Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series
Page 173
STEER.
Thank ye!
Enter EVA.
Wheer ‘asta been?
EVA. (Timidly.)
Many happy returns of the day, father.
STEER.
They can’t be many, my dear, but I ‘oäpes they’ll be ‘appy.
DOBSON.
Why, tha looks haäle anew to last to a hoonderd.
STEER.
An’ why shouldn’t I last to a hoonderd? Haäle! why shouldn’t I be haäle? fur thaw I be heighty this very daäy, I niver ‘es sa much as one pin’s prick of paäin; an’ I can taäke my glass along wi’ the youngest, fur I niver touched a drop of owt till my oän wedding-daäy, an’ then I wur turned huppads o’ sixty. Why shouldn’t I be haäle? I ha’ plowed the ten-aäcre — it be mine now — afoor ony o’ ye wur burn — ye all knaws the ten-aäcre — I mun ha’ plowed it moor nor a hoonderd times; hallus hup at sunrise, and I’d drive the plow straäit as a line right i’ the faäce o’ the sun, then back ageän, a-follering my oän shadder — then hup ageän i’ the faäce o’ the sun. Eh! how the sun ‘ud shine, and the larks ‘ud sing i’ them daäys, and the smell o’ the mou’d an’ all. Eh! if I could ha’ gone on wi’ the plowin’ nobbut the smell o’ the mou’d ‘ud ha’ maäde ma live as long as Jerusalem.
EVA.
Methusaleh, father.
STEER.
Ay, lass, but when thou be as owd as me thou’ll put one word fur another as I does.
DOBSON.
But, Steer, thaw thou be haäle anew I seed tha a-limpin’ up just now wi’ the roomatics i’ the knee.
STEER.
Roomatics! Noä; I laäme’t my knee last night running arter a thief. Beänt there house-breäkers down i’ Littlechester, Dobson — doänt ye hear of ony?
DOBSON.
Ay, that there be. Immanuel Goldsmiths was broke into o’ Monday night, and ower a hoonderd pounds worth o’ rings stolen.
STEER.
So I thowt, and I heärd the winder — that’s the winder at the end o’ the passage, that goäs by thy chaumber. (Turning to EVA.) Why, lass, what maäakes tha sa red? Did ‘e git into thy chaumber?
EVA.
Father!
STEER.
Well, I runned arter thief i’ the dark, and fell ageän coalscuttle and my kneeä gev waäy or I’d ha’ cotched ‘im, but afoor I coomed up he got thruff the winder ageän.
EVA.
Got thro’ the window again?
STEER.
Ay, but he left the mark of ‘is foot i’ the flowerbed; now theer be noän o’ my men, thinks I to mysen, ‘ud ha’ done it ‘cep’ it were Dan Smith, fur I cotched ‘im once a-stealin’ coäls an’ I sent fur ‘im, an’ I measured his foot wi’ the mark i’ the bed, but it wouldn’t fit — seeäms to me the mark wur maäde by a Lunnun boot. (Looks at EVA.) Why, now, what maäkes tha sa white?
EVA.
Fright, father!
STEER.
Maäke thysen eäsy. I’ll hev the winder naäiled up, and put Towser under it.
EVA. (Clasping her hands.)
No, no, father! Towser’ll tear him all to pieces.
STEER.
Let him keep awaäy, then; but coom, coom! let’s be gawin. They ha’ broached a barrel of aäle i’ the long barn, and the fiddler be theer, and the lads and lasses ‘ull hev a dance.
EVA. (Aside.)
Dance! small heart have I to dance. I should seem to be dancing upon a grave.
STEER.
Wheer be Mr. Edgar? about the premises?
DOBSON.
Hallus about the premises!
STEER.
So much the better, so much the better. I likes ‘im, and Eva likes ‘im. Eva can do owt wi’ ‘im; look for ‘im, Eva, and bring ‘im to the barn. He ‘ant naw pride in ‘im, and we’ll git ‘im to speechify for us arter dinner.
EVA.
Yes, father!
[Exit.
STEER.
Coom along then, all the rest o’ ye! Churchwarden be a coomin, thaw me and ‘im we niver ‘grees about the tithe; and Parson mebbe, thaw he niver mended that gap i’ the glebe fence as I telled ‘im; and Blacksmith, thaw he niver shoes a herse to my likings; and Baäker, thaw I sticks to hoäm-maäde — but all on ‘em welcome, all on ‘em welcome; and I’ve hed the long barn cleared out of all the machines, and the sacks, and the taäters, and the mangles, and theer’ll be room anew for all o’ ye. Foller me.
ALL.
Yeas, yeas! Three cheers for Mr. Steer!
[All exeunt except DOBSON into barn.
Enter EDGAR.
DOBSON (who is going, turns).
Squire! — if so be you be a squire.
EDGAR.
Dobbins, I think.
DOBSON.
Dobbins, you thinks; and I thinks ye weärs a Lunnun boot.
EDGAR.
Well?
DOBSON.
And I thinks I’d like to taäke the measure o’ your foot.
EDGAR.
Ay, if you’d like to measure your own length upon the grass.
