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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c5c6229 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68156 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68156) diff --git a/old/68156-0.txt b/old/68156-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ced27e5..0000000 --- a/old/68156-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4365 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Can Grande's castle, by Amy Lowell - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Can Grande's castle - -Author: Amy Lowell - -Release Date: May 23, 2022 [eBook #68156] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Al Haines - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAN GRANDE'S CASTLE *** - - - - - - - - CAN GRANDE'S CASTLE - - - BY - - AMY LOWELL - - - - BOSTON AND NEW YORK - HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY - The Riverside Press Cambridge - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY AMY LOWELL - - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - - PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1918 - - REPRINTED OCTOBER, 1918; MARCH, DECEMBER, 1919; - MARCH, 1922; DECEMBER, 1924; DECEMBER, 1925 - - - The Riverside Press - CAMBRIDGE * MASSACHUSETTS - PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. - - - - - _I turn the page and read... - . . . - The heavy musty air, the black desks, - The bent heads and the rustling noises - In the great dome - Vanish... - And - The sun hangs in the cobalt-blue sky, - The boat drifts over the lake shallows, - The fishes skim like umber shades through the undulating weeds, - The oleanders drop their rosy petals on the lawns, - And the swallows dive and swirl and whistle - About the cleft battlements of Can Grande's castle..._" - - Richard Aldington. "AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM." - - - - -PREFACE - -The four poems in this book are more closely related to one another -than may at first appear. They all owe their existence to the war, -for I suppose that, had there been no war, I should never have -thought of them. They are scarcely war poems, in the strict sense of -the word, nor are they allegories in which the present is made to -masquerade as the past. Rather, they are the result of a vision -thrown suddenly back upon remote events to explain a strange and -terrible reality. "Explain" is hardly the word, for to explain the -subtle causes which force men, once in so often, to attempt to break -the civilization they have been at pains to rear, and so oblige -other, saner, men to oppose them, is scarcely the province of poetry. -Poetry works more deviously, but perhaps not less conclusively. - -It has frequently been asserted that an artist lives apart, that he -must withdraw himself from events and be somehow above and beyond -them. To a certain degree this is true, as withdrawal is usually an -inherent quality of his nature, but to seek such a withdrawal is both -ridiculous and frustrating. For an artist to shut himself up in the -proverbial "ivory tower" and never look out of the window is merely a -tacit admission that it is his ancestors, not he, who possess the -faculty of creation. This is the real decadence: to see through the -eyes of dead men. Yet to-day can never be adequately expressed, -largely because we are a part of it and only a part. For that reason -one is flung backwards to a time which is not thrown out of -proportion by any personal experience, and which on that very account -lies extended in something like its proper perspective. - -Circumstances beget an interest in like circumstances, and a poet, -suddenly finding himself in the midst of war, turns naturally to the -experiences of other men in other wars. He discovers something which -has always hitherto struck him as preposterous, that life goes on in -spite of war. That war itself is an expression of life, a barbaric -expression on one side calling for an heroic expression on the other. -It is as if a door in his brain crashed open and he looked into a -distance of which he had heard but never before seen. History has -become life, and he stands aghast and exhilarated before it. - -That is why I have chosen Mr. Aldington's poem as a motto to this -book. For it is obvious that I cannot have experienced what I have -here written. I must have got it from books. But, living now, in -the midst of events greater than these, the books have become reality -to me in a way that they never could have become before, and the -stories I have dug out of dusty volumes seem as actual as my own -existence. I hope that a little of this vividness may have got into -the poems themselves, and so may reach my readers. Perhaps it has -been an impossible task, I can only say that I was compelled to -attempt it. - -The poems are written in "polyphonic prose," a form which has proved -a stumbling-block to many people. "Polyphonic prose" is perhaps a -misleading title, as it tends to make the layman think that this is a -prose form. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The word -"prose" in its title simply refers to the manner in which the words -are printed; "polyphonic"--many-voiced--giving the real key. -"Polyphonic prose" is the freest, the most elastic, of all forms, for -it follows at will any, and all, of the rules which guide other -forms. Metrical verse has one set of laws, cadenced verse another; -"polyphonic prose" can go from one to the other in the same poem with -no sense of incongruity. Its only touchstone is the taste and -feeling of its author. - -Yet, like all other artistic forms, it has certain fundamental -principles, and the chief of these is an insistence on the absolute -adequacy of the manner of a passage to the thought it embodies. -Taste is therefore its determining factor; taste and a rhythmic ear. - -In the preface to "Sword Blades and Poppy Seed," I stated that I had -found the idea of the form in the works of the French poet, M. Paul -Fort. But in adapting it for use in English I was obliged to make so -many changes that it may now be considered as practically a new form. -The greatest of these changes was in the matter of rhythm. M. Fort's -practice consists, almost entirely, of regular verse passages -interspersed with regular prose passages. But a hint in one of his -poems led me to believe that a closer blending of the two types was -desirable, and here at the very outset I met with a difficulty. -Every form of art must have a base; to depart satisfactorily from a -rhythm it is first necessary to have it. M. Fort found this basic -rhythm in the alexandrine. But the rhythm of the alexandrine is not -one of the basic rhythms to an English ear. Altered from syllables -to accent, it becomes light, even frivolous, in texture. There -appeared to be only one basic rhythm for English serious verse: -iambic pentameter, which, either rhymed as in the "heroic couplet" or -unrhymed as in "blank verse," seems the chief foundation of English -metre. It is so heavy and so marked, however, that it is a difficult -rhythm to depart from and go back to; therefore I at once discarded -it for my purpose. - -Putting aside one rhythm of English prosody after another, I finally -decided to base my form upon the long, flowing cadence of oratorical -prose. The variations permitted to this cadence enable the poet to -change the more readily into those of _vers libre_, or even to take -the regular beat of metre, should such a marked time seem advisable. -It is, of course, important that such changes should appear as not -only adequate but necessary when the poem is read aloud. And so I -have found it. However puzzled a reader may be in trying to -apprehend with the eye a prose which is certainly not prose, I have -never noticed that an audience experiences the slightest confusion in -hearing a "polyphonic prose" poem read aloud. I admit that the -typographical arrangement of this form is far from perfect, but I -have not as yet been able to hit upon a better. As all printing is a -mere matter of convention, however, I hope that people will soon -learn to read it with no more difficulty than a musician knows in -reading a musical score. - -So much for the vexed question of rhythm. Others of the many voices -of "polyphonic prose" are rhyme, assonance, alliteration, and return. -Rhyme is employed to give a richness of effect, to heighten the -musical feeling of a passage, but it is employed in a different way -from that usual in metrical verse. For, although the poet may, -indeed must, employ rhyme, it is not done always, nor, for the most -part, regularly. In other words, the rhymes should seldom come at -the ends of the cadences, unless such an effect be especially -desired. This use of rhyme has been another difficulty to readers. -Seeing rhymes, their minds have been compelled by their seeming -strangeness to pull them, Jack-Horner-like, out of the text and -unduly notice them, to the detriment of the passage in which they are -embedded. Hearing them read without stress, they pass unobserved, -merely adding their quota of tonal colour to the whole. - -Return in "polyphonic prose" is usually achieved by the recurrence of -a dominant thought or image, coming in irregularly and in varying -words, but still giving the spherical effect which I have frequently -spoken of as imperative in all poetry. - -It will be seen, therefore, that "polyphonic prose" is, in a sense, -an orchestral form. Its tone is not merely single and melodic as is -that of _vers libre_, for instance, but contrapuntal and various. I -have analyzed it here with some care because, as all the poems in -this volume are written in it, some knowledge of how to approach it -is necessary if one is to understand them. I trust, however, that my -readers will speedily forget matters of technique on turning to the -poems themselves. - -One thing more I wish to say in regard to "Guns as Keys: and the -Great Gate Swings." I should be exceedingly sorry if any part of -this poem were misunderstood, and so construed into an expression of -discourtesy toward Japan. No such idea entered my mind in writing -it; in fact, the Japanese sections in the first part were intended to -convey quite the opposite meaning. I wanted to place in -juxtaposition the delicacy and artistic clarity of Japan and the -artistic ignorance and gallant self-confidence of America. Of -course, each country must be supposed to have the faults of its -virtues; if, therefore, I have also opposed Oriental craft to -Occidental bluff, I must beg indulgence. - -I have tried to give a picture of two races at a moment when they -were brought in contact for the first time. Which of them has gained -most by this meeting, it would be difficult to say. The two episodes -in the "Postlude" are facts, but they can hardly epitomize the whole -truth. Still they are striking, occurring as they did in the same -year. I owe the scene of the drowning of the young student in the -Kegon waterfall to the paper "Young Japan," by Seichi Naruse, which -appeared in the "Seven Arts" for April, 1917. The inscription on the -tree I have copied word for word from Mr. Naruse's translation, and I -wish here to express my thanks, not for his permission (as with a -perfect disregard of morals, I never asked it), but for his beautiful -rendering of the original Japanese. I trust that my appreciation -will exonerate my theft. - -AMY LOWELL. - - BROOKLINE, MASS. - MAY 24, 1918. - - - - -CONTENTS - - -Sea-Blue and Blood-Red - -Guns as Keys: and the Great Gate Swings - -Hedge Island - -The Bronze Horses - - -Thanks are due to the editor of _The North American Review_ for -permission to reprint "Sea-Blue and Blood-Red" and "Hedge Island," -and to the editor of _The Seven Arts_ for a like permission in regard -to "Guns as Keys: and the Great Gate Swings." - - - - -SEA-BLUE AND BLOOD-RED - - -I - -THE MEDITERRANEAN - -Blue as the tip of a salvia blossom, the inverted cup of the sky -arches over the sea. Up to meet it, in a flat band of glaring -colour, rises the water. The sky is unspecked by clouds, but the sea -is flecked with pink and white light shadows, and silver -scintillations snip-snap over the tops of the waves. - -Something moves along the horizon. A puff of wind blowing up the -edges of the silver-blue sky? Clouds! Clouds! Great thunderheads -marching along the skyline! No, by Jove! The sun shining on sails! -Vessels, hull down, with only their tiers of canvas showing. -Beautiful ballooning thunderheads dipping one after another below the -blue band of the sea. - - - -II - -NAPLES - -Red tiles, yellow stucco, layer on layer of windows, roofs, and -balconies, Naples pushes up the hill away from the curving bay. A -red, half-closed eye, Vesuvius watches and waits. All Naples prates -of this and that, and runs about its little business, shouting, -bawling, incessantly calling its wares. Fish frying, macaroni -drying, seven feet piles of red and white brocoli, grapes heaped high -with rosemary, sliced pomegranates dripping seeds, plucked and -bleeding chickens, figs on spits, lemons in baskets, melons cut and -quartered nicely, "_Ah, che bella cosa!_" They even sell water, -clear crystal water for a paul or two. And everything done to a -hullabaloo. They jabber over cheese, they chatter over wine, they -gabble at the corners in the bright sunshine. And piercing through -the noise is the beggar-whine, always, like an undertone, the -beggar-whine; and always the crimson, watching eye of Vesuvius. - - -Have you seen her--the Ambassadress? Ah, _Bellissima Creatura!_ -_Una Donna Kara!_ She is fairer than the Blessed Virgin; and good! -Never was such a soul in such a body! The role of her benefactions -would stretch from here to Posilipo. And she loves the people, loves -to go among them and speak to this one and that, and her -apple-blossom face under the big blue hat works miracles like the -Holy Images in the Churches. - -In her great house with the red marble stairway, Lady Hamilton holds -brilliant sway. From her boudoir windows she can see the bay, and on -the left, hanging there, a flame in a cresset, the blood-red glare of -Vesuvius staring at the clear blue air. - -Blood-red on a night of stars, red like a wound, with lava scars. In -the round wall-mirrors of her boudoir, is the blackness of the bay, -the whiteness of a star, and the bleeding redness of the mountain's -core. Nothing more. All night long, in the mirrors, nothing more. -Black water, red stain, and above, a star with its silver rain. - - -Over the people, over the king, trip the little Ambassadorial feet; -fleet and light as a pigeon's wing, they brush over the artists, the -friars, the _abbés_, the Court. They bear her higher and higher at -each step. Up and over the hearts of Naples goes the beautiful Lady -Hamilton till she reaches even to the Queen; then rests in a -sheening, shimmering altitude, between earth and sky, high and -floating as the red crater of Vesuvius. Buoyed up and sustained in a -blood-red destiny, all on fire for the world to see. - - -Proud Lady Hamilton! Superb Lady Hamilton! Quivering, blood-swept, -vivid Lady Hamilton! Your vigour is enough to awake the dead, as you -tread the newly uncovered courtyards of Pompeii. There is a murmur -all over the opera house when you enter your box. And your frocks! -Jesu! What frocks! "India painting on wyte sattin!" And a new -camlet shawl, all sea-blue and blood-red, in an intricate pattern, -given by Sir William to help you do your marvellous "Attitudes." -Incomparable actress! No theatre built is big enough to compass you. -It takes a world; and centuries shall elbow each other aside to watch -you act your part. Art, Emma, or heart? - -The blood-red cone of Vesuvius glows in the night. - - -She sings "_Luce Bella_," and Naples cries "_Brava! Ancora!