Sand and of Dust.
When the winds blow we o’er-ride them,
And we hide them
Silently.

The Spirit of the Age.
What were they all — all of them measured by me?
For never among the Nations
And never between the Oceans,
Were known such emanations
Of tense, strung-nerved emotions,
Such strivings,
Never such hivings
Of humans...

The Mother.
Son, those cities of the plain and of the shore!
My winds blew and their fleets were shattered,
My waves raged their harbours a-choke;
A very little their strivings mattered,
Little their tenseness; their hivings broke
For evermore.

Little one, I who am young, furnished them graves and I sung
Dirges above them. You have your millions,
Men of all nations, I have my billions and billions and billions,
Of those who are stronger than men; whose persistence,
Whose creeping on sods, and flight down the winds
evades the last watch, overpowers the hopeless resistance.

The Little Blades of Grass.
Hearken, hearken:
Brothers, are ye there?

The Little Grains of Sand and of Dust.
Brothers, when that wind blows we shall darken
All the air.

The Mother.
Son: when I turn in my slumber,
Your cities withouten number
Shall fall — There shall remain upon the ground
Rubble and rubbish; a rising and settling of dust all round,
Here and there a mound....
And the grass will come a-creeping,
And the sands come sifting, sweeping,
Down the winds and up the current.
Dry and dead and curst, abhorrent.
Grass for the cities of the plains and of the hills; sand
and bitter dust for the cities of the shore.

Little one, I who am old, hid all those strivings of yore,
Little one, I old and grey,
Bid you play,
Wrestle and worry and play in the folds of my dress,
Till you tire, and the fire of your passions fails in
your earth-weariness.
Little one, I who am kind, give you time till you tire of your play,
Time till you weary and say:
“Hold; enough of our making-believe.
Ah, children, leave striving and leave
The little small things that we deemed
Above price; all the playthings that seemed
Worth a world of contriving and strife.”
When the glimmer of gold loses life
And its weight groweth deader and deader,
And no one shall crave to be leader,
O’ermasterer, lord of the knife.

Little one, I who am wise, bid you go back to your play,
Play the swift game thro’ the day.
When even comes you shall kneel down and pray,
And, well-content, at last lay down your head
Upon my ultimate bed
And lose the tenseness of your futile quest
In me who offer rest.
[The fog sweeps down: the city disappears. The Spirit
of the Age says in a low voice.)
Poor wand’ring proser,
Poor worn-out, mutt’ring dozer,
With your old saws
Of sempiternal laws,
The day’s to me not you...
Strike down the old; cry onwards to the new.
[A train runibles slowly past
,
going cautiously through the yellow fog.

The Little Blades of Grass [whispering).
Hearken, hearken:
Brothers, are ye there?
The Little Grains of Sand and of Dust [whispering back).

Brothers, when that wind blows we shall darken
All the air.

CURTAIN.