Festus · Scene 9 (2/2) (1/3)
Festus*, Lucifer* and others.
Festus It is getting dark. One has to walk quite close, To see the pretty faces that we meet.
Lucifer A disagreeable necessity, Truly.
Festus We’ll rest upon this bridge. I am tired. Yon tall slim tree! does it not seem as made For its place there, a kind of natural maypole?⁠— Beyond, the lighted stalls stored with the good Things of our childhood’s world, and behind them, The shouting showman and the clashing cymbal; The open doored cottages and blazing hearth⁠— The little ones running up with naked feet, And cake in either hand, to their mother’s lap⁠— Old and young laughing, schoolboys with their play-things, Clowns cracking jokes, and lasses with sly eyes, And the smile settling in their sunflecked cheeks, Like noon upon the mellow apricot;⁠— Make up a scene I can for once give in to. It must please all, the social and the selfish. Are they not happy?
Lucifer Why, it matters not. They seem so: that’s enough.
Festus But not the same.
Lucifer Yet truth and falsehood meet in seeming, like The falling leaf and shadow on the pool’s face. And these are joys, like beauty, but skin deep.
Festus Remove all such and what’s the joy of earth? ’Tis they create the appetite of life⁠— Give zest and relish to the lot of millions. And take the taste for them away⁠—what’s left? A dry ungainly skeleton of soul.
Lucifer Power is aye above the soul and joy Below it. Pleasure men prefer to power.
Children at play.
Festus Play away, good ones!
Old Man Pity the poor blind man!
Festus Here is substantial pity.
Old Man Heaven reward you!
Festus Blind as the blue skies after sunset. Blind! And I am tired of looking on what is. One might as well see beauty never more, As look upon it with an empty eye. I would this, world were over. I am tired. Nought happens but what happens to one’s self; And all hath happened I have wished, and more. Our pleasures all pass from us, one by one, With that relief which sighing gives the heart, Though each sigh leaves it lower. It is sad To think how few our pleasures really are: And for the which we risk eternal good. There’s nothing that can satisfy one’s self, Except one’s self. Well, it is very sad, And by the time we come of age we have felt In one degree or other all that age Can offer. We have reaped our field ere noon. The rest is reproduction; sowing⁠—reaping⁠— Losing again. Toil and gain tire alike. We cannot live too slowly to be good And happy, nor too much by line and square. But youth is burning to forestall its nature, And will not wait for time to ferry it Over the stream, but flings itself into The flood, and perishes. And yet, why not? There is no charm in time as time, nor good. The long days are no happier than the short ones. ’Tis sometime now since I was here. We leave Our home in youth⁠—no matter to what end;⁠— Study⁠—or strife⁠—or pleasure, or what not: And coming back in few short years, we find All as we left it, outside; the old elms, The house, grass, gates, and latchet’s selfsame click: But lift that latchet⁠—all is changed as doom: The servants have forgotten our step, and more Than half of those who knew us know us not. Adversity, prosperity, the grave, Play a round game With friends. On some the world Hath shot its evil eye, and they are passed From honour and remembrance, and a stare Is all the mention of their names receives; And people know no more of them than of The shapes of clouds at midnight, a year back.
Lucifer Let us move on to where the dancing is; We soon shall see how happy they all are. Here is a loving couple quarrelling. And there, another. It is quite distressing. See yonder. Two men fighting!
Festus What avail These vile exceptions to the rule of joy?
Lucifer Behold the happiness of which thou spakest! The highest hills are miles below the sky, And so far is the lightest heart below True happiness.
Festus This is a snakelike world, And always hath its tail within its mouth, As if it ate itself, and moralled time. The world is like yon children’s merry-go-round; What men admire are carriages and hobbies, Which the exalted manikins enjoy. There is a noisy ragged crowd below Of urchins drives it round, who only get The excitement for their pains⁠—best gain perhaps: For it is not they who labour that grow dizzy Nor sick⁠—that’s for the idle, proud above, Who soon dismount, more weary of enjoying Than those below of working; and but fair. It is wretchedness or recklessness alone Keeps us alive. Were we happy we should die. Yet what is death? I like to think on death: It is but the appearance of an apparition. One ought to tremble; but oughts stand for nothing. I hate the thought of wrinkling up to rest; The toothlike aching ruin of the body, With the heart all out, and nothing left but edge. Give me the long high bounding feel of life, Which cries, let me but leap unto my grave, And I’ll not mind the when nor where. We never Care less for life than when enjoying it. Oh! I should love to die. What is to die? I cannot hold the meaning more than can An oak’s arms clasp the blast that blows on it. There is an air-like something which must be. And yet not to be seen, nor to be touched. I am made up to die; for having been Every thing, there is nothing left but nothing To be again.