_" and -claps its hands. She dances the tarantella, and poses before a -screen with the red-blue shawl. It is the frescoes of Pompeii -unfrozen; it is the fine-cut profiles of Sicilian coins; it is Apollo -Belvedere himself--Goethe has said it. She wears a Turkish dress, -and her face is sweet and lively as rippled water. - - -The lava-streams of Vesuvius descend as far as Portici. She climbs -the peak of fire at midnight--five miles of flame. A blood-red -mountain, seeping tears of blood. She skips over glowing ashes and -laughs at the pale, faded moon, wan in the light of the red-hot lava. -What a night! Spires and sparks of livid flame shooting into the -black sky. Blood-red smears of fire; blood-red gashes, flashing her -out against the smouldering mountain. A tossing fountain of -blood-red jets, it sets her hair flicking into the air like licking -flamelets of a burning aureole. Blood-red is everywhere. She wears -it as a halo and diadem. Emma, Emma Hamilton, Ambassadress of Great -Britain to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. - - - -III - -ABOUKIR BAY, EGYPT - -North-north-west, and a whole-sail breeze, ruffling up the -larkspur-blue sea, breaking the tops of the waves into egg-white -foam, shoving ripple after ripple of pale jade-green over the shoals -of Aboukir Bay. Away to the East rolls in the sluggish water of old -Nile. West and South--hot, yellow land. Ships at anchor. Thirteen -ships flying the _tricolore_, and riding at ease in a patch of blue -water inside a jade-green hem. What of them? Ah, fine ships! The -_Orient_, one hundred and twenty guns, _Franklin_, _Tonnant_, each -with eighty. Weighty metal to float on a patch of blue with a green -hem. They ride stem to stern, in a long line, pointing the way to -Aboukir Bay. - -To the North are thunderheads, ballooning silver-white thunderheads -rising up out of the horizon. The thunderheads draw steadily up into -the blue-blossomed sky. A topgallant breeze pushes them rapidly over -the white-specked water. One, two, six, ten, thirteen separate -tiered clouds, and the wind sings loud in their shrouds and spars. -The royals are furled, but the topgallantsails and topsails are full -and straining. Thirteen white thunderheads bearing down on Aboukir -Bay. - - -The Admiral is working the stump of his right arm; do not cross his -hawse, I advise you. - -"Youngster to the mast-head. What! Going without your glass, and be -damned to you! Let me know what you see, immediately." - -"The enemy fleet, Sir, at anchor in the bay." - -"Bend on the signal to form in line of battle, Sir Ed'ard." - -The bright wind straightens the signal pennants until they stand out -rigid like boards. - -"Captain Hood reports eleven fathoms, Sir, and shall he bear up and -sound?" - -"Signal Captain Hood to lead, sounding." - - -"By the mark ten! A quarter less nine! By the deep eight!" - -Round to starboard swing the white thunderheads, the water of their -bows washing over the green jade hem. An orange sunset steams in the -shrouds, and glints upon the muzzles of the cannon in the open ports. -The hammocks are down; the guns run out and primed; beside each is a -pile of canister and grape; gunners are blowing on their matches; -snatches of fife music drift down to the lower decks. In the -cockpits, the surgeons are feeling the edges of knives and saws; men -think of their wives and swear softly, spitting on their hands. - -"Let go that anchor! By God, she hangs!" - -Past the _Guerrier_ slides the _Goliath_, but the anchor drops and -stops her on the inner quarter of the _Conquérant_. The _Zealous_ -brings up on the bow of the _Guerrier_, the _Orion_, _Theseus_, -_Audacious_, are all come to, inside the French ships. - -The _Vanguard_, Admiral's pennant flying, is lying outside the -_Spartiate_, distant only a pistol shot. - -In a pattern like a country dance, each balanced justly by its -neighbour, lightly, with no apparent labour, the ships slip into -place, and lace a design of white sails and yellow yards on the -purple, flowing water. Almighty Providence, what a day! -Twenty-three ships in one small bay, and away to the Eastward, the -water of old Nile rolling sluggishly between its sand-bars. - - -Seven hundred and forty guns open fire on the French fleet. The sun -sinks into the purple-red water, its low, straight light playing gold -on the slaughter. Yellow fire, shot with red, in wheat sheafs from -the guns; and a racket and ripping which jerks the nerves, then -stuns, until another broadside crashes the ears alive again. The men -shine with soot and sweat, and slip in the blood which wets the deck. - -The surgeons cut and cut, but men die steadily. It is heady work, -this firing into ships not fifty feet distant. Lilac and grey, the -heaving bay, slapped and torn by thousands of splashings of shot and -spars. Great red stars peer through the smoke, a mast is broke short -off at the lashings and falls overboard, with the rising moon -flashing in its top-hamper. - - -There is a rattle of musketry; pipe-clayed, red-coated marines swab, -and fire, and swab. A round shot finishes the job, and tears its way -out through splintering bulwarks. The roar of broadside after -broadside echoes from the shore in a long, hoarse humming. Drums -beat in little fire-cracker snappings, and a boatswain's whistle -wires, thin and sharp, through the din, and breaks short off against -the scream of a gun crew, cut to bits by a bursting cannon. - -Three times they clear the _Vanguard's_ guns of a muck of corpses, -but each new crew comes on with a cheer and each discharge is a jeer -of derision. - -The Admiral is hit. A flying sliver of iron has shivered his head -and opened it, the skin lies quivering over his one good eye. He -sees red, blood-red, and the roar of the guns sounds like water -running over stones. He has to be led below. - - -Eight bells, and the poop of the _Orient_ is on fire. "Higher, men, -train your guns a little higher. Don't give them a loophole to -scotch the flame. 'Tis their new fine paint they'll have to blame." -Yellow and red, waving tiger-lilies, the flames shoot up--round, -serrated petals, flung out of the black-and-silver cup of the bay. -Each stay is wound with a flickering fringe. The ropes curl up and -shrivel as though a twinge of pain withered them. Spasm after spasm -convulses the ship. A Clap!--A Crash!--A Boom!--and silence. The -ships have ceased firing. - -Ten, twenty, forty seconds ... - -Then a dash of water as masts and spars fall from an immense height, -and in the room of the floating, licking tiger-lily is a chasm of -yellow and red whirling eddies. The guns start firing again. - -Foot after foot across the sky goes the moon, with her train of -swirling silver-blue stars. - - -The day is fair. In the clear Egyptian air, the water of Aboukir Bay -is as blue as the bottom flowers of a larkspur spray. The shoals are -green with a white metal sheen, and between its sand-bars the Nile -can be seen, slowly rolling out to sea. - -The Admiral's head is bound up, and his eye is bloodshot and very -red, but he is sitting at his desk writing, for all that. Through -the stern windows is the blue of the sea, and reflections dance -waveringly on his paper. This is what he has written: - - -"VANGUARD. MOUTH OF THE NILE. - -August 8th, 1798. - -MY DEAR SIR-- - -Almighty God has made me the happy instrument in destroying the -enemy's fleet; which, I hope, will be a blessing to Europe... I hope -there will be no difficulty in our getting refitted at Naples... - -Your most obliged and affectionate - -HORATIO NELSON." - - -Dance, little reflections of blue water, dance, while there is yet -time. - - - -IV - -NAPLES - -"Get out of the way, with your skewbald ass. Heu! Heu!" There is -scant room for the quality to pass up and down the whole Strada di -Toledo. Such a running to and fro! Such a clacking, and clapping, -and fleering, and cheering. Holy Mother of God, the town has gone -mad. Listen to the bells. They will crack the very doors of Heaven -with their jangling. The sky seems the hot half-hollow of a clanging -bell. I verily believe they will rock the steeples off their -foundations. Ding! _Dang!_ Dong! Jingle-Jingle! Clank! Clink! -Twitter! Tingle! Half Naples is hanging on the ropes, I vow it is -louder than when they crown the Pope. The lapis-lazuli pillars in -Jesus Church positively lurch with the noise; the carvings of Santa -Chiara are at swinging poise. In San Domenico Maggiore, the altar -quivers; Santa Maria del Carmine's chimes run like rivers tinkling -over stones; the big bell of the Cathedral hammers and drones. It is -gay to-day, with all the bells of Naples at play. - -That's a fine equipage; those bays shine like satin. Why, it is the -British Ambassadress, and two British officers with her in the -carriage! Where is her hat? Tut, you fool, she doesn't need one, -she is wearing a ribbon like a Roman senator. Blue it is, and there -are gold letters: "Nelson and Victory." The woman is undoubtedly -mad, but it is a madness which kindles. "Viva Nelson! _Viva -Miladi!_" Half a hundred hats are flying in the air like kites, and -all the white handkerchiefs in Naples wave from the balconies. - -Brava, Emma Hamilton, a fig for the laws of good taste, your heart -beats blood, not water. Let pale-livered ladies wave decorously; do -you drive the streets and tell the lazzaroni the good news. Proud -Lady Hamilton! Mad, whole-hearted Lady Hamilton! _Viva!_ _Viva -ancora!_ Wear your Nelson-anchor earrings for the sun to flash in; -cut a dash in your new blue shawl, spotted with these same anchors. -What if lily-tongued dandies dip their pens in gall to jeer at you, -your blood is alive. The red of it stains a bright band across the -pages of history. The others are ghosts, rotting in aged tombs. -Light your three thousand lamps, that your windows spark and twinkle -"Nelson" for all the world to see, and even the little wavelets of -the bay have a largess of gold petals dropped from his name. Rule, -Britannia, though she doesn't deserve it; it is all Nelson and the -Ambassadress, in the streets of Naples. - - -He has rooms at the Palazzo Sesso, the British Admiral, and all day -long he watches the red, half-closed eye of Vesuvius gazing down at -his riding ships. At night, there is a red plume over the mountain, -and the light of it fills the room with a crimson glow, it might be a -gala lit for him. His eyes swim. In the open sky hangs a -steel-white star, and a bar of silver cuts through the red -reflections of the mirrors. Red and silver, for the bay is not blue -at night. - - -"Oh brave Nelson, oh God bless and protect our brave deliverer, oh, -Nelson, Nelson, what do we not owe to you." Sea-blue, the warp; but -the thread of the woof is bolted red. Fiddlers and dinners--Well, or -Hell! as the case may be. Queens, populace--these are things, like -guns, to face. Rostral Columns and birthday fêtes jar the nerves of -a wounded head; it is better in bed, in the rosy gloom of a plume-lit -room. - -So the Admiral rests in the Palazzo Sesso, the guest of his -Ambassador, and his ships ride at anchor under the flaming mountain. - -The shuttle shoots, the shuttle weaves. The red thread to the blue -thread cleaves. The web is plaiting which nothing unreaves. - - -The Admiral buys the Ambassadress a table, a pleasant tribute to -hospitality. It is of satin-wood, sprinkled over with little flying -loves arrayed in pink and blue sashes. They sit at this table for -hours, he and she, discussing the destiny of the Kingdom of the Two -Sicilies, and her voice is like water tinkling over stones, and her -face is like the same water twinkling in shallows. - -She counts his money for him, and laughs at his inability to reduce -carotins to English sixpences. She drives him out to Caserta to see -the Queen, and parades him on the Chiaia to delight the common -people. She is always before him, a mist of rose and silver, a -damask irradiation, shading and lighting like a palpitant gem. - -In the evenings, by the light of two wax candles, the Admiral writes -kind acknowledgements to the tributes of half a world. Moslem and -Christian sweetly united to stamp out liberty. It is an inspiring -sight to see. Rule Britannia indeed, with Slavs and Turks boosting -up her footstool. The Sultan has sent a Special Envoy bearing gifts: -the _Chelenck_--"Plume of Triumph," all in diamonds, and a pelisse of -sables, just as bonds of his eternal gratitude. "_Viva il Turco!_" -says Lady Hamilton. The Mother of His Sultanic Majesty begs that the -Admiral's pocket may be the repository of a diamond-studded box to -hold his snuff. The Russian Tzar, a bit self-centred as most -monarchs are, sends him his portrait, diamond-framed of course. The -King of Sardinia glosses over his fewer gems by the richness of his -compliments. The East India Company, secure of its trade, has paid -him ten thousand pounds. The Turkish Company has given him plate. A -grateful country augments his state by creating him the smallest kind -of peer, with a couple of tuppences a year, and veneering it over by -a grant of arms. Arms for an arm, but what for an eye! Does the -Admiral smile as he writes his reply? Writes with his left hand that -he is aware of the high honour it will be to bear this shield: "A -chief undulated argent, from which a palm-tree issuant, between a -disabled ship on the dexter, and a ruinous battery on the sinister, -all proper." "Very proper, indeed," nods Sir William, but Lady -Hamilton prods the coloured paper shield a trifle scornfully. "If I -was King of England, I would make you Duke Nelson, Marquis Nile, Earl -Aboukir, Viscount Pyramid, Baron Crocodile and Prince Victory." "My -dear Emma, what a child you are," says Sir William, but the Admiral -looks out of the window at the blood-red mountain and says nothing at -all. - -Something shakes Naples. Shakes so violently that it makes the -candles on the Admiral's writing-table flicker. Earthquakes, -perhaps. Aye, earthquakes, but not from the red, plumed mountain. -The dreadful tread of marching men is rocking the Bourbon Kingdom of -the Two Sicilies, and the fanfare of Republican trumpets blows over -the city like a great wind. It swirls the dust of Monarchy in front -of it, across Naples and out over the Chiaia to the sea. - -The Admiral walks his quarter-deck with the blue bay beneath him, but -his eyes are red with the glare of Vesuvius, and the blood beats in -and out of his heart so rapidly that he is almost stifled. All -Naples is red to the Admiral, but the core of crimson is the Palazzo -Sesso, in whose windows, at night, the silver stars flash so -brightly. "Crimson and silver," thinks the Admiral, "O Emma, Emma -Hamilton!" - -It is December now, and Naples is heaving and shuddering with the -force of the Earth shock. There is no firm ground on which to stand. -Beneath the Queen's footsteps is a rocking jelly. Even the water of -the bay boils and churns and knocks loudly against the wooden sides -of the British ships. - -Over the satin-wood table, the Admiral and the Ambassadress sit in -consultation, and red fire flares between them across its polished -surface. "My adorable, unfortunate Queen! Dear, dear Queen!" Lady -Hamilton's eyes are carbuncles burning into the Admiral's soul. He -is dazzled, confused, used to the glare on blue water he thinks he -sees it now. It is Duty and Kings. Caste versus riff-raff. The -roast-beef of old England against fried frogs' legs. - -Red, blood-red, figures the weaving pattern, red blushing over blue, -flushing the fabric purple, like lees of wine. - -A blustering night to go to a party. But the coach is ready, and -Lord Nelson is arrived from his ship. Official persons cannot give -the slip to other official persons, and it is Kelim Effendi who gives -the reception, the Sultan's Special Envoy. "Wait," to the coachman; -then lights, jewels, sword-clickings, compliments, a promenade round -the rooms, bowing, and a quick, unwatched exit from a side door. -Someone will wake the snoring coachman hours hence and send him away. -But it will not be his Master or Mistress. These hurry through dark, -windy streets to the Molesiglio. How the waves flow by in the -darkness! "A heavy ground-swell," says the Admiral, but there is a -lull in the wind. A password in English--we are all very English -to-night. "Can you find your way, Emma?" Sir William is perturbed. -But the Ambassadress is gone, gone lightly, swiftly, up the dark mole -and disappeared through a postern in the wall. She is aflame, -scorching with red and gold fires, a torch of scarlet and ochre, a -meteor of sulphur and chrome dashed with vermilion. - -There are massacres in the streets of Naples; in the Palace, a -cowering Queen. This is melodrama, and Emma is the Princess of Opera -Bouffe. Opera Bouffe, with Death as Pulchinello. Ho! Ho! You -laugh. A merry fellow, and how if Death had you by the gizzard? -Comedy and Tragedy shift masks, but Emma is intent on her task and -sees neither. Frightened, vacillating monarchs to guide down a -twisting stair; but there is Nelson climbing up. And there are -lanterns, cutlasses, pistols, and, at last, the night air, black -slapping water, and boats. - -They are afloat, off the trembling, quivering soil of Naples, and -their way is lit by a blood-red glimmer from the tossing fires of -Vesuvius. - - - -V - -PALERMO, ET AL. - -Storm-tossed water, and an island set in a sea as blue as the bottom -flowers of a spike of larkspur, come upon out of a hurly-burly of -wind, and rain, and jagged waves. Through it all has walked the -Ambassadress like some starry saint, pouring mercy out of full hands. -The Admiral sees her misted with rose and purple, radiating comfort -in a phosphoric glow. Is it wise to light one's life with an -iridescence? Perhaps not, but the bolt is shot. - -The stuff is weaving. Now one thread is uppermost, now another, -making striæ of reds and blues, or clouding colour over colour. - - -There are lemon groves, and cool stars, and love flooding beneath -them. There are slanting decks, and full sails, and telescopes, -wearying to a one-eyed man. Then a span of sunlight under pink -oleanders; and evenings beneath painted ceilings, surrounded by the -hum of a court. - -Naples again, with cannon blazing. A haze of orders, documents, -pardons, and a hanging. Palermo, and Dukedoms and "_Nostro -Liberatore_." One cannot see everything with one eye. Flight is -possible, but misted vision shows strange shapes. It is Opera -Bouffe, with Tragedy in the front row. Downing Street hints reproof, -mentions stories of gaming-tables and high piles of gold. What -nonsense to talk of a duel! Sir William and the Admiral live like -brothers. But they will not be silent, those others. "Poor Lady -Nelson, what will she do?" Still it is true that the lady in -question is a bit of a shrew. - - -Blood beats back and forth under the lemon groves, proving itself a -right of way. "I worship, nay, adore you, and if you was single, and -I found you under a hedge, I would instantly marry you. Santa Emma! -As truly as I believe in God, do I believe you are a saint." If the -lady is a saint and he her acolyte, it is by a Divine right. These -are the ways of Heaven; the Admiral prays and knows himself forgiven -and absolved. - -Revolve slowly, shuttle of the blue thread, red is a strong colour -under Sicilian skies. - - - -VI - -LEGHORN TO LONDON - -A court, an Ambassador, and a great Admiral, in travelling carriages -rolling over the map of Europe. Straining up hills, bowling along -levels, rolling down slopes, and all to the tune of "Hip! Hip! -Hurrah!" From Leghorn to Florence, to Ancona, to Trieste, is one -long _Festa_. Every steeple sways with clashing bells, and people -line the roads, yelling "_Viva Nelson! Hola! Hola! Viva -Inghilterra!