DOBSON.
Coom, coom, that’s a good un. Why, I could throw four o’ ye; but I promised one of the Misses I wouldn’t meddle wi’ ye, and I weänt.
[Exit into barn.
EDGAR.
Jealous of me with Eva! Is it so?
Well, tho’ I grudge the pretty jewel, that I
Have worn, to such a clod, yet that might be
The best way out of it, if the child could keep
Her counsel. I am sure I wish her happy.
But I must free myself from this entanglement.
I have all my life before me — so has she —
Give her a month or two, and her affections
Will flower toward the light in some new face.
Still I am half-afraid to meet her now.
She will urge marriage on me. I hate tears.
Marriage is but an old tradition. I hate
Traditions, ever since my narrow father,
After my frolic with his tenant’s girl,
Made younger elder son, violated the whole
Tradition of our land, and left his heir,
Born, happily, with some sense of art, to live
By brush and pencil. By and by, when Thought
Comes down among the crowd, and man perceives that
The lost gleam of an after-life but leaves him
A beast of prey in the dark, why then the crowd
May wreak my wrongs upon my wrongers. Marriage!
That fine, fat, hook-nosed uncle of mine, old Harold,
Who leaves me all his land at Littlechester,
He, too, would oust me from his will, if I
Made such a marriage. And marriage in itself —
The storm is hard at hand will sweep away
Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, customs, marriage
One of the feeblest! Then the man, the woman,
Following their best affinities, will each
Bid their old bond farewell with smiles, not tears;
Good wishes, not reproaches; with no fear
Of the world’s gossiping clamour, and no need
Of veiling their desires.
Conventionalism,
Who shrieks by day at what she does by night,
Would call this vice; but one time’s vice may be
The virtue of another; and Vice and Virtue
Are but two masks of self; and what hereafter
Shall mark out Vice from Virtue in the gulf
Of never-dawning darkness?
Enter EVA.
My sweet Eva,
Where have you lain in ambush all the morning?
They say your sister, Dora, has return’d,
And that should make you happy, if you love her!
But you look troubled.
EVA.
Oh, I love her so,
I was afraid of her, and I hid myself.
We never kept a secret from e
ach other;
She would have seen at once into my trouble,
And ask’d me what I could not answer. Oh, Philip,
Father heard you last night. Our savage mastiff,
That all but kill’d the beggar, will be placed
Beneath the window, Philip.
EDGAR.
Savage, is he?
What matters? Come, give me your hand and kiss me
This beautiful May-morning.
EVA.
The most beautiful
May we have had for many years!
EDGAR.
And here
Is the most beautiful morning of this May.
Nay, you must smile upon me! There — you make
The May and morning still more beautiful,
You, the most beautiful blossom of the May.
EVA.
Dear Philip, all the world is beautiful
If we were happy, and could chime in with it.
EDGAR.
True; for the senses, love, are for the world;
That for the senses.
EVA.
Yes.
EDGAR.
And when the man,
The child of evolution, flings aside
His swaddling-bands, the morals of the tribe,
He, following his own instincts as his God,
Will enter on the larger golden age;
No pleasure then taboo’d: for when the tide
Of full democracy has overwhelm’d
This Old world, from that flood will rise the New,
Like the Love-goddess, with no bridal veil,
Ring, trinket of the Church, but naked Nature
In all her loveliness.
EVA.
What are you saying?
EDGAR.
That, if we did not strain to make ourselves
Better and higher than Nature, we might be
As happy as the bees there at their honey
In these sweet blossoms.
EVA.
Yes; how sweet they smell!
EDGAR.
There! let me break some off for you.
[Breaking branch off.
EVA.
My thanks.
But, look, how wasteful of the blossom you are!
One, two, three, four, five, six — you have robb’d poor father
Of ten good apples. Oh, I forgot to tell you
He wishes you to dine along with us,
And speak for him after — you that are so clever!
EDGAR.
I grieve I cannot; but, indeed ——
EVA.
What is it?
EDGAR.
Well, business. I must leave you, love, to-day.
EVA.
Leave me, to-day! And when will you return?
EDGAR.
I cannot tell precisely; but ——
EVA.
But what?
EDGAR.
I trust, my dear, we shall be always friends.
EVA.
After all that has gone between us — friends!
What, only friends? [Drops branch.
EDGAR.
All that has gone between us
Should surely make us friends.
EVA.
But keep us lovers.
EDGAR.
Child, do you love me now?
EVA.
Yes, now and ever.
EDGAR.
Then you should wish us both to love for ever.
But, if you will bind love to one for ever,
Altho’ at first he take his bonds for flowers,
As years go on, he feels them press upon him,
Begins to flutter in them, and at last
Breaks thro’ them, and so flies away for ever;
While, had you left him free use of his wings,
Who knows that he had ever dream’d of flying?
EVA.
But all that sounds so wicked and so strange;
‘Till death us part’ — those are the only words,
The true ones — nay, and those not true enough,
For they that love do not believe that death
Will part them. Why do you jest with me, and try
To fright me? Tho’ you are a gentleman,
I but a farmer’s daughter ——
EDGAR.