Lucifer Hark! here is a ballad-singer.
Ballad-Singer All of my own composing!
Festus Yes, Yes⁠—we know.
Ballad-Singer My gipsy maid! my gipsy maid! I bless and curse the day I lost the light of life, and caught The grief which maketh gray. Would that the light which blinded me Had saved me on my way! My night-haired love! so sweet she was, So fair and blithe was she; Her smile was brighter than the moon’s, Her eyes the stars might see. I met her by her lane-spread tent, Beside a moss-green stone, And bade her make, not mock, my fate, My fortune was her own. Thou art but yet a boy, she said, And I a woman grown. I am a man in love, I cried; My heart was early manned: She smiled, and only drooped her eyes, And then let go my hand. We stood a minute: neither spake What each must understand. I told her, so she would be mine And follow where I went, She straight should have a bridal bower Instead of gipsy tent. Or would she have me wend with her, The world between should fall; For her I would fling up faith and friends, And name, and fame, and all. Her smile so bright froze while I spake, And ice was in her eye; So near, it seemed ere touch her heart I might have kissed the sky. I said that if she loved to rule, Or if she longed to reign, I would make her Queen of every race Which tearhke trode the world’s sad face, Or bleed at every vein. She laid her finger on her lip, And pointed to the sky; There is no God to come, she said: Dost thou not fear to die? And what is God, I said, to thee? Thy people worship not. The good, the happy, and the free, She said, they need no God. I looked until I lost mine eyes; I felt as though I were In a dark cave, with one weak light⁠— The light of life⁠—with her; And that was wasting fast away; I watched but would not stir. Again she took my hand in hers, And read it o’er and o’er; Ah! eyes so young, so sweet, I said, Make as they read love’s lore. She held my hand⁠—I trembled whilst⁠— For sorely soon I felt She made the love-cross she foretold And all the woe she dealt. Unhappy I should be she said, And young to death be given; I told her I believed in her, Not in the stars of Heaven. Hush! we breathe Heaven, she said, and bowed; And the stars speak through me. Let Heaven, I cried, take care of Heaven! I only care for thee. She shrank: I looked, and begged a kiss: I knew she had one for me; She would deny me none, she said, But give me none would she. My gipsy mind! my gipsy maid! ’Tis three long years like this, Since there I gave and got from thee That meeting, parting kiss. I saw the tears start in her eye, And trickle down her cheek, Like falling stars across the sky, Escaping from their Maker’s eye: I saw, but spared to speak. Go, and forget! she said, and slid Below her lowly tent. I will not, cannot⁠—hear me, girl! She heard not, and I went. At eve, by sunset, I was there, The tent was there no more; The fire which warmed her flickered still⁠— The fire she sat before. I stood by it, till through the dark I saw not where it lay; And then like that my heart went out In ashy grief and gray. My gipsy maid! my gipsy maid! Oh! let me bless this day; This day it was I met thee first, And yet it shall be and is cursed, For thou hast gone away.
Lucifer Another, please⁠—not quite so gloomy, friend.
Girl I wonder if the tale it tells be true.
Ballad-Singer I dare say⁠—but you want a merrier. Every man’s life has its apocrypha; Mine has, at least. I have said more than need be. It happened, too, when I was very young. We never meet such gipsies when we are old; And yet we more complain of youth than age. Now, make a ring, good people. Let me breathe! Sings. Oh! the wee green neuk, the sly green neuk, The wee sly neuk for me! Whare the wheat is wavin’ bright and brown, And the wind is fresh and free. Whare I weave wild weeds, and out o’ reeds Kerve whissles as I lay; And a douce low voice is murmurin’ by Through the lee-lang simmer day. Oh! the wee green neuk, etc. And whare a’ things luik as though they lo’ed To languish in the sun; And that if they feed the fire they dree, They wadna ae pang were gone. Whare the lift aboon is still as death, And bright as life can be; While the douce low voice says, na, na, na! But ye mauna luik sae at me. Oh! the wee green neuk, etc. Whare the lang rank bent is saft and cule, And freshenin’ till the feet; And the spot is sly, and the spinnie high, Whare my luve and I mak seat: And I tease her till she rins, and then I catch her roun’ the tree; While the poppies shak’ their heids and blush: Let ’em blush till they drap, for me! Oh! the wee green neuk, etc.