_" Wherever they go, it is a triumphal progress and a -pinny-pinny-poppy-show. Whips crack, sparks fly, sails fill--another -section of the map is left behind. Carriages again, up hill and -down, from the seaboard straight into Austria. - -Hip! Hip! Hip! The wheels roll into Vienna. Then what a to-do! -Concerts, Operas, Fireworks too. Dinners where one hundred six-foot -grenadiers do the waiting at table. Such grandiloquence! Such -splendid, regal magnificence! Trumpets and cannons, and Nelson's -health; the Jew wealth of Baron Arnstein, and the excellent wine of -his cellars. Haydn conducts an oratorio while the guests are playing -faro. Delightful city! What a pity one must leave! These are -rewards worthy of the Battle of the Nile. You smile. Tut! Tut! -Remember they are only foreigners; the true British breed writes home -scurvy letters for all London to read. Hip! Hip! God save the King! - -For two months, the travelling carriages stand in the stables; but -horses are put to them at last, and they are off again. No Court -this time; but what is a fleeing Queen to a victorious Admiral! Up -hill, down dale, round and round roll the sparkling wheels, kicking -up all the big and little stones of Austria. "Huzza for the Victor -of Aboukir!" shouts the populace. The traces tighten, and the -carriages are gone. In and out of Prague roll the wheels, and across -the border into Germany. - - -Dresden at last, but an Electress turning her back on Lady Hamilton. -A stuffy state, with a fussy etiquette! Why distress oneself for -such a rebuff? Emma will get even with them yet. It is enough for -her to do her "Attitudes," and to perfection. And still--and still-- -But Lady Hamilton has an iron will. - -Proud Lady Hamilton! Blood-betrayed, hot-hearted Lady Hamilton! The -wheels roll out of Dresden, and Lady Hamilton looks at the Admiral. -"Oh, Nelson, Nelson." But the whips are cracking and one cannot hear. - - -Roll over Germany, wheels. Roll through Magdeburg, Lodwostz, Anhalt. -Roll up to the banks of the Elbe, and deposit your travellers in a -boat once more. Along the green shores of the green-and-brown river -to Hamburg, where merchants and bankers are waiting to honour the man -who has saved their gold. Huzza for Nelson, Saviour of Banks! Where -is the frigate a thankful country might have sent him? Not there. -Why did he come overland, forsooth? The Lion and the Unicorn are -uncouth beasts, but we do not mind in the least. No, indeed! We -take a packet and land at Yarmouth. - -"Hip! Hip! Hip! God save the King! Long live Nelson, Britain's -Pride!" The common people are beside themselves with joy, there is -no alloy to their welcome. Before _The Wrestler's_ inn, troops are -paraded. And every road is arcaded with flags and flowers. "He is -ours! Hip! Hip! Nelson!" Cavalcades of volunteer cavalry march -before him. Two days to London, and every road bordered with smiling -faces. They cannot go faster than a footpace because the carriage is -drawn by men. Muskets pop, and every shop in every town is a flutter -of bunting. - -Red, Lady Hamilton, red welcome for your Admiral. Red over foggy -London. Bow bells peeling, and the crowded streets reeling through -fast tears. Years, Emma, and Naples covered by their ashes. - -Blood-red, his heart flashes to hers, but the great city of London is -blurred to both of them. - - - -VII - -MERTON - -Early Autumn, and a light breeze rustling through the trees of -Paradise Merton, and pashing the ripples of the Little Nile against -the sides of the arched stone bridge. It is ten o'clock, and through -the blowing leaves, the lighted windows of the house twinkle like -red, pulsing stars. Far down the road is a jingle of harness, and a -crunching of wheels. Out of the darkness flare the lamps of a -post-chaise, blazing basilisk eyes, making the smooth sides of leaves -shine, as they approach, the darkness swallowing in behind them. A -rattle, a stamping of hoofs, and the chaise comes to a stand opposite -a wooden gate. It is not late, maybe a bit ahead of time. The -post-boy eases himself in the saddle, and loosens his reins. The -light from the red windows glitters in the varnished panels of the -chaise. - -How tear himself away from so dear a home! Can he wrench himself -apart, can he pull his heart out of his body? Her face is pitiful -with tears. Two years gone, and only a fortnight returned. His head -hums with the rushing of his blood. "Wife in the sight of -Heaven"--surely one life between them now, and yet the summons has -come. Blue water is calling, the peaked seas beckon. - -The Admiral kneels beside his child's bed, and prays. These are the -ways of the Almighty. "His will be done." Pathetic trust, thrusting -aside desire. The fire on the hearth is faint and glowing, and -throws long shadows across the room. How quiet it is, how far from -battles and crowning seas. - -She strains him in her arms, she whispers, sobbing, "Dearest husband -of my heart, you are all the world to Emma." She delays his going by -minute and minute. "My Dearest and most Beloved, God protect you and -my dear Horatia and grant us a happy meeting. Amen! Amen!" - -Tear, blue shuttle, through the impeding red, but have a care lest -the thread snap in following. - - -"God bless you, George. Take care of Lady Hamilton." He shakes his -brother-in-law by the hand. The chaise door bangs. The post-boy -flicks his whip, the horses start forward. Red windows through -flecking trees. Blood-red windows growing dimmer behind him, until -they are only a shimmer in the distance. His eyes smart, searching -for their faint glimmer through blowing trees. His eyes smart with -tears, and fears which seem to haunt him. All night he drives, -through Guildford, over Hindhead, on his way to Portsmouth. - - - -VIII - -AT SEA, OFF CAPE TRAFALGAR - -Blue as the tip of a deep blue salvia blossom, the inverted cup of -the sky arches over the sea. Up to meet it, in a concave curve of -bright colour, rises the water, flat, unrippled, for the wind -scarcely stirs. How comes the sky so full of clouds on the horizon, -with none over head? Clouds! Great clouds of canvas! Mighty -ballooning clouds, bearing thunder and crinkled lightning in their -folds. They roll up out of the horizon, tiered, stately. Sixty-four -great thunder-clouds, more perhaps, throwing their shadows over ten -miles of sea. - - -Boats dash back and forth. Their ordered oars sparkling like silver -as they lift and fall. Frigate captains receiving instructions, -coming aboard the flagship, departing from it. Blue and white, with -a silver flashing of boats. - - -Thirty-three clouds headed South, twenty-three others converging upon -them! They move over the water as silently as the drifting air. -Lines to lines, drawing nearer on the faint impulse of the breeze. - - -Blue coated, flashing with stars, the Admiral walks up and down the -poop. Stars on his breast, in his eyes the white glare of the sea. -The enemy wears, looping end to end, and waits, poised in a -half-circle like a pale new moon upon the water. The British ships -point straight to the hollow between the horns, and even their -stu'nsails are set. Arrows flung at a crescent over smooth blue -water. - - -"Now, Blackwood, I am going to amuse the fleet with a signal. Mr. -Pasco, I wish to say to the fleet, 'England confides that every man -will do his duty.' You must be quick, for I have one more to make, -which is for close action." - -"If your Lordship will permit me to substitute 'expects' for -'confides,' it will take less time, because 'expects' is in the -vocabulary and 'confides' must be spelt." - -Flutter flags, fling out your message to the advancing arrows. -Ripple and fly over the Admiral's head. Signal flags are of all -colours, but the Admiral sees only the red. It beats above him, -outlined against the salvia-blue sky. A crimson blossom sprung from -his heart, the banner royal of his Destiny struck out sharply against -the blue of Heaven. - - -Frigate Captain Blackwood bids good-bye to the Admiral. "I trust, my -Lord, that on my return to the Victory, I shall find your Lordship -well and in possession of twenty prizes." A gash of blood-colour -cuts across the blue sky, or is it that the Admiral's eyes are tired -with the flashing of the sea? "God bless you, Blackwood, I shall -never speak to you again." What is it that haunts his mind? He is -blinded by red, blood-red fading to rose, smeared purple, blotted out -by blue. Larkspur sea and blue sky above it, with the flickering -flags of his signal standing out in cameo. - - -Boom! A shot passes through the main topgallantsail of the -_Victory_. The ship is under fire. Her guns cannot bear while she -is head on. Straight at the floating half-moon of ships goes the -_Victory_, leading her line, muffled in the choking smoke of the -_Bucentaure's_ guns. The sun is dimmed, but through the smoke-cloud -prick diamond sparkles from the Admiral's stars as he walks up and -down the quarter-deck. - -Red glare of guns in the Admiral's eyes. Red stripe of marines drawn -up on the poop. Eight are carried off by a single shot, and the red -stripe liquefies, and seeps, lapping, down the gangway. Every -stu'nsail boom is shot away. The blue of the sea has vanished; there -is only the red of cannon, and the white twinkling sparks of the -Admiral's stars. - - -The bows of the _Victory_ cross the wake of the _Bucentaure_, and one -after another, as they bear, the double-shotted guns tear through the -woodwork of the French ship. The _Victory_ slips past like a -shooting shuttle, and runs on board the _Redoubtable_, seventy-four, -and their spars lock, with a shock which almost stops their headway. - - -It is a glorious Autumn day outside the puff-ball of smoke. A still, -blue sea, unruffled, banded to silver by a clear sun. - -Guns of the _Victory_, guns of the _Redoubtable_, exploding -incessantly, making one long draw of sound. Rattling upon it, rain -on a tin roof, the pop-pop of muskets from the mizzen-top of the -_Redoubtable_. There are sharpshooters in the mizzen-top, aiming at -the fog below. Suddenly, through it, spears the gleam of diamonds; -it is the Admiral's stars, reflecting the flashes of the guns. - - -Red blood in a flood before his eyes. Red from horizon to zenith, -crushing down like beaten metal. The Admiral falls to his knees, to -his side, and lies there, and the crimson glare closes over him, a -cupped inexorable end. "They have done for me at last, Hardy. My -back-bone is shot through." - -The blue thread is snapped and the bolt falls from the loom. Weave, -shuttle of the red thread. Weave over and under yourself in a -scarlet ecstasy. It is all red now he comes to die. Red, with the -white sparkles of those cursed stars. - - -Carry him gently down, and let no man know that it is the Admiral who -has fallen. He covers his face and his stars with his handkerchief. -The white glitter is quenched; the white glitter of his life will -shine no more. "Doctor, I am gone. I leave Lady Hamilton and my -daughter Horatia as a legacy to my Country." Pathetic trust, -thrusting aside knowledge. Flint, the men who sit in Parliament, -flint which no knocking can spark to fire. But you still believe in -men's goodness, knowing only your own heart. "Let my dear Lady -Hamilton have my hair, and all other things belonging to me." - -The red darkens, and is filled with tossing fires. He sees Vesuvius, -and over it the single silver brilliance of a star. - -"One would like to live a little longer, but thank God, I have done -my duty." - -Slower, slower, passes the red thread and stops. The weaving is done. - - -In the log-book of the _Victory_, it is written: "Partial firing -continued until 4.30, when a victory having been reported to the -Right Honourable Lord Viscount Nelson, K.B., he died of his wound." - - - -IX - -CALAIS - -It is a timber-yard, pungent with the smell of wood: Oak, Pine, and -Cedar. But under the piles of white boards, they say there are bones -rotting. An old guide to Calais speaks of a wooden marker shaped -like a battledoor, handle downwards, on the broad part of which was -scratched: "Emma Hamilton, England's Friend." It was a poor thing -and now even that has gone. Let us buy an oak chip for remembrance. -It will only cost a sou. - - - - -GUNS AS KEYS: AND THE GREAT GATE SWINGS - - -PART I - -Due East, far West. Distant as the nests of the opposite winds. -Removed as fire and water are, as the clouds and the roots of the -hills, as the wills of youth and age. Let the key-guns be mounted, -make a brave show of waging war, and pry off the lid of Pandora's box -once more. Get in at any cost, and let out at little, so it seems, -but wait--wait--there is much to follow through the Great Gate! - - -They do not see things in quite that way, on this bright November -day, with sun flashing, and waves splashing, up and down Chesapeake -Bay. On shore, all the papers are running to press with huge -headlines: "Commodore Perry Sails." Dining-tables buzz with -travellers' tales of old Japan culled from Dutch writers. But we are -not like the Dutch. No shutting the stars and stripes up on an -island. Pooh! We must trade wherever we have a mind. Naturally! - - -The wharves of Norfolk are falling behind, becoming smaller, confused -with the warehouses and the trees. On the impetus of the strong -South breeze, the paddle-wheel steam frigate, _Mississippi_, of the -United States Navy, sails down the flashing bay. Sails away, and -steams away, for her furnaces are burning, and her paddle-wheels -turning, and all her sails are set and full. Pull, men, to the old -chorus: - - "A Yankee ship sails down the river, - Blow, boys, blow; - Her masts and spars they shine like silver, - Blow, my bully boys, blow." - - -But what is the use? That plaguy brass band blares out with "The -Star Spangled Banner," and you cannot hear the men because of it. -Which is a pity, thinks the Commodore, in his cabin, studying the -map, and marking stepping-stones: Madeira, Cape Town, Mauritius, -Singapore, nice firm stepping-places for seven-league boots. -Flag-stones up and down a hemisphere. - -My! How she throws the water off from her bows, and how those -paddle-wheels churn her along at the rate of seven good knots! You -are a proud lady, Mrs. _Mississippi_, curtseying down Chesapeake Bay, -all a-flutter with red white and blue ribbons. - - At Mishima in the Province of Kai, - Three men are trying to measure a pine tree - By the length of their outstretched arms. - Trying to span the bole of a huge pine tree - By the spread of their lifted arms. - Attempting to compress its girth - Within the limit of their extended arms. - Beyond, Fuji, - Majestic, inevitable, - Wreathed over by wisps of cloud. - The clouds draw about the mountain, - But there are gaps. - The men reach about the pine tree, - But their hands break apart; - The rough bark escapes their hand-clasps; - The tree is unencircled. - Three men are trying to measure the stem of a gigantic pine tree, - With their arms, - At Mishima in the Province of Kai. - - -Furnaces are burning good Cumberland coal at the rate of twenty-six -tons per diem, and the paddle-wheels turn round and round in an iris -of spray. She noses her way through a wallowing sea; foots it, bit -by bit, over the slanting wave slopes; pants along, thrust forward by -her breathing furnaces, urged ahead by the wind draft flattening -against her taut sails. - -The Commodore, leaning over the taffrail, sees the peak of Madeira -sweep up out of the haze. The _Mississippi_ glides into smooth -water, and anchors under the lee of the "Desertas." - - -Ah! the purple bougainvilia! And the sweet smells of the heliotrope -and geranium hedges! Ox-drawn sledges clattering over cobbles--what -a fine pause in an endless voyaging. Stars and stripes demanding -five hundred tons of coal, ten thousand gallons of water, resting for -a moment on a round stepping-stone, with the drying sails slatting -about in the warm wind. - -"Get out your accordion, Jim, and give us the 'Suwannee River' to -show those Dagoes what a tune is. Pipe up with the chorus, boys. -Let her go." - -The green water flows past Madeira. Flows under the paddle-boards, -making them clip and clap. The green water washes along the sides of -the Commodore's steam flagship and passes away to leeward. - -"Hitch up your trowsers, Black Face, and do a horn-pipe. It's a fine -quiet night for a double shuffle. Keep her going, Jim. Louder. -That's the ticket. Gosh, but you can spin, Blackey!" - - - The road is hilly - Outside the Tiger Gate, - And striped with shadows from a bow moon - Slowly sinking to the horizon. - The roadway twinkles with the bobbing of lanterns, - Melon-shaped, round, oblong, - Lighting the steps of those who pass along it; - And there is a sweet singing of many _semi_, - From the cages which an insect-seller - Carries on his back. - - -Westward of the Canaries, in a wind-blazing sea. Engineers, there, -extinguish the furnaces; carpenters, quick, your screwdrivers and -mallets, and unship the paddle-boards. Break out her sails, -quartermasters, the wind will carry her faster than she can steam, -for the trades have her now, and are whipping her along in fine -clipper style. Key-guns, your muzzles shine like basalt above the -tumbling waves. Polished basalt cameoed upon malachite. -Yankee-doodle-dandy! A fine upstanding ship, clouded with canvas, -slipping along like a trotting filly out of the Commodore's own -stables. White sails and sailors, blue-coated officers, and red in a -star sparked through the claret decanter on the Commodore's luncheon -table. - -The Commodore is writing to his wife, to be posted at the next -stopping place. Two years is a long time to be upon the sea. - - - Nigi-oi of Matsuba-ya - Celebrated oiran, - Courtesan of unrivalled beauty, - The great silk mercer, Mitsui, - Counts himself a fortunate man - As he watches her parade in front of him - In her robes of glazed blue silk - Embroidered with singing nightingales. - He puffs his little silver pipe - And arranges a fold of her dress. - He parts it at the neck - And laughs when the falling plum-blossoms - Tickle her naked breasts. - The next morning he makes out a bill - To the Director of the Dutch Factory at Nagasaki - For three times the amount of the goods - Forwarded that day in two small junks - In the care of a trusted clerk. - - -The North-east trades have smoothed away into hot, blue doldrums. -Paddle-wheels to the rescue. Thank God, we live in an age of -invention. What air there is, is dead ahead. The deck is a bed of -cinders, we wear a smoke cloud like a funeral plume. Funeral--of -whom? Of the little heathens inside the Gate? Wait! Wait! These -monkey-men have got to trade, Uncle Sam has laid his plans with care, -see those black guns sizzling there. "It's deuced hot," says a -lieutenant, "I wish I could look in at a hop in Newport this evening." - - - The one hundred and sixty streets in the Sanno quarter - Are honey-gold, - Honey-gold from the gold-foil screens in the houses, - Honey-gold from the fresh yellow mats; - The lintels are draped with bright colours, - And from eaves and poles - Red and white paper lanterns - Glitter and swing. - Through the one hundred and sixty decorated - streets of the Sanno quarter, - Trails the procession, - With a bright slowness, - To the music of flutes and drums. - Great white sails of cotton - Belly out along the honey-gold streets. - Sword bearers, - Spear bearers, - Mask bearers, - Grinning masks of mountain genii, - And a white cock on a drum - Above a purple sheet. - Over the flower hats of the people, - Shines the sacred palanquin, - "Car of gentle motion," - Upheld by fifty men, - Stalwart servants of the god, - Bending under the weight of mirror-black lacquer, - Of pillars and roof-tree - Wrapped in chased and gilded copper. - Portly silk tassels sway to the marching of feet, - Wreaths of gold and silver flowers - Shoot sudden scintillations at the gold-foil screens. - The golden phoenix on the roof of the palanquin - Spreads its wings, - And seems about to take flight - Over the one hundred and sixty streets - Straight into the white heart - Of the curved blue sky. - Six black oxen, - With white and red trappings, - Draw platforms on which are musicians, dancers, actors, - Who posture and sing, - Dance and parade, - Up and down the honey-gold streets, - To the sweet playing of flutes, - And the ever-repeating beat of heavy drums, - To the constant banging of heavily beaten drums, - To the insistent repeating rhythm of beautiful great drums. - - -Across the equator and panting down to Saint Helena, trailing smoke -like a mourning veil. Jamestown jetty, and all the officers in the -ship making at once for Longwood. Napoleon! Ah, tales--tales--with -nobody to tell them. A bronze eagle caged by floating woodwork. A -heart burst with beating on a flat drop-curtain of sea and sky. -Nothing now but pigs in a sty. Pigs rooting in the Emperor's -bedroom. God be praised, we have a plumed smoking ship to take us -away from this desolation. - - "Boney was a warrior - Away-i-oh; - Boney was a warrior, - John François." - - -"Oh, shut up, Jack, you make me sick. Those pigs are like worms -eating a corpse. Bah!" - - - The ladies, - Wistaria Blossom, Cloth-of-Silk, and Deep Snow, - With their ten attendants, - Are come to Asakusa - To gaze at peonies. - To admire crimson-carmine peonies, - To stare in admiration at bomb-shaped, white and sulphur peonies, - To caress with a soft finger - Single, rose-flat peonies, - Tight, incurved, red-edged peonies, - Spin-wheel circle, amaranth peonies. - To smell the acrid pungence of peony blooms, - And dream for months afterwards - Of the temple garden at Asakusa, - Where they walked together - Looking at peonies. - - -The Gate! The Gate! The far-shining Gate! Pat your guns and thank -your stars you have not come too late. The Orient's a sleepy place, -as all globe-trotters say. We'll get there soon enough, my lads, and -carry it away. That's a good enough song to round the Cape with, and -there's the Table Cloth on Table Mountain and we've drawn a Lead over -half the curving world. Three cheers for Old Glory, fellows. - - - A Daimio's procession - Winds between two green hills, - A line of thin, sharp, shining, pointed spears - Above red coats - And yellow mushroom hats. - A man leading an ox - Has cast himself upon the ground, - He rubs his forehead in the dust, - While his ox gazes with wide, moon eyes - At the glittering spears - Majestically parading - Between two green hills. - - -Down, down, down, to the bottom of the map; but we must up again, -high on the other side. America, sailing the seas of a planet to -stock the shop counters at home. Commerce-raiding a nation; pulling -apart the curtains of a temple and calling it trade. Magnificent -mission! Every shop-till in every bye-street will bless you. Force -the shut gate with the muzzles of your black cannon. Then wait--wait -for fifty years--and see who has conquered. But now the -_Mississippi_ must brave the Cape, in a crashing of bitter seas. The -wind blows East, the wind blows West, there is no rest under these -clashing clouds. Petrel whirl by like torn newspapers along a -street. Albatrosses fly close to the mastheads. Dread purrs over -this stormy ocean, and the smell of the water is the dead, oozing -dampness of tombs. - - - Tiger rain on the temple bridge of carved green-stone, - Slanting tiger lines of rain on the lichened lanterns - of the gateway, - On the stone statues of mythical warriors. - Striped rain making the bells of the pagoda roofs flutter, - Tiger-footing on the bluish stones of the court-yard, - Beating, snapping, on the cheese-rounds of open umbrellas, - Licking, tiger-tongued, over the straw mat which - a pilgrim wears upon his shoulders, - Gnawing, tiger-toothed, into the paper mask - Which he carries on his back. - Tiger-clawed rain scattering the peach-blossoms, - Tiger tails of rain lashing furiously among the cryptomerias. - - -"Land--O." Mauritius. Stepping-stone four. The coaling ships have -arrived, and the shore is a hive of Negroes, and Malays, and Lascars, -and Chinese. The clip and clatter of tongues is unceasing. "What -awful brutes!" "Obviously, but the fruits they sell are good." -"Food, fellows, bully good food." Yankee money for pine-apples, -shaddocks, mangoes. "Who were Paul and Virginia?" "Oh, a couple of -spooneys who died here, in a shipwreck, because the lady wouldn't -take off her smock." "I say, Fred, that's a shabby way to put it. -You've no sentiment." "Maybe. I don't read much myself, and when I -do, I prefer United States, something like old Artemus Ward, for -instance." "Oh, dry up, and let's get some donkeys and go for a -gallop. We've got to begin coaling to-morrow, remember." - - - The beautiful dresses, - Blue, Green, Mauve, Yellow; - And the beautiful green pointed hats - Like Chinese porcelains! - See, a band of geisha - Is imitating the state procession of a Corean Ambassador, - Under painted streamers, - On an early afternoon. - - -The hot sun burns the tar up out of the deck. The paddle-wheels -turn, flinging the cupped water over their shoulders. Heat smoulders -along the horizon. The shadow of the ship floats off the starboard -quarter, floats like a dark cloth upon the sea. The watch is pulling -on the topsail halliards: - - "O Sally Brown of New York City, - Ay ay, roll and go." - -Like a tired beetle, the _Mississippi_ creeps over the flat, glass -water, creeps on, breathing heavily. Creeps--creeps--and sighs and -settles at Pointe de Galle, Ceylon. - -Spice islands speckling the Spanish Main. Fairy tales and stolen -readings. Saint John's Eve! Mid-summer Madness! Here it is all -true. But the smell of the spice-trees is not so nice as the smell -of new-mown hay on the Commodore's field at Tarrytown. But what can -one say to forests of rose-wood, satin-wood, ebony! To the talipot -tree, one leaf of which can cover several people with its single -shade. Trade! Trade! Trade in spices for an earlier generation. -We dream of lacquers and precious stones. Of spinning telegraph -wires across painted fans. Ceylon is an old story, ours will be the -glory of more important conquests. - -But wait--wait. No one is likely to force the Gate. The smoke of -golden Virginia tobacco floats through the blue palms. "You say you -killed forty elephants with this rifle!" "Indeed, yes, and a -trifling bag, too." - - - Down the ninety-mile rapids - Of the Heaven Dragon River, - He came, - With his bowmen, - And his spearmen, - Borne in a gilded palanquin, - To pass the Winter in Yedo - By the Shōgun's decree. - To pass the Winter idling in the Yoshiwara, - While his bowmen and spearmen - Gamble away their rusted weapons - Every evening - At the Hour of the Cock. - - -Her Britannic Majesty's frigate _Cleopatra_ salutes the _Mississippi_ -as she sails into the harbour of Singapore. Vessels galore choke the -wharves. From China, Siam, Malaya; Sumatra, Europe, America. This -is the bargain counter of the East. Goods--Goods, dumped ashore to -change boats and sail on again. Oaths and cupidity; greasy clothes -and greasy dollars wound into turbans. Opium and birds'-nests -exchanged for teas, cassia, nankeens; gold thread bartered for -Brummagem buttons. Pocket knives told off against teapots. Lots and -lots of cheap damaged porcelains, and trains of silken bales awaiting -advantageous sales to Yankee merchantmen. The figure-head of the -_Mississippi_ should be a beneficent angel. With her guns to -persuade, she should lay the foundation of such a market on the -shores of Japan. "We will do what we can," writes the Commodore, in -his cabin. - - - Outside the drapery shop of Taketani Sabai, - Strips of dyed cloth are hanging out to dry. - Fine Arimitsu cloth, - Fine blue and white cloth, - Falling from a high staging, - Falling like falling water, - Like blue and white unbroken water - Sliding over a high cliff, - Like the Ono Fall on the Kisokaido Road. - Outside the shop of Taketani Sabai, - They have hung the fine dyed cloth - In strips out to dry. - - -Romance and heroism; and all to make one dollar two. Through grey -fog and fresh blue breezes, through heat, and sleet, and sheeted -rain. For centuries men have pursued the will-o'-the-wisp--trade. -And they have got--what? All civilization weighed in twopenny scales -and fastened with string. A sailing planet packed in a dry-goods -box. Knocks, and shocks, and blocks of extended knowledge, contended -for and won. Cloves and nutmegs, and science stowed among the -grains. Your gains are not in silver, mariners, but in the songs of -violins, and the thin voices whispering through printed books. - -"It looks like a dinner-plate," thinks the officer of the watch, as -the _Mississippi_ sails up the muddy river to Canton, with the -Dragon's Cave Fort on one side, and the Girl's Shoe Fort on the other. - -The Great Gate looms in a distant mist, and the anchored squadron -waits and rests, but its coming is as certain as the equinoxes, and -the lightning bolts of its guns are ready to tear off centuries like -husks of corn. - -The Commodore sips bottled water from Saratoga, and makes out a -report for the State Department. The men play pitch-and-toss, and -the officers poker, and the betting gives heavy odds against the -little monkey-men. - - - On the floor of the reception room of the Palace - They have laid a white quilt, - And on the quilt, two red rugs; - And they have set up two screens of white paper - To hide that which should not be seen. - At the four corners, they have placed lanterns, - And now they come. - Six attendants, - Three to sit on either side of the condemned man, - Walking slowly. - Three to the right, - Three to the left, - And he between them - In his dress of ceremony - With the great wings. - Shadow wings, thrown by the lantern light, - Trail over the red rugs to the polished floor, - Trail away unnoticed, - For there is a sharp glitter from a dagger - Borne past the lanterns on a silver tray. - "O my Master, - I would borrow your sword, - For it may be a consolation to you - To perish by a sword to which you are accustomed." - Stone, the face of the condemned man, - Stone, the face of the executioner, - And yet before this moment - These were master and pupil, - Honoured and according homage, - And this is an act of honourable devotion. - Each face is passive, - Hewed as out of strong stone, - Cold as a statue above a temple porch. - Down slips the dress of ceremony to the girdle. - Plunge the dagger to its hilt. - A trickle of blood runs along the white flesh - And soaks into the girdle silk. - Slowly across from left to right, - Slowly, upcutting at the end, - But the executioner leaps to his feet, - Poises the sword-- - Did it flash, hover, descend? - There is a thud, a horrible rolling, - And the heavy sound of a loosened, falling body, - Then only the throbbing of blood - Spurting into the red rugs. - For he who was a man is that thing - Crumpled up on the floor, - Broken, and crushed into the red rugs. - The friend wipes the sword, - And his face is calm and frozen - As a stone statue on a Winter night - Above a temple gateway. - - - -PART II - -Four vessels giving easily to the low-running waves and cat's-paw -breezes of a Summer sea. July, 1853, Mid-Century, but just on the -turn. Mid-Century, with the vanishing half fluttering behind on a -foam-bubbled wake. Four war ships steering for the "Land of Great -Peace," caparisoned in state, cleaving a jewelled ocean to a Dragon -Gate. Behind it, the quiet of afternoon. Golden light reflecting -from the inner sides of shut portals. War is an old wives' tale, a -frail beautiful embroidery of other ages. The panoply of battle -fades. Arrows rust in arsenals, spears stand useless on their butts -in vestibules. Cannon lie unmounted in castle yards, and rats and -snakes make nests in them and rear their young in unmolested -satisfaction. - -The sun of Mid-Summer lies over the "Land of Great Peace," and behind -the shut gate they do not hear the paddle-wheels of distant vessels -unceasingly turning and advancing, through the jewelled -scintillations of the encircling sea. - - -_Susquehanna_ and _Mississippi_, steamers, towing _Saratoga_ and -_Plymouth_, sloops of war. Moving on in the very eye of the wind, -with not a snip of canvas upon their slim yards. Fugi!--a point -above nothing, for there is a haze. Stop gazing, that is the bugle -to clear decks and shot guns. We must be prepared, as we run up the -coast straight to the Bay of Yedo. "I say, fellows, those boats -think they can catch us, they don't know that this is Yankee steam." -Bang! The shore guns are at work. And that smoke-ball would be a -rocket at night, but we cannot see the gleam in this sunshine. - -Black with people are the bluffs of Uraga, watching the "fire-ships," -lipping windless up the bay. Say all the prayers you know, priests -of Shinto and Buddha. Ah! The great splashing of the wheels stops, -a chain rattles. The anchor drops at the Hour of the Ape. - -A clock on the Commodore's chest of drawers strikes five with a -silvery tinkle. - - -Boats are coming from all directions. Beautiful boats of unpainted -wood, broad of beam, with tapering sterns, and clean runs. Swiftly -they come, with shouting rowers standing to their oars. The shore -glitters with spears and lacquered hats. Compactly the boats -advance, and each carries a flag--white-black-white--and the stripes -break and blow. But the tow-lines are cast loose when the rowers -would make them fast to the "black ships," and those who would climb -the chains slip back dismayed, checked by a show of cutlasses, -pistols, pikes. "_Naru Hodo!