Tut! you talk
Old feudalism. When the great Democracy
Makes a new world ——
EVA.
And if you be not jesting,
Neither the old world, nor the new, nor father,
Sister, nor you, shall ever see me more.
EDGAR (moved).
Then — (aside) Shall I say it? — (aloud) fly with me to-day.
EVA.
No! Philip, Philip, if you do not marry me,
I shall go mad for utter shame and die.
EDGAR.
Then, if we needs must be conventional,
When shall your parish-parson bawl our banns
Before your gaping clowns?
EVA.
Not in our church —
I think I scarce could hold my head up there.
Is there no other way?
EDGAR.
Yes, if you cared
To fee an over-opulent superstition,
Then they would grant you what they call a licence
To marry. Do you wish it?
EVA.
Do I wish it?
EDGAR.
In London.
EVA.
You will write to me?
EDGAR.
I will.
EVA.
And I will fly to you thro’ the night, the storm —
Yes, tho’ the fire should run along the ground,
As once it did in Egypt. Oh, you see,
I was just out of school, I had no mother —
My sister far away — and you, a gentleman,
Told me to trust you: yes, in everything —
That was the only true love; and I trusted —
Oh, yes, indeed, I would have died for you.
How could you — Oh, how could you? — nay, how could I?
But now you will set all right again, and I
Shall not be made the laughter of the village,
And poor old father not die miserable.
DORA (singing in the distance).
O joy for the promise of May, of May,
O joy for the promise of May.
EDGAR.
Speak not so loudly; that must be your sister.
You never told her, then, of what has past
Between us.
EVA.
Never!
EDGAR.
Do not till I bid you.
EVA.
No, Philip, no. [Turns away.
EDGAR (moved).
How gracefully there she stands
Weeping — the little Niobe! What! we prize
The statue or the picture all the more
When we have made them ours! Is she less loveable,
Less lovely, being wholly mine? To stay —
Follow my art among these quiet fields,
Live with these honest folk —
And play the fool!
No! she that gave herself to me so easily
Will yield herself as easily to another.
EVA.
Did you speak, Philip?
EDGAR.
Nothing more, farewell.
[They embrace.
DORA (coming nearer).
O grief for the promis May, of May,
O grief for the promise of May.
EDGAR (still embracing her).
Keep up your heart until we meet again.
EVA.
If that should break before we meet again?
EDGAR.
Break! nay, but call for Philip when you will,
And he returns.
EVA.
Heaven hears you, Philip Edgar!
EDGAR (moved).
And he would hear you even from the grave.
Heaven curse him if he come not at your call!
[Exit.
Enter DORA.
DORA.
Well, Eva!
EVA.
Oh, Dora, Dora, how long you have been away from home! Oh, how often I have wished for you! It seemed to me that we were parted for ever.
DORA.
For ever, you foolish child! What’s come over you? We parted like the brook yonder about the alder island, to come together again in a moment and to go on together again, till one of us be married. But where is this Mr. Edgar whom you praised so in your first letters? You haven’t even mentioned him in your last?
EVA.
He has gone to London.
DORA.
Ay, child; and you look thin and pale. Is it for his absence? Have you fancied yourself in love with him? That’s all nonsense, you know, such a baby as you are. But you shall tell me all about it.
EVA.
Not now — presently. Yes, I have been in trouble, but I am happy — I think, quite happy now.
DORA (taking EVA’S hand).
Come, then, and make them happy in the long barn, for father is in his glory, and there is a piece of beef like a house-side, and a plum-pudding as big as the round haystack. But see they are coming out for the dance already. Well, my child, let us join them.
Enter all from barn laughing. EVA sits reluctantly under apple tree. STEER enters smoking, sits by EVA.
Dance.
Act II
Five years have elapsed between Acts I. and II.
SCENE. — A meadow. On one side a pathway going over a rustic bridge. At back the farmhouse among trees. In the distance a church spire.
DOBSON and DORA.
DOBSON.
So the owd uncle i’ Coomberland be deäd, Miss Dora, beänt he?
DORA.
Yes, Mr. Dobson, I’ve been attending on his death-bed and his burial.
DOBSON.
It be five year sin’ ye went afoor to him, and it seems to me nobbut t’other day. Hesn’t he left ye nowt?
DORA.
No, Mr. Dobson.
DOBSON.
But he were mighty fond o’ ye, warn’t he?
DORA.
Fonder of poor Eva — like everybody else.
DOBSON (handing DORA basket of roses).
Not like me, Miss Dora; and I ha’ browt these roses to ye — I forgits what they calls ‘em, but I hallus gi’ed soom on ‘em to Miss Eva at this time o’ year. Will ya taäke ‘em? fur Miss Eva, she set the bush by my dairy winder afoor she went to school at Littlechester — so I allus browt soom on ‘em to her; and now she be gone, will ye taäke ‘em, Miss Dora?
DORA.
I thank you. They tell me that yesterday you mentioned her name too suddenly before my father. See that you do not do so again!
DOBSON.
Noä; I knaws a deal better now. I seed how the owd man wur vext.