Festus And all who know such feelings and such scenes Will, I am sure, reward you. Here⁠—take this.
Others And this, and this⁠—too!
Ballad-Singer Thank ye all, good friends!
Festus There’s much that hath no merit but its truth, And no excuse but nature. Nature does Never wrong: ’tis society which sins. Look on the bee upon the wing among flowers; How brave, how bright his life! Then mark him hived, Cramped, cringing in his self built, social cell. Thus is it in the world-hive: most where men Lie deep in cities as in drifts⁠—death drifts, Nosing each other like a flock of sheep; Not knowing and not caring whence nor whither They come or go, so that they fool together.
Lucifer It is quite fair to halve these lives and say This side is nature’s, that society’s, When both are side-views only of one thing.
Farmer I am glad to see you come among us, sir.
Parson Why, I have but little comfort in these pastimes; And any heart, turned Godwards, feels more joy In one short hour of prayer, than e’er was raised By all the feasts on earth since their foundation. But no one will believe us; as if we Had never known the vain things of the world, Nor lain and slept in sin’s seducing shade, Listless, until God woke us; made us feel We should be up and stirring in the sun; For every thing had to be done ere night. What is all this joy and jollity about? Grant there may be no sin. What good is it?
Farmer I can’t defend these feasts, Sir, and can’t blame.
Parson Good evening, friends! Why, Festus! I rejoice We meet again. I have a young friend here, A student⁠—who hath staid with us of late. You would be glad, I know, to know each other. Therefore be known so.
Festus You are a student, Sir.
Student I profess little; but it is a title A man may claim perhaps with modesty.
Festus True. All mankind are students. How to live And how to die forms the great lesson still. I know what study is: it is to toil Hard, through the hours of the sad midnight watch, At tasks which seem a systematic curse, And course of bootless penance. Night by night, To trace one’s thought as if on iron leaves; And sorrowful as though it were the mode And date of death we wrote on our own tombs: Wring a slight sleep out of the couch, and see The self-same moon, which lit us to our rest, Her place scarce changed perceptibly in Heaven. Now light us to renewal of our toils.⁠— This, to the young mind, wild and all in leaf, Which knowledge, grafting, paineth. Fruit soon comes, And more than all our troubles pays us powers; So that we joy to have endured so much: That not for nothing have we slaved and slain Ourselves almost. And more; it is to strive To bring the mind up to one’s own esteem: Who but the generous fail? It is to think, While thought is standing thick upon the brain As dew upon the brow⁠—for thought is brain-sweat; And gathering quick and dark, like storms in summer, Until convulsed, condensed, in lightning sport, It plays upon the heavens of the mind⁠— Opens the hemisphered abysses here, And we become revealers to ourselves.
Student When night hath set her silver lamp on high, Then is the time for study; when Heaven’s light Pours itself on the page, like prophecy On time, unglooming all its mighty meanings; It is then we feel the sweet strength of the stars, And magic of the moon.
Lucifer It’s a bad habit.
Student And wisdom dwells in secret and on high, As do the stars. The sun’s diurnal glare Is for the daily herd; but for the wise, The cold pure radiance of the night-born light, Wherewith is inspiration of the truth. There was a time when I would never go To rest before the sun rose; and for that, Through a like length of time as that now gone, The world shall speak of me six thousand years hence.
Lucifer How know you that the world wont end to-morrow?
Parson I now, an early riser, love to hail The dreamy struggles of the stars with light, And the recovering breath of earth, sleep-drowned, Awakening to the wisdom of the sun, And life of light within the tent of Heaven;⁠— To kiss the feet of Morning as she walks In dewy light along the hills, while they, All odorous as an angel’s fresh-culled crown, Unveil to her their bounteous loveliness.
Student I am devote to study. Worthy books Are not companions⁠—they are solitudes: We lose ourselves in them and all our cares. The further back we search the human mind⁠— Mean in the mass, but in the instance great⁠— Which starting first with Deities and stars And broods of beings earth-born, Heaven-begot, And all the bright side of the broad world, now Boats upon dreams and dim atomic truths, Is all for comfort and no more for glory⁠— The nobler and more marvellous it shows. Trifles like these make up the present time; The Iliad and the Pyramids the past.