_" This is amazing, unprecedented! Even -the Vice-Governor, though he boards the Susquehanna, cannot see the -Commodore. "His High Mighty Mysteriousness, Lord of the Forbidden -Interior," remains in his cabin. Extraordinary! Horrible! - -Rockets rise from the forts, and their trails of sparks glitter -faintly now, and their bombs break in faded colours as the sun goes -down. - -Bolt the gate, monkey-men, but it is late to begin turning locks so -rusty and worn. - - -Darkness over rice-fields and hills. The Gold Gate hides in shadow. -Upon the indigo-dark water, millions of white jelly-fish drift, like -lotus-petals over an inland lake. The land buzzes with prayer, low, -dim smoke hanging in air; and every hill gashes and glares with -shooting fires. The fire-bells are ringing in double time, and a -heavy swinging boom clashes from the great bells of temples. -Couriers lash their horses, riding furiously to Yedo; junks and -scull-boats arrive hourly at Shinagawa with news; runners, bearing -dispatches, pant in government offices. The hollow doors of the -Great Gate beat with alarms. The charmed Dragon Country shakes and -trembles, Iyéyoshi, twelfth Shōgun of the Tokugawa line, -sits in his city. Sits in the midst of one million, two hundred -thousand trembling souls, and his mind rolls forward and back like a -ball on a circular runway, and finds no goal. Roll, poor distracted -mind of a sick man. What can you do but wait, trusting in your -Dragon Gate, for how should you know that it is rusted. - -But there is a sign over the "black ships." A wedge-shaped tail of -blue sparklets, edged with red, trails above them as though a Dragon -were pouring violet sulphurous spume from steaming nostrils, and the -hulls and rigging are pale, quivering, bright as Taira ghosts on the -sea of Nagato. - -Up and down walk sentinels, fore and aft, and at the side gangways. -There is a pile of round shot and four stands of grape beside each -gun; and carbines, and pistols, and cutlasses, are laid in the boats. -Floating arsenals--floating sample-rooms for the wares of a -continent; shop-counters, flanked with weapons, adrift among the -jelly-fishes. - -Eight bells, and the meteor washes away before the wet, white wisps -of dawn. - - -Through the countrysides of the "Land of Great Peace," flowers are -blooming. The greenish-white, sterile blossoms of hydrangeas boom -faintly, like distant inaudible bombs of colour exploding in the -woods. Weigelias prick the pink of their slender trumpets against -green backgrounds. The fan-shaped leaves of ladies' slippers rustle -under cryptomerias. - -Midsummer heat curls about the cinnamon-red tree-boles along the -Tokaido. The road ripples and glints with the passing to and fro, -and beyond, in the roadstead, the "black ships" swing at their -anchors and wait. - -All up and down the Eastern shore of the bay is a feverish digging, -patting, plastering. Forts to be built in an hour to resist the -barbarians, if, peradventure, they can. Japan turned to, what will -it not do! Fishermen and palanquin-bearers, pack-horse-leaders and -farm-labourers, even women and children, pat and plaster. Disaster -batters at the Dragon Gate. Batters at the doors of Yedo, where -Samurai unpack their armour, and whet and feather their arrows. - -Daimios smoke innumerable pipes, and drink unnumbered cups of tea, -discussing--discussing--"What is to be done?" The Shōgun is -no Emperor. What shall they do if the "hairy devils" take a notion -to go to Kiōto! Then indeed would the Tokugawa fall. The -prisons are crammed with those who advise opening the Gate. Open the -Gate, and let the State scatter like dust to the winds! Absurd! -Unthinkable! Suppress the "brocade pictures" of the floating -monsters with which book-sellers and picture-shop keepers are -delighting and affrighting the populace. Place a ban on speech. -Preach, inert Daimios--the Commodore will _not_ go to Nagasaki, and -the roar of his guns will drown the clattering fall of your Dragon -Doors if you do not open them in time. East and West, and trade -shaded by heroism. Hokusai is dead, but his pupils are lampooning -your carpet soldiers. Spare the dynasty--parley, procrastinate. -Appoint two Princes to receive the Commodore, at once, since he will -not wait over long. At Kurihama, for he must not come to Yedo. - - -Flip--flap--flutter--flags in front of the Conference House. Built -over night, it seems, with unpainted peaked summits of roofs gleaming -like ricks of grain. Flip--flutter--flap--variously-tinted flags, in -a crescent about nine tall standards whose long scarlet pennons brush -the ground. Beat--tap--fill and relapse--the wind pushing against -taut white cloth screens, bellying out the Shōgun's crest of -heart-shaped Asarum leaves in the panels, crumpling them to -indefinite figures of scarlet spotting white. -Flip--ripple--brighten--over serried ranks of soldiers on the beach. -Sword-bearers, spear-bearers, archers, lancers, and those who carry -heavy, antiquated matchlocks. The block of them five thousand armed -men, drawn up in front of a cracking golden door. But behind their -bristling spears, the cracks are hidden. - -Braying, blasting blares from two brass bands, approaching in -glittering boats over glittering water. One is playing the -"Overture" from "William Tell," the other, "The Last Rose of Summer," -and the way the notes clash, and shock, and shatter, and dissolve, is -wonderful to hear. Queer barbarian music, and the monkey-soldiers -stand stock still, listening to its reverberation humming in the -folded doors of the Great Gate. - -Stuff your ears, monkey-soldiers, screw your faces, shudder up and -down your spines. Cannon! Cannon! from one of the "black ships." -Thirteen thudding explosions, thirteen red dragon tongues, thirteen -clouds of smoke like the breath of the mountain gods. Thirteen -hammer strokes shaking the Great Gate, and the seams in the metal -widen. Open Sesame, shotless guns; and "The Only, High, Grand and -Mighty, Invisible Mysteriousness, Chief Barbarian" reveals himself, -and steps into his barge. - -Up, oars, down; drip--sun-spray--rowlock-rattle. To shore! To -shore! Set foot upon the sacred soil of the "Land of Great Peace," -with its five thousand armed men doing nothing with their spears and -matchlocks, because of the genii in the black guns aboard the "black -ships." - - -One hundred marines in a line up the wharf. One hundred sailors, man -to man, opposite them. Officers, two deep; and, up the centre--the -Procession. Bands together now: "Hail Columbia." Marines in file, -sailors after, a staff with the American flag borne by seamen, -another with the Commodore's broad pennant. Two boys, dressed for -ceremony, carrying the President's letter and credentials in golden -boxes. Tall, blue-black negroes on either side of--THE COMMODORE! -Walking slowly, gold, blue, steel-glitter, up to the Conference -House, walking in state up to an ancient tottering Gate, lately -closed securely, but now gaping. Bands, ram your music against this -golden barrier, harry the ears of the monkey-men. The doors are -ajar, and the Commodore has entered. - -Prince of Idzu--Prince of Iwami--in winged dresses of gold brocade, -at the end of a red carpet, under violet, silken hangings, under -crests of scarlet heart-shaped Asarum leaves, guardians of a scarlet -lacquered box, guardians of golden doors, worn thin and bending. - -In silence the blue-black negroes advance and take the golden boxes -from the page boys; in silence they open them and unwrap blue velvet -coverings. Silently they display the documents to the Prince of -Idzu--the Prince of Iwami--motionless, inscrutable--beyond the red -carpet. - -The vellum crackles as it is unfolded, and the long silk-gold cords -of the seals drop their gold tassels to straight glistening inches -and swing slowly--gold tassels clock-ticking before a doomed, -burnished gate. - -The negroes lay the vellum documents upon the scarlet lacquered box; -bow, and retire. - -"I am desirous that our two countries should trade with each other." -Careful letters, carefully traced on rich parchment, and the low sun -casts the shadow of the Gate far inland over high hills. - - -"The letter of the President of the United States will be delivered -to the Emperor. Therefore you can now go." - -The Commodore, rising: "I will return for the answer during the -coming Spring." - -But ships are frail, and seas are fickle, one can nail fresh plating -over the thin gate before Spring. Prince of Idzu--Prince of -Iwami--inscrutable statesmen, insensate idiots, trusting blithely to -a lock when the key-guns are trained even now upon it. - -Withdraw, Procession. Dip oars back to the "black ships." Slip -cables and depart, for day after day will lapse and nothing can -retard a coming Spring. - - -Panic Winter throughout the "Land of Great Peace." Panic, and haste, -wasting energies and accomplishing nothing. Kiōto has -heard, and prays, trembling. Priests at the shrine of Isé whine -long, slow supplications from dawn to dawn, and through days dropping -down again from morning. Iyéyoshi is dead, and Iyésada rules in -Yedo; thirteenth Shōgun of the Tokugawa. Rules and -struggles, rescinds laws, urges reforms; breathless, agitated -endeavours to patch and polish where is only corroding and puffed -particles of dust. - -It is Winter still in the Bay of Yedo, though the plum-trees of -Kamata and Kinagawa are white and fluttering. - -Winter, with green, high, angular seas. But over the water, far -toward China, are burning the furnaces of three great steamers, and -four sailing vessels heel over, with decks slanted and sails full and -pulling. - -"There's a bit of a lop, this morning. Mr. Jones, you'd better take -in those royals." - -"Ay, ay, Sir. Tumble up here, men! Tumble up! Lay aloft and stow -royals. Haul out to leeward." - - "To _my_, - Ay, - And we'll _furl_ - Ay, - And pay Paddy Doyle for his boots." - -"Taut band--knot away." - -Chug! Chug! go the wheels of the consorts, salting smoke-stacks with -whirled spray. - -The Commodore lights a cigar, and paces up and down the quarter-deck -of the Powhatan. "I wonder what the old yellow devils will do," he -muses. - - -Forty feet high, the camellia trees, with hard, green buds unburst. -It is early yet for camellias, and the green buds and the glazed -green leaves toss frantically in a blustering March wind. Sheltered -behind the forty feet high camellia trees, on the hills of Idzu, -stand watchmen straining their eyes over a broken dazzle of sea. - -Just at the edge of moonlight and sunlight--moon setting; sun -rising--they come. Seven war ships heeled over and flashing, dashing -through heaped waves, sleeping a moment in hollows, leaping over -ridges, sweeping forward in a strain of canvas and a train of -red-black smoke. - -"The fire-ships! The fire-ships!" - -Slip the bridles of your horses, messengers, and clatter down the -Tokaido; scatter pedestrians, palanquins, slow moving cattle, right -and left into the cryptomerias; rattle over bridges, spatter dust -into shop-windows. To Yedo! To Yedo! For Spring is here, and the -fire-ships have come! - -Seven vessels, flying the stars and stripes, three more shortly to -join them, with ripe, fruit-bearing guns pointed inland. - -Princes evince doubt, distrust. Learning must beat learning. -Appoint a Professor of the University. Delay, prevaricate. How long -can the play continue? Hayashi, learned scholar of Confucius and -Mencius--he shall confer with the barbarians at Uraga. Shall he! -Word comes that the Mighty Chief of Ships will not go to Uraga. -Steam is up, and--Horror! Consternation! The squadron moves toward -Yedo! Sailors, midshipmen, lieutenants, pack yards and cross-trees, -seeing temple gates, castle towers, flowered pagodas, and look-outs -looming distantly clear, and the Commodore on deck can hear the slow -booming of the bells from the temples of Shiba and Asakusa. - -You must capitulate, great Princes of a quivering gate. Say -Yokohama, and the Commodore will agree, for they must not come to -Yedo. - - -Rows of japonicas in full bloom outside the Conference House. Flags, -and streamers, and musicians, and pikemen. Five hundred officers, -seamen, marines, and the Commodore following in his white-painted -gig. A jig of fortune indeed, with a sailor and a professor -manoeuvring for terms, chess-playing each other in a game of future -centuries. - -The Americans bring presents. Presents now, to be bought hereafter. -Good will, to head long bills of imports. Occidental mechanisms to -push the Orient into limbo. Fox-moves of interpreters, and Pandora's -box with a contents rated far too low. - -Round and round goes the little train on its circular railroad, at -twenty miles an hour, with grave dignitaries seated on its roof. -Smiles, gestures, at messages running over wire, a mile away. Touch -the harrows, the ploughs, the flails, and shudder at the "spirit -pictures" of the daguerreotype machine. These Barbarians have -harnessed gods and dragons. They build boats which will not sink, -and tinker little gold wheels till they follow the swinging of the -sun. - -Run to the Conference House. See, feel, listen. And shrug -deprecating shoulders at the glisten of silk and lacquer given in -return. What are cups cut out of conch-shells, and red-dyed figured -crêpe, to railroads, and burning engines! - -Go on board the "black ships" and drink mint juleps and brandy -smashes, and click your tongues over sweet puddings. Offer the -strangers pickled plums, sugared fruits, candied walnuts. Bruit the -news far inland through the mouths of countrymen. Who thinks of the -Great Gate! Its portals are pushed so far back that the shining -edges of them can scarcely be observed. The Commodore has never -swerved a moment from his purpose, and the dragon mouths of his guns -have conquered without the need of a single powder-horn. - - -The Commodore writes in his cabin. Writes an account of what he has -done. - -The sands of centuries run fast, one slides, and another, each -falling into a smother of dust. - -A locomotive in pay for a Whistler; telegraph wires buying a -revolution; weights and measures and Audubon's birds in exchange for -fear. Yellow monkey-men leaping out of Pandora's box, shaking the -rocks of the Western coastline. Golden California bartering panic -for prints. The dressing-gowns of a continent won at the cost of -security. Artists and philosophers lost in the hour-glass sand -pouring through an open Gate. - - -Ten ships sailing for China on a fair May wind. Ten ships sailing -from one world into another, but never again into the one they left. -Two years and a tip-turn is accomplished. Over the globe and back, -Rip Van Winkle ships. Slip into your docks in Newport, in Norfolk, -in Charlestown. You have blown off the locks of the East, and what -is coming will come. - - - -POSTLUDE - - In the Castle moat, lotus flowers are blooming, - They shine with the light of an early moon - Brightening above the Castle towers. - They shine in the dark circles of their unreflecting leaves. - Pale blossoms, - Pale towers, - Pale moon, - Deserted ancient moat - About an ancient stronghold, - Your bowmen are departed, - Your strong walls are silent, - Their only echo - A croaking of frogs. - Frogs croaking at the moon - In the ancient moat - Of an ancient, crumbling Castle. - - -1903. JAPAN - -The high cliff of the Kegon waterfall, and a young man carving words -on the trunk of a tree. He finishes, pauses an instant, and then -leaps into the foam-cloud rising from below. But, on the tree-trunk, -the newly-cut words blaze white and hard as though set with diamonds: - -"How mightily and steadily go Heaven and Earth! How infinite the -duration of Past and Present! Try to measure this vastness with five -feet. A word explains the Truth of the whole Universe--_unknowable_. -To cure my agony I have decided to die. Now, as I stand on the crest -of this rock, no uneasiness is left in me. For the first time I know -that extreme pessimism and extreme optimism are one." - - -1903. AMERICA - - "Nocturne--Blue and Silver--Battersea Bridge. - Nocturne--Grey and Silver--Chelsea Embankment. - Variations in Violet and Green." - -Pictures in a glass-roofed gallery, and all day long the throng of -people is so great that one can scarcely see them. Debits--credits? -Flux and flow through a wide gateway. Occident--Orient--after fifty -years. - - - - -HEDGE ISLAND - -A RETROSPECT AND A PROPHECY - -Hedges of England, peppered with sloes; hedges of England, rows and -rows of thorn and brier raying out from the fire where London burns -with its steaming lights, throwing a glare on the sky o' nights. -Hedges of England, road after road, lane after lane, and on again to -the sea at the North, to the sea at the East, blackberry hedges, and -man and beast plod and trot and gallop between hedges of England, -clipped and clean; beech, and laurel, and hornbeam, and yew, wheels -whirl under, and circle through, tunnels of green to the sea at the -South; wind-blown hedges to mark the mouth of Thames or Humber, the -Western rim. Star-point hedges, smooth and trim. - -Star-point indeed, with all His Majesty's mails agog every night for -the provinces. Twenty-seven fine crimson coaches drawn up in double -file in Lombard Street. Great gold-starred coaches, blazing with -royal insignia, waiting in line at the Post-Office. Eight of a -Summer's evening, and the sun only just gone down. "Lincoln," -"Winchester," "Portsmouth," shouted from the Post-Office steps; and -the Portsmouth chestnuts come up to the collar with a jolt, and stop -again, dancing, as the bags are hoisted up. "Gloucester," "Oxford," -"Bristol," "York," "Norwich." Rein in those bays of the Norwich -team, they shy badly at the fan-gleam of the lamp over the -Post-Office door. "All in. No more." The stones of St. -Martin's-le-Grand sparkle under the slap of iron shoes. Off you go, -bays, and the greys of the Dover mail start forward, twitching, -hitching, champing, stamping, their little feet pat the ground in -patterns and their bits fleck foam. "Whoa! Steady!" with a rush -they are gone. But Glasgow is ready with a team of piebalds and -sorrels, driven chess-board fashion. Bang down, lids of -mail-boxes--thunder-lids, making the horses start. They part and -pull, push each other sideways, sprawl on the slippery pavement, and -gather wave-like and crashing to a leap. Spicey tits those! -Tootle-too! A nice calculation for the gate, not a minute to spare, -with the wheelers well up in the bit and the leaders carrying bar. -Forty-two hours to Scotland, and we have a coachman who keeps his -horses like clock-work. Whips flick, buckles click, and wheels turn -faster and faster till the spokes blur. "Sound your horn, Walter." -Make it echo back and forth from the fronts of houses. Good-night, -London, we are carrying the mails to the North. Big, burning light -which is London, we dip over Highgate hill and leave you. The air is -steady, the night is bright, the roads are firm. The wheels hum like -a gigantic spinning-jenny. Up North, where the hedges bloom with -roses. Through Whetstone Gate to Alconbury Hill. Stop at the -_Wheatsheaf_ one minute for the change. They always have an eye open -here, it takes thirty seconds to drink a pot of beer, even the -post-boys sleep in their spurs. The wheels purr over the gravel. -"Give the off-hand leader a cut on the cheek." Whip! Whew! This is -the first night of three. Three nights to Glasgow; -hedges--hedges--shoot and flow. Eleven miles an hour, and the hedges -are showered with glow-worms. The hedges and the glow-worms are very -still, but we make a prodigious clatter. What does it matter? It is -good for these yokels to be waked up. Tootle-toot! The -diamond-paned lattice of a cottage flies open. Post-office here. -Throw them on their haunches. Bag up--bag down--and the village has -grown indistinct behind. The old moon is racing us, she slices -through trees like a knife through cheese. Distant clocks strike -midnight. The coach rocks--this is a galloping stage. We have a -roan near-wheel and a grey off-wheel and our leaders are chestnuts, -"quick as light, clever as cats." - -The sickle-flame of our lamps cuts past sequences of trees and -well-plashed quickset hedges--hedges of England, long shafts of the -nimbus of London. Hurdles here and there. Park palings. -Reflections in windows. On--on--through the night to the North. -Over stretched roads, with a soft, continuous motion like slipping -water. Nights and days unwinding down long roads. - -In the green dawn, spires and bell-towers start up and stare at us. -Hoary old woods nod and beckon. A castle turret glitters through -trees. There is a perfume of wild-rose and honey-bine, twining in -the hedges--Northerly hedges, sliding away behind us. The -pole-chains tinkle tunes and play a saraband with sheep-bells beyond -the hedges. Wedges of fields--square, flat, slatted green with corn, -purple with cabbages. The stable clocks of Gayhurst and Tyringham -chime from either side of the road. The Ouse twinkles blue among -smooth meadows. Go! Go! News of the World! Perhaps a victory! the -"Nile" or "Salamanca"! Perhaps a proclamation, or a fall in the rate -of consols. Whatever it is, the hedges of England hear it first. -Hear it, and flick and flutter their leaves, and catch the dust of it -on their shining backs. Bear it over the dumpling hills and the -hump-backed bridges. Start it down the rivers: Eden, Eshe, Sark, -Milk, Driff, and Clyde. Shout it to the sculptured corbels of old -churches. Lurch round corners with it, and stop with a snap before -the claret-coloured brick front of the _Bell_ at Derby, and call it -to the ostler as he runs out with fresh horses. The twenty -Corinthian columns of pale primrose alabaster at Keddleston Hall -tremble with its importance. Even the runaway couples bound for -Gretna Green cheer and wave. Laurels, and ribbons, and a red flag on -our roof. "Wellesley forever!" - - -Dust dims the hedges. A light travelling chariot running sixteen -miles an hour with four blood mares doing their bravest. Whip, -bound, and cut again. Loose rein, quick spur. He stands up in the -chariot and shakes a bag full of broad guineas, you can hear -them--clinking, chinking--even above the roar of wheels. "Go it! Go -it! We are getting away from them. Fifty guineas to each of you if -we get there in time." Quietly wait, grey hedges, it will all happen -again: quick whip, spur, strain. Two purple-faced gentlemen in -another chariot, black geldings smoking hot, blood and froth flipped -over the hedges. They hail the coach: "How far ahead? Can we catch -them?" "Ten minutes gone by. Not more." The post-boys wale their -lunging horses. Rattle, reel, and plunge. - -But the runaways have Jack Ainslee from the _Bush_, Carlisle. He -rides in a yellow jacket, and he knows every by-lane and wood between -here and the border. In an hour he will have them at Gretna, and -to-night the lady will write to her family at Doncaster, and the down -mail will carry the letter, with tenpence halfpenny to pay for news -that nobody wishes to hear. - - -"Buy a pottle of plums, Good Sir." "Cherries, fine, ripe cherries -O." Get your plums and cherries, and hurry into the _White Horse -Cellar_ for a last rum and milk. You are a poet, bound to Dover over -Westminster Bridge. Ah, well, all the same. You are an Essex -farmer, grown fat by selling your peas at Covent Garden Market at -four guineas a pint. Certainly; as you please. You are a prebend of -Exeter or Wells, timing your journey to the Cathedral Close. If you -choose. You are a Corinthian Buck going down to Brighton by the -_Age_ which runs "with a fury." Mercury on a box seat. - -Get up, beavers and top-boots. Shoot the last parcel in. Now--"Let -'em go. I have 'em." That was a jerk, but the coachman lets fly his -whip and quirks his off-wheeler on the thigh. Out and under the -archway of the coach-yard, with the guard playing "Sally in our -Alley" on his key-bugle. White with sun, the streets of London. -Cloud-shadows run ahead of us along the streets. Morning. Summer. -England. "Have a light, Sir? Tobacco tastes well in this fresh air." - - -Hedges of England, how many wheels spatter you in a day? How many -coaches roll between you on their star-point way? What rainbow -colours slide past you with the fluency of water? Crimson mails -rumble and glide the night through, but the Cambridge _Telegraph_ is -a brilliant blue. The _Bull and Mouth_ coaches are buttercup yellow, -those of the _Bull_ are painted red, while the _Bell and Crown_ -sports a dark maroon with light red wheels. They whirl by in a -flurry of dust and colours. Soon all this will drop asunder like the -broken glass of a kaleidoscope. Hedges, you will see other pictures. -New colours will flow beside you. New shapes will intersect you. -Tut! Tut! Have you not hawthorn blossoms and the hips and haws of -roses? - - -Trundle between your sharp-shorn hedges, old _Tally-hoes_, and -_Comets_, and _Regents_. Stop at the George, and turn with a -flourish into the yard, where a strapper is washing a mud-splashed -chaise, and the horsekeeper is putting a "point" on that best whip of -yours. "Coach stops here half an hour, Gentlemen: dinner quite -ready." A long oak corridor. Then a burst of sunshine through -leaded windows, spangling a floor, iris-tinting rounds of beef, and -flaked veal pies, and rose-marbled hams, and great succulent cheeses. -Wine-glasses take it and break it, and it quivers away over the -table-cloth in faint rainbows; or, straight and sudden, stamps a -startling silver whorl on the polished side of a teapot of hot bohea. -A tortoise-shell cat naps between red geraniums, and myrtle sprigs -tap the stuccoed wall, gently blowing to and fro. - -Ah, hedges of England, have you led to this? Do you always conduct -to galleried inns, snug bars, beds hung with flowered chintz, sheets -smelling of lavender? - -What of the target practice off Spithead? What of the rocking -seventy-fours, flocking like gulls about the harbour entrances? -Hedges of England, can they root you in the sea? - -Your leaves rustle to the quick breeze of wheels incessantly turning. -This island might be a treadmill kept floating right side up by -galloping hoofs. - - -Gabled roofs of _Green Dragons_, and _Catherine Wheels_, and -_Crowns_, ivy-covered walls, cool cellars holding bins and bins of -old port, and claret, and burgundy. You cannot hear the din of -passing chaises, underground, there is only the sound of beer running -into a jug as the landlord turns the spiggot of a barrel. Green -sponge of England, your heart is red with wine. "Fine spirits and -brandies." Ha! Ha! Good old England, drinking, blinking, dreading -new ideas. Queer, bluff, burly England. You have Nelsons, and -Wellesleys, and Tom Cribbs, but you have also Wordsworths and -Romneys, and (a whisper in your ear) Arkwrights and Stevensons. -"Time's up, Gentlemen; take your places, please!" The horn rings -out, the bars rattle, the horses sidle and paw and swing; -swish--clip--with the long whip, and away to the hedges again. The -high, bordering hedges, leading to Salisbury, and Bath, and Exeter. - - -Christmas weather with a hard frost. Hips and haws sparkle in the -hedges, garnets and carnelians scattered on green baize. The edges -of the coachman's hat are notched with icicles. The horses slip on -the frozen roads. Loads are heavy at this time of year, with rabbits -and pheasants tied under the coach, but it is all hearty Christmas -cheer, rushing between the hedges to get there in time for the -plum-pudding. Old England forever! And coach-horns, and waits, and -Cathedral organs hail the Star of Bethlehem. - - -But our star, our London, gutters with fog. The Thames rolls like -smoke under charcoal. The dome of St. Paul's is gone, so is the -spire of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, only the fires of torches are -brisk and tossing. Tossing torches; tossing heads of horses. Eight -mails following each other out of London by torchlight. Scarcely can -we see the red flare of the horn lantern in the hand of the ostler at -the Peacock, but his voice blocks squarely into the fog: "_York -Highflyer_," "_Leeds Union_," "_Stamford Regent_." Coach lamps -stream and stare, and key-bugles play fugues with each other; "Oh, -Dear, What Can the Matter Be?" and "The Flaxen Headed Plough-boy" -canon and catch as the mails take the road. There will be no -"springing" the horses over the "hospital ground" on a day like this; -we cannot make more than three miles an hour in such a fog. Hedges -of England, you are only ledges from which water drips back to the -sea. The rain is so heavy the coach sways. There will be floods -farther on. Floods over the river Mole, with apples, and trees, and -hurdles floating. Have a care with your leaders there, they have -lost the road, and the wheelers have toppled into a ditch of -swirling, curling water. The wheelers flounder and squeal and drown, -but the coach is hung up on the stump of a willow-tree, and the -passengers have only a broken leg or two among them. - - -Double thong your team, Coachman, that creaking gibbet on the top of -Hindhead is an awesome sight at the fall of night, with the wind -roaring and squeaking over the heather. The murder, they say, was -done at this spot. Give it to them on the flank, good and hot. -"Lord, I wish I had a nip of cherry-brandy." "What was that; down in -the bowl!" "Drop my arm, Damn you! or you will roll the coach over!" -Teeth chatter, bony castanets--click--click--to a ghastly tune, -click--click--on the gallows-tree, where it blows so windily. Blows -the caged bones all about, one or two of them have dropped out. The -up coach will see them lying on the ground like snow-flakes -to-morrow. But we shall be floundering in a drift, and shifting the -mailbags to one of the horses so that the guard can carry them on. - -Hedges of England, smothered in snow. Hedges of England, row after -row, flat and obliterate down to the sea; but the chains are choked -on the gallows-tree. Round about England the toothed waves snarl, -gnarling her cliffs of chalk and marl. Crabbed England, consuming -beef and pudding, and pouring down magnums of port, to cheat the -elements. Go it, England, you will beat Bonaparte yet. What have -you to do with ideas! You have Bishops, and Squires, and -Manor-houses, and--rum. - - -London shakes with bells. Loud, bright bells clashing over roofs and -steeples, exploding in the sunlight with the brilliance of rockets. -Every clock-tower drips a tune. The people are merry-making, for -this is the King's Birthday and the mails parade this afternoon. - -"Messrs. Vidler and Parrat request the pleasure of Mr. Chaplin's -company on Thursday the twenty-eighth of May, to a cold collation at -three o'clock and to see the Procession of the Mails." - -What a magnificent spectacle! A coil of coaches progressing round -and round Lincoln's Inn Fields. Sun-mottled harness, gold and -scarlet guards, horns throwing off sprays of light and music. -Liverpool, Manchester--blacks and greys; Bristol, Devonport--satin -bays; Holyhead--chestnuts; Halifax--roans, blue-specked, rose-specked -... On their box-seat thrones sit the mighty coachmen, twisting their -horses this way and that with a turn of the wrist. These are the -spokes of a wheeling sun, these are the rays of London's aureole. -This is her star-fire, reduced by a prism to separate sparks. Cheer, -good people! Chuck up your hats, and buy violets to pin in your -coats. You shall see it all to-night, when the King's arms shine in -lamps from every house-front, and the mails, done parading, crack -their whips and depart. England forever! Hurrah! - - -England forever--going to the Prize Fight on Copthorne Common. -England forever, with a blue coat and scarlet lining hanging over the -back of the tilbury. England driving a gig and one horse; England -set up with a curricle and two. England in donkey-carts and coaches. -England swearing, pushing, drinking, happy, off to see the "Game -Chicken" punch the "Nonpareil's" face to a black-and-blue jelly. -Good old England, drunk as a lord, cursing the turn-pike men. Your -hedges will be a nest of broken bottles before night, and clouds of -dust will quench the perfume of your flowers. I bet you three bulls -to a tanner you can't smell a rose for a week. - -They've got the soldiers out farther along. "Damn the soldiers! -Drive through them, Watson." A fine, manly business; are we slaves? -"Britons never--never--" Waves lap the shores of England, waves like -watchdogs growling; and long hedges bind her like a bundle. Sit -safe, England, trussed and knotted; while your strings hold, all will -be well. - - -But in the distance there is a puff of steam. Just a puff, but it -will do. Post-boys, coachmen, guards, chaises, melt like meadow rime -before the sun. - -You spun your webs over England, hedge to hedge. You kept England -bound together by your spinning wheels. But it is gone. They have -driven a wedge of iron into your heart. They have dried up the sea, -and made pathways in the swimming air. They have tapped the barrels -in your cellars and your throats are parched and bleeding. But still -the hedges blow for the Spring, and dusty soldiers smell your roses -as they tramp to Aldershot or Dorchester. - -England forever! Star-pointed and shining. Flinging her hedges out -and asunder to embrace the world. - - - - -THE BRONZE HORSES - - -_ELEMENTS_ - -_Earth, Air, Water, and Fire! Earth beneath, Air encompassing, Water -within its boundaries. But Fire is nothing, comes from nothing, goes -nowhither. Fire leaps forth and dies, yet is everything sprung out -of Fire._ - -_The flame grows and drops away, and where it stood is vapour, and -where was the vapour is swift revolution, and where was the -revolution is spinning resistance, and where the resistance endured -is crystallization. Fire melts, and the absence of Fire cools and -freezes. So are metals fused in twisted flames and take on a form -other than that they have known, and this new form shall be to them -rebirth and making. For in it they will stand upon the Earth, and in -it they will defy the Air, and in it they will suffer the Water._ - -_But Fire, coming again, the substance changes and is transformed. -Therefore are things known only between burning and burning. The -quickly consumed more swiftly vanish, yet all must feel the heat of -the flame which waits in obscurity, knowing its own time and what -work it has to do._ - - - -ROME - -The blue sky of Italy; the blue sky of Rome. Sunlight pouring white -and clear from the wide-stretched sky. Sunlight sliding softly over -white marble, lying in jasmine circles before cool porticoes, -striking sharply upon roofs and domes, recoiling before straight -façades of grey granite, foiled and beaten by the deep halls of -temples. - -Sunlight on tiles and tufa, sunlight on basalt and porphyry. The sky -stripes Rome with sun and shadow; strips of yellow, strips of blue, -pepper-dots of purple and orange. It whip-lashes the four great -horses of gilded bronze, harnessed to the bronze _quadriga_ on the -Arch of Nero, and they trot slowly forward without moving. The -horses tread the marbles of Rome beneath their feet. Their golden -flanks quiver in the sunlight. One foot paws the air. A step, and -they will lance into the air, Pegasus-like, stepping the wind. But -they do not take the step. They wait--poised, treading Rome as they -trod Alexandria, as they trod the narrow Island of Cos. The spokes -of the _quadriga_ wheels flash, but they do not turn. They burn like -day-stars above the Arch of Nero. The horses poise over Rome, a -constellation of morning, triumphant above Emperors, proud, -indifferent, enduring, relentlessly spurning the hot dust of Rome. -Hot dust clouds up about them, but not one particle sticks to their -gilded manes. Dust is nothing, a mere smoke of disappearing hours. -Slowly they trot forward without moving, and time passes and passes -them, brushing along their sides like wind. - -People go and come in the streets of Rome, shuffling over the basalt -paving-stones in their high latcheted sandals. White and purple, -like the white sun and the purple shadows, the senators pass, -followed by a crowd of slaves. Waves of brown-coated populace efface -themselves before a litter, carried by eight Cappadocians in -light-red tunics; as it moves along, there is the flicker of a violet -_stola_ and the blowing edge of a palla of sky-white blue. A lady, -going to the bath to lie for an hour in the crimson and wine-red -reflections of a marble chamber, to glide over a floor of green and -white stones into a Carraran basin, where the green and blue water -will cover her rose and blue-veined flesh with a slipping veil. Aqua -Claudia, Aqua Virgo, Aqua Marcia, drawn from the hills to lie against -a woman's body. Her breasts round hollows for themselves in the -sky-green water, her fingers sift the pale water and drop it from her -as a lark drops notes backwards into the sky. The lady lies against -the lipping water, supine and indolent, a pomegranate, a -passion-flower, a silver-flamed lily, lapped, slapped, lulled, by the -ripples which stir under her faintly moving hands. - -Later, beneath a painting of twelve dancing girls upon a gold ground, -the slaves will anoint her with cassia, or nakte, or spikenard, or -balsam, and she will go home in the swaying litter to eat the tongues -of red flamingoes, and drink honey-wine flavoured with far-smelling -mint. - -Legionaries ravish Egypt for her entertainment; they bring her roses -from Alexandria at a cost of thirty thousand pounds. Yet she would -rather be at Baiae, one is so restricted in one's pleasures in Rome! -The games are not until next week, and her favourite gladiator, -Naxos, is in training just now, therefore time drags. The lady lags -over her quail and peacocks' eggs. How dull it is. White, and blue, -and stupid. Rome! - - -Smoke flutters and veers from the top of the Temple of Vesta. Altar -smoke winding up to the gilded horses as they tread above Rome. -Below--laughing, jangling, pushing and rushing. Two carts are jammed -at a street corner, and the oaths of the drivers mingle, and snap, -and corrode, like hot fused metal, one against another. They hiss -and sputter, making a confused chord through which the squeal of a -derrick winding up a granite slab pierces, shrill and nervous, a -sharp boring sound, shoring through the wide, white light of the -Roman sky. People are selling things: matches, broken glass, peas, -sausages, cakes. A string of donkeys, with panniers loaded with red -asparagus and pale-green rue, minces past the derrick, the donkeys -squeeze, one by one, with little patting feet, between the derrick -and the choked crossing. "Hey! Gallus, have you heard that Cæsar -has paid a million _sestertii_ for a Murrhine vase. It is green and -white, flaked like a Spring onion, and has the head of Minerva cut in -it, sharp as a signet." "And who has a better right indeed, now that -Titus has conquered Judea. He will be here next week, they say, and -then we shall have a triumph worth looking at." "Famous indeed! We -need something. It's been abominably monotonous lately. Why, there -was not enough blood spilled in the games last week to give one the -least appetite. I'm damned stale, for one." - -Still, over Rome, the white sun sails the blue, stretching sky, -casting orange and purple striæ down upon the marble city, cool and -majestic, between cool hills, white and omnipotent, dying of languor, -amusing herself for a moment with the little boats floating up the -Tiber bringing the good grain of Carthage, then relaxed and falling -as water falls, dropping into the bath. Weak as water; without -contour as water; colourless as water; Rome bathes, and relaxes, and -melts. Fluid and fluctuating, a liquid city pouring itself back into -the streams of the earth. And above, on the Arch of Nero, hard, -metallic, firm, cold, and permanent, the bronze horses trot slowly, -not moving, and the moon casts the fine-edged shadow of them down -upon the paving-stones. - - -Hills of the city: Pincian, Esquiline, Cælian, Aventine, the crimson -tip of the sun burns against you, and you start into sudden clearness -and glow red, red-gold, saffron, gradually diminishing to an outline -of blue. The sun mounts over Rome, and the Arch of Augustus glitters -like a cleft pomegranate; the Temples of Julius Cæsar, Castor, and -Saturn, turn carbuncle, and rose, and diamond. Columns divide into -double edges of flash and shadow; domes glare, inverted beryls -hanging over arrested scintillations. The fountains flake and fringe -with the scatter of the sun. The mosaic floors of _atriums_ are no -longer stone, but variegated fire; higher, on the walls, the pictures -painted in the white earth of Melos, the red earth of Sinope, the -yellow ochre of Attica, erupt into flame. The legs of satyrs jerk -with desire, the dancers whirl in torch-bright involutions. Grapes -split and burst, spurting spots and sparks of sun. - -It is morning in Rome, and the bronze horses on the Arch of Nero trot -quietly forward without moving, but no one can see them, they are -only a dazzle, a shock of stronger light against the white-blue sky. - -Morning in Rome; and the whole city foams out to meet it, seething, -simmering, surging, seeping. All between the Janiculum and the -Palatine is undulating with people. Scarlet, violet, and purple -togas pattern the mass of black and brown. Murex-dyed silk dresses -flow beside raw woollen fabrics. The altars smoke incense, the -bridges shake under the caking mass of sight-seers. "Titus! Titus! -_Io triumphe!_" Even now the troops are collected near the Temple of -Apollo, outside the gates, waiting for the signal to march. In the -parching Roman morning, the hot dust rises and clouds over the -city--an aureole of triumph. The horses on the Arch of Nero paw the -golden dust, but it passes, passes, brushing along their burnished -sides like wind. - - -What is that sound? The marble city shivers to the treading of feet. -Cæsar's legions marching, foot--foot--hundreds, thousands of feet. -They beat the ground, rounding each step double. -Coming--coming--cohort after cohort, with brazen trumpets marking the -time. One--two--one--two--laurel-crowned each one of you, -cactus-fibred, harsh as sand grinding the rocks of a treeless land, -rough and salt as a Dead Sea wind, only the fallen are left behind. -Blood-red plumes, jarring to the footfalls; they have passed through -the gate, they are in the walls of the mother city, of marble Rome. -Their tunics are purple embroidered with gold, their armour clanks as -they walk, the cold steel of their swords is chill in the sun, each -is a hero, one by one, endless companies, the soldiers come. Back to -Rome with a victor's spoils, with a victor's wreath on every head, -and Judah broken is dead, dead! "_Io triumphe!_" The shout knocks -and breaks upon the spears of the legionaries. - -The God of the Jews is overborne, he has failed his people. See the -stuffs from the Syrian looms, and the vestments of many-colours, they -were taken from the great Temple at Jerusalem. And the watching -crowds split their voices acclaiming the divine triumph. Mars, and -Juno, and Minerva, and the rest, those gods are the best who bring -victory! And the beasts they have over there! Is that a crocodile? -And that bird with a tail as long as a banner, what do you call that? -Look at the elephants, and the dromedaries! They are harnessed in -jewels. Oh! Oh! The beautiful sight! Here come the prisoners, -dirty creatures. "That's a good-looking girl there. I have rather a -fancy for a Jewess. I'll get her, by Bacchus, if I have to mortgage -my farm. A man too, of course, to keep the breed going; it will be a -good investment, although, to be sure, I want the girl myself. -Castor and Pollux, did you see that picture! Ten men disembowelled -on the steps of the altar. That is better than a gladiator show any -day. I wish I had been there. Simon, oh, Simon! Spit at him, -Lucullus. Thumbs down for Simon! Fancy getting him alive, I wonder -he didn't kill himself first like Cleopatra. This is a glorious day, -I haven't had such fun in years." - - -The bronze horses tread quietly above the triumphing multitudes. -They too have been spoils of war, yet they stand here on the Arch of -Nero dominating Rome. Time passes--passes--but the horses, calm and -contained, move forward, dividing one minute from another and leaving -each behind. - - -You should be still now, Roman populace. These are the decorations -of the Penetralia, the holy Sanctuary which your soldiers have -profaned. But the people jeer and scoff, and comment on the queer -articles carried on the heads of the soldiers. Tragedy indeed! They -see no tragedy, only an immense spectacle, unique and satisfying. -The crowd clears its throat and spits and shouts "_Io triumphe! Io -triumphe!_" against the cracking blare of brazen trumpets. - -Slowly they come, the symbols of a beaten religion: the Golden Table -for the Shew-Bread, the Silver Trumpets that sounded the Jubilee, the -Seven-Branched Candlestick, the very Tables of the Law which Moses -brought down from Mount Sinai. Can Jupiter conquer these? Slowly -they pass, glinting in the sunlight, staring in the light of day, -mocked and exhibited. Lord God of Hosts, fall upon these people, -send your thunders upon them, hurl the lightnings of your wrath -against this multitude, raze their marble city so that not one stone -remain standing. But the sun shines unclouded, and the holy vessels -pass onward through the Campus Martius, through the Circus Flaminius, -up the Via Sacra to the Capitol, and then... The bronze horses look -into the brilliant sky, they trot slowly without moving, they advance -slowly, one foot raised. There is always another step--one, and -another. How many does not matter, so that each is taken. - - -The _spolia opima_ have passed. The crowd holds its breath and -quivers. Everyone is tiptoed up to see above his neighbour; they -sway and brace themselves in their serried ranks. Away, over the -heads, silver eagles glitter, each one marking the passage of a -legion. The "Victorious Legion" goes by, the "Indomitable Legion," -the "Spanish Legion," and those with a crested lark on their helmets, -and that other whose centurions are almost smothered under the -shining reflections of the medallions fastened to their armour. -Cohort after cohort, legion on the heels of legion, the glistening -greaves rise and flash and drop and pale, scaling from sparkle to -dullness in a series of rhythmic angles, constantly repeated. They -swing to the tones of straight brass trumpets, they jut out and fall -at the call of spiral bugles. Above them, the pointed shields move -evenly, right to left--right to left. The horses curvet and prance, -and shiver back, checked, on their haunches; the javelins of the -horsemen are so many broad-ended sticks of flame. - -Those are the eagles of the Imperial Guard, and behind are two golden -chariots. "_Io triumphe!_" The roar drowns the trumpets and bugles, -the clatter of the horses' hoofs is a mere rattle of sand ricocheting -against the voice of welcoming Rome. The Emperor Vespasian rides in -one chariot, in the other stands Titus. Titus, who has subdued -Judea, who has humbled Jehovah, and brought the sacred vessels of the -Lord God of Hosts back with him as a worthy offering to the people of -Rome. Cheer, therefore, good people, you have the Throne of Heaven -to recline upon; you are possessed of the awful majesty of the God of -the Jews; beneath your feet are spread the emblems of the Most High; -and your hands are made free of the sacred instruments of Salvation. - -What god is that who falls before pikes and spears! Here is another -god, his face and hands stained with vermilion, after the manner of -the Capitoline Jupiter. His car is of ivory and gold, green plumes -nod over the heads of his horses, the military bracelets on his arms -seem like circling serpents of bitter flame. The milk-white horses -draw him slowly to the Capitol, step by step, along the Via -Triumphalis, and step by step the old golden horses on the Arch of -Nero tread down the hours of the lapsing day. - - -That night, forty elephants bearing candelabra light up the ranges of -pillars supporting the triple portico of the Capitol. Forty -illuminated elephants--and the light of their candles is reflected in -the polished sides of the great horses, above, on the Arch of Nero, -slowly trotting forward, stationary yet moving, in the soft night -which hangs over Rome. - - - -_PAVANNE TO A BRASS ORCHESTRA_ - -_Water falls from the sky, and green-fanged lightning mouths the -heavens. The Earth rolls upon itself, incessantly creating morning -and evening. The moon calls to the waters, swinging them forward and -back, and the sun draws closer and as rhythmically recedes, advancing -in the pattern of an ancient dance, making a figure of leaves and -aridness. Harmony of chords and pauses, fugue of returning balances, -canon and canon repeating the theme of Earth, Air, and Water._ - -_A single cymbal-crash of Fire, and for an instant the concerted -music ceases. But it resumes--Earth, Air, and Water, and out of it -rise the metals, unconsumed. Brazen cymbals, trumpets of silver, -bells of bronze. They mock at fire. They burn upon themselves and -retain their entities. Not yet the flame which shall destroy them. -They shall know all flames but one. They shall be polished and -corroded, yet shall they persist and play the music which accompanies -the strange ceremonious dance of the sun._ - - - -CONSTANTINOPLE - -Empire of the East! Byzantium! Constantinople! The Golden City of -the World. A crystal fixed in aquamarines; a jewel-box set down in a -seaside garden. All the seas are as blue as Spring lupins, and there -are so many seas. Look where you please, forward, back, or down, -there is water. The deep blue water of crisp ripples, the long light -shimmer of flat undulations, the white glare, smoothing into purple, -of a sun-struck ebb. The Bosphorus winds North to the Black Sea. -The Golden Horn curves into the Sweet Waters. The edge of the city -swerves away from the Sea of Marmora. Aquamarines, did I say? -Sapphires, beryls, lapis-lazuli, amethysts, and felspar. Whatever -stones there are, bluer than gentians, bluer than cornflowers, bluer -than asters, bluer than periwinkles. So blue that the city must be -golden to complement the water. A geld city, shimmering and -simmering, starting up like mica from the green of lemon trees, and -olives, and cypresses. - -Gold! Gold! Walls and columns covered with gold. Domes of churches -resplendent with gold. Innumerable statues of "bronze fairer than -pure gold," and courts paved with golden tiles. Beyond the white and -rose-coloured walls of Saint Sophia, the city rounds for fourteen -great miles; fourteen miles of onychite, and porphyry, and marble; -fourteen miles of colonnades, and baths, and porticoes; fourteen -miles of gay, garish, gaudy, glaring gold. Why, even the Imperial -_triremes_ in the harbour have gold embroidered gonfalons, and the -dolphins, ruffling out of the water between them, catch the colour -and dive, each a sharp cutting disk-edge of yellow flame. - -It is the same up above, where statues spark like stars jutted from a -mid-day sky. There are golden Emperors at every crossing, and golden -Virgins crowding every church-front. And, in the centre of the great -Hippodrome, facing the _triremes_ and the leaping dolphins, is a fine -chariot of Corinthian brass. Four horses harnessed to a gilded -_quadriga_. The horses pace evenly forward, in a moment they will be -trampling upon space, facing out to sea on the currents of the -morning breeze. But their heads are arched and checked, gracefully -they pause, one leg uplifted, seized and baffled by the arrested -movement. They are the horses of Constantine, brought from Rome, so -people say, buzzing in the Augustaion. "Fine horses, hey?" "A good -breed, Persia from the look of them, though they're a bit thick in -the barrel for the horses they bring us from there." "They bring us -their worst, most likely." "Oh, I don't know, we buy pretty well. -Why, only the other day I gave a mint of money for a cargo of -Egyptian maize." "Lucky dog, you'll make on that, with all the -harvest here ruined by the locusts." - - -It is a pretty little wind which plays along the sides of the gilded -horses, a coquettish little sea wind, blowing and listing and finally -dropping away altogether and going to sleep in a plane-tree behind -the Hippodrome. - - -Constantinople is a yellow honey-comb, with fat bees buzzing in all -its many-sided cells. Bees come over the flower-blue seas; bees -humming from the Steppes of Tartary, from the long line of Nile-fed -Egypt. Tush! What would you! Where there is gold there are always -men about it; to steal it, to guard it, to sit and rot under its -lotus-shining brilliance. The very army is woven of threads drawn -from the edges of the world. Byzantines are merchantmen, they roll -and flounder in the midst of gold coins, they tumble and wallow in -money-baths, they sit and chuckle under a continuous money-spray. -And ringed about them is the army, paid to shovel back the scattering -gold pieces: Dalmatians with swords and arrows; Macedonians with -silver belts and gilt shields; Scholarii, clad in rose-coloured -tunics; Varangians, shouldering double battle-axes. When they walk, -the rattle of them can be heard pattering back from every wall and -doorway. It clacks and cracks even in the Copper Market, above the -clang of cooking pots and the wrangling whine of Jewish traders. -Constantinople chatters, buzzes, screams, growls, howls, squeals, -snorts, brays, croaks, screeches, crows, neighs, gabbles, purrs, -hisses, brawls, roars, shouts, mutters, calls, in every sort of -crochet and demi-semi-quaver, wavering up in a great contrapuntal -murmur--adagio, maestoso, capriccioso, scherzo, staccato, crescendo, -vivace, veloce, brio--brio--brio!! A racket of dissonance, a hubbub -of harmony. Chords? Discords? Answer: Byzantium! - -People pluck the strings of rebecks and psalteries; they shock the -cords of lyres; they batter tin drums, and shatter the guts of -kettle-drums when the Emperor goes to Saint Sophia to worship at an -altar of precious stones fused into a bed of gold and silver, and, as -he walks up the nave between the columns of green granite, and the -columns of porphyry, under the golden lily on the Octagonal Tower, -the bells pour their notes over the roofs, spilling them in single -jets down on each side of the wide roofs. Drip--drip--drip--out of -their hearts of beaten bronze, slipping and drowning in the noise of -the crowds clustered below. - - -On the top of the Hippodrome, the bronze horses trot toward the -lupin-coloured Sea of Marmora, slowly, without moving; and, behind -them, the spokes of the _quadriga_ wheels remain separate and single, -with the blue sky showing between each one. - - -What a city is this, builded of gold and alabaster, with myrtle and -roses strewn over its floors, and doors of embossed silver opening -upon golden trees where jewelled birds sing clock-work notes, and -fountains flow from the beaks of silver eagles. All this splendour -cooped within the fourteen miles of a single city, forsooth! In -Britain, they sit under oaken beams; in France, they eat with -hunting-knives; in Germany, men wear coats of their wives' weaving. -In Italy--but there is a Pope in Italy! The bronze horses pause on -the marble Hippodrome, and days blow over them, brushing their sides -like wind. - - -It is May eleventh in Constantinople, and the Spring-blue sea shivers -like a field of lupins run over by a breeze. Every tree and shrub -spouted over every garden-wall flouts a chromatic sequence of greens. -A long string of camels on the Bridge of Justinian moves, black and -ostrich-like, against the sheen of water. A swallow sheers past the -bronze horses and drops among the pillars on top of the curve of the -Hippodrome; the great cistern on the Spina reflects a speckless sky. -It is race-day in Constantinople, and the town is turned out upon the -benches of the Hippodrome, waiting for the procession to begin. -"Hola! You fellows on the top tier, do you see anything?" "Nothing -yet, but I hear music." "Music! Oh, Lord! I should think you did. -Clear the flagged course there, the procession is coming." "Down in -front. Sit down, you." "Listen. Oh, dear, I'm so fidgety. If the -Green doesn't win, I'm out a fortune." "Keep still, will you, we -can't hear the music, you talk so loud." "Here they come! Green! -Green! Green! Drown those Blues over there. Oh, Green, I say!" - -Away beyond, through the gates, flageolets are squealing, and -trumpets are splitting their brass throats and choking over the -sound. Patter--patter--patter--horses' hoofs on flagstones. They -are coming under the paved arch. There is the President of the Games -in a tunic embroidered with golden palm-branches; there is the -Emperor in his pearl-lappeted cap, and his vermilion buskins; and -here are the racers--Green--Blue--driving their chariots, easily -standing in their high-wheeled chariots. The sun whitens the knives -in their girdles, the reins flash in the sun like ribbons of spun -glass. Three-year-olds in the Green chariot, so black they are blue. -Four blue-black horses, with the sheen of their flanks glistening -like the grain of polished wood. The little ears point forward, -their teeth tease the bits. They snort and jerk, and the chariot -wheels quirk over an outstanding stone and jolt down, flat and -rumbling. The Blue chariot-driver handles a team of greys, white as -the storks who nest in the cemetery beyond the Moslem quarter. He -gathers up his reins, and the horses fall back against the pole, -clattering, then fling forward, meet the bit, rear up, and swing -inward, settling gradually into a nervous jigging as they follow -round the course. "Blue! Blue! Go for him, Blue!" from the North -Corner. "Hurrah for the Blue! Blue to Eternity!" Slowly the -procession winds round the Spina, and the crowd stands up on the -seats and yells and cheers and waves handkerchiefs, sixty thousand -voices making such a noise that only the high screaming of the -flageolets can be heard above it. The horses toss and twitch, the -harness jingles, and the gilded eggs and dolphins on the Spina -coruscate in versicoloured stars. - - -Above the Emperor's balcony, the bronze horses move quietly forward, -and the sun outlines the great muscles of their lifted legs. - - -They have reached the Grand Stand again, and the chariots are shut -and barred in their stalls. The multitude, rustling as though they -were paper being folded, settles down into their seats. The -President drops a napkin, the bars are unlocked, and the chariots in -a double rush take the straight at top speed, Blue leading, Green -saving up for the turn at the curve. Round the three cones at the -end, Blue on one wheel, Green undercutting him. Blue turns wide to -right himself, takes the outside course and flashes up the long edge -so that you cannot count two till he curves again. Down to the Green -Corner, Blue's off horses slipping just before the cones, one hits -the pole, loses balance and falls, drags a moment, catches his feet -as the chariot slows for the circle, gathers, plunges, and lunges up -and on, while the Greens on the benches groan and curse. But the -black team is worse off, the inside near colt has got his leg over a -trace. Green checks his animals, the horse kicks free, but Blue -licks past him on the up way, and is ahead at the North turn by a -wheel length. Green goes round, flogging to make up time. Two eggs -and dolphins gone, three more to go. The pace has been slow so far, -now they must brace up. Bets run high, screamed out above the rumble -of the chariots. "Ten on the Green." "Odds fifty for the Blue." -"Double mine; those greys have him." "The blacks, the blacks, lay -you a hundred to one the blacks beat." Down, round, up, round, down, -so fast they are only dust puffs, one can scarcely see which is -which. The horses are badly blown now, and the drivers yell to them, -and thrash their churning flanks. The course is wet with sweat and -blood, the wheels slide over the wet course. Green negotiates the -South curve with his chariot sideways; Blue skids over to the flagged -way and lames a horse on the stones. The Emperor is on his feet, -staring through his emerald spy-glass. Once more round for the last -egg and dolphin. Down for the last time, Blue's lame horse delays -him, but he flays him with the whip and the Green Corner finds them -abreast. The Greens on the seats burst upstanding. "Too far out! -Well turned!" "The Green's got it!" "Well done, Hirpinus!" The -Green driver disappears up the long side to the goal, waving his -right hand, but Blue's lame horse staggers, stumbles, and goes down, -settling into the dust with a moan. Vortex of dust, struggling -horses, golden glitter of the broken chariot. "Overthrown, by the -Holy Moses! And hurt too! Well, well, he did his best, that beast -always looked skittish to me." "Is he dead, do you think? They've -got the litter." "Most likely. Green! Green! See, they're -crowning him. Green and the people! Oh-hé! Green!" - - -Cool and imperturbable, the four great gilt horses slowly pace above -the marble columns of the Grand Stand. They gaze out upon the -lupin-blue water beyond the Southern curve. Can they see the Island -of Corfu from up there, do you think? There are vessels at the -Island of Corfu waiting to continue a journey. The great horses trot -forward without moving, and the dust of the race-track sifts over -them and blows away. - - -Constantinople from the Abbey of San Stefano: bubbles of opal and -amber thrust up in a distant sky, pigeon-coloured nebulæ closing the -end of a long horizon. Tilting to the little waves of a harbour, the -good ships _Aquila_, _Paradiso_, _Pellegrina_, leaders of a fleet of -galleys: _dromi_, _hippogogi_, vessels carrying timber for turrets, -strong vessels holding mangonels. Proud vessels under an ancient -Doge, keeping Saint John's Day at the Abbey of San Stefano, within -sight of Constantinople. - -Knights in blue and crimson inlaid armour clank up and down the -gang-planks of the vessels. Flags and banners flap loosely at the -mast-heads. There is the banner of Baldwin of Flanders, the standard -of Louis of Blois, the oriflamme of Boniface of Montferrat, the -pennon of Hugh, Count of Saint Paul, and last, greatest, the gonfalon -of Saint Mark, dripped so low it almost touches the deck, with the -lion of Venice crumpled in its windless folds. - - -Saint John's Day, and High Mass in the Abbey of San Stefano. They -need God's help who would pass over the double walls and the four -hundred towers of Constantinople. _Te Deum Laudamus!_ The armoured -knights make the sign of the cross, lightly touching the crimson and -azure devices on their breasts with mailed forefingers. - -South wind to the rescue; that was a good mass. "Boatswain, what's -the direction of that cat's-paw, veering round a bit? Good." - - -Fifty vessels making silver paths in the Summer-blue Sea of Marmora. -Fifty vessels passing the Sweet Waters, blowing up the Bosphorus. - -Strike your raucous gongs, City of Byzantium. Run about like ants -between your golden palaces. These vessels are the chalices of God's -wrath. The spirit of Christ walking upon the waters. Or is it -anti-Christ? This is the true Church. Have we not the stone on -which Jacob slept, the rod which Moses turned into a serpent, a -portion of the bread of the Last Supper? We are the Virgin's chosen -abiding place; why, the picture which Saint Luke painted of her is in -our keeping. We have pulled the sun's rays from the statue of -Constantine and put up the Cross instead. Will that bring us -nothing? Cluster round the pink and white striped churches, throng -the alabaster churches, fill the naves with a sound of chanting. -Strike the terror-gongs and call out the soldiers, for even now the -plumed knights are disembarking, and the snarling of their trumpets -mingles with the beating of the gongs. - -The bronze horses on the Hippodrome, harnessed to the gilded -_quadriga_, step forward slowly. They proceed in a measured cadence. -They advance without moving. There are lights and agitation in the -city, but the air about the horses has the violet touch of night. - - -Now, now, you crossbowmen and archers, you go first. Stand along the -gunwales and be ready to jump. Keep those horses still there, don't -let them get out of order. Lucky we thought of the hides. Their -damnable Greek fire can't hurt us now. Up to the bridge, knights. -Three of you abreast, on a level with the towers. What's a shower of -arrows against armour! An honourable dint blotting out the head of a -heron, half a plume sheared off a helmet so that it leers cock-eyed -through the press. Tut! Tut! Little things, the way of war. Jar, -jolt, mud--the knights clash together like jumbled chess-men, then -leap over the bridges. -Confusion--contusion--raps--bangs--lurches--blows--battle-axes -thumping on tin shields; bolts bumping against leathern bucklers. "A -Boniface to the Rescue!" "Baldwin forever!" "Viva San Marco!" Such -a pounding, pummelling, pitching, pointing, piercing, pushing, -pelting, poking, panting, punching, parrying, pulling, prodding, -puking, piling, passing, you never did see. Stones pour out of the -mangonels; arrows fly thick as mist. Swords twist against swords, -bill-hooks batter bill-hooks, staves rattle upon staves. One, two, -five men up a scaling ladder. Chop down on the first, and he rolls -off the ladder with his skull in two halves; rip up the bowels of the -second, he drips off the ladder like an overturned pail. But the -third catches his adversary between the legs with a pike and pitches -him over as one would toss a truss of hay. Way for the three ladder -men! Their feet are on the tower, their plumes flower, argent and -gold, above the muck of slaughter. From the main truck of the ships -there is a constant seeping of Venetians over the walls of -Constantinople. They flow into the city, they throw themselves upon -the beleaguered city. They smash her defenders, and crash her -soldiers to mere bits of broken metal. - -Byzantines, Copts, Russians, Persians, Armenians, Moslems, the great -army of the Franks is knocking at the gates of your towers. Open the -gates. Open, open, or we will tear down your doors, and breach the -triple thickness of your walls. Seventeen burning boats indeed, and -have the Venetians no boat-hooks? They make pretty fireworks to -pleasure our knights of an evening when they come to sup with Doge -Dandolo. At night we will sleep, but in the morning we will kill -again. Under your tents, helmeted knights; into your cabin, old -Doge. The stars glitter in the Sea of Marmora, and above the city, -black in the brilliance of the stars, the great horses of Constantine -advance, pausing, blotting their shadows against the sprinkled sky. - - -From June until September, the fracas goes on. The chanting of -masses, the shouting of battle songs, sweep antiphonally over -Constantinople. They blend and blur, but what is that light -tinkling? Tambourines? What is that snapping? Castanets? What is -that yellow light in the direction of the Saracen mosque? My God! -Fire! Gold of metals, you have met your king. Ringed and crowned, -he takes his place in the jewelled city. Gold of fire mounted upon -all the lesser golds. The twin tongues of flame flaunt above the -housetops. Banners of scarlet, spears of saffron, spikes of rose and -melted orange. What are the little flags of the Crusaders to these! -They clamoured for pay and won the elements. Over the Peninsula of -Marmora it comes. The whips of its fire-thongs lash the golden city. -A conflagration half a league wide. Magnificent churches, splendid -palaces, great commercial streets, are burning. Golden domes melt -and liquefy, and people flee from the dripping of them. Lakes of -gold lie upon the pavements; pillars crack and tumble, making dams -and bridges over the hot gold. Two days, two nights, the fire rages, -and through the roar of it the little cries of frightened birds come -thin and pitiful. Earth pleading with fire. Earth begging quarter -of the awful majesty of fire. The birds wheel over Constantinople; -they perch upon the cool bronze horses standing above the Hippodrome. -The quiet horses who wait and advance. This is not their fire, they -trample on the luminousness of flames, their strong hind legs plant -them firmly on the marble coping. They watch the falling of the -fire, they gaze upon the ruins spread about them, and the pungence of -charred wood brushes along their tarnished sides like wind. - - -The Franks have made an Emperor and now the Greeks have murdered him. -The Doge asks for fifty _centenaria_ in gold to pay his sailors. Who -will pay, now that the Emperor is dead? Declare a siege and pay -yourselves, Count, and Marquis, and Doge. Set your ships bow to -stern, a half a league of them. Sail up the Golden Horn, and attack -the walls in a hundred places. You fail to-day, but you will win -to-morrow. Bring up your battering-rams and ballistæ; hurl stones -from your mangonels; run up your scaling ladders and across your skin -bridges. Winter is over and Spring is in your veins. Your blood -mounts like sap, mount up the ladder after it. Two ships to a tower, -and four towers taken. Three gates battered in. The city falls. -Cruel saints, you have betrayed your votaries. Even the relic of the -Virgin's dress in the Panhagia of Blachernæ has been useless. The -knights enter Byzantium, and their flickering pennants are the -flamelets of a new conflagration. Fire of flesh burning in the blood -of the populace. They would make the sign of the cross, would they, -so that the Franks may spare them? But the sap is up in the Frankish -veins, the fire calls for fuel. Blood burns to who will ignite it. -The swords itch for the taste of entrails, the lances twitch at sight -of a Byzantine. Feed, Fire! Here are men, and women, and children, -full of blood for the relish of your weapons. Spring sap, how many -women! Good Frankish seed for the women of Byzantium. Blood and -lust, you shall empty yourselves upon the city. Your swords shall -exhaust themselves upon these Greeks. Your hands shall satisfy -themselves with gold. Spit at the priests. This is the Greek -church, not ours. Grab the sacred furniture of the churches, -fornicate upon the high altar of Saint Sophia, and load the jewels -upon the donkeys you have driven into the church to receive them. -Old pagan Crusaders, this is the Orgy of Spring! Lust and blood, the -birthright of the world. - - -The bright, shining horses tread upon the clean coping of the -Hippodrome, and the Sea of Marmora lies before them like a lupin -field run over by a breeze. - - -What are you now, Constantinople? A sacked city; and the tale of -your plundering shall outdo the tale of your splendours for wonder. -Three days they pillage you. Burmese rubies rattle in the pockets of -common soldiers. The golden tree is hacked to bits and carried off -by crossbowmen. An infantry sergeant hiccoughs over the wine he -drinks from an altar cup. The knights live in palaces and dip their -plumes under the arch of the Emperor's bed-chamber. - -In the Sea of Marmora, the good ships _Aquila_, _Paradiso_, -_Pellegrina_ swing at anchor. The _dromi_ and _hippogogi_ ride free -and empty. They bob to the horses high above them on the Hippodrome. -They dance to the rhythmic beat of hammers floating out to them from -the city of Constantinople. - -Throb--throb--a dying pulse counts its vibrations. Throb--throb--and -each stroke means a gobbet of gold. They tear it down from the walls -and doors, they rip it from ceilings and pry it up from floors. They -chip it off altars, they rip it out of panels, they hew it from -obelisks, they gouge it from enamels. This is a death dance, a -whirligig, a skeleton city footing a jig, a tarantella quirked to -hammer-stroke time; a corpse in motley ogling a crime. -Tap--tap--tap--goes the pantomime. - -Grinning devils watch church cutting the throat of church. Chuckling -gargoyles in France, in Britain, rub their stomachs and squeeze -themselves together in an ecstasy of delight. Ho! Ho! Marquis -Boniface, Count Hugh, Sieur Louis. What plunder do you carry home? -What relics do you bring to your Gothic cathedrals? The head of -Saint Clement? The arm of John the Baptist? A bit of the wood of -the True Cross? Statues are only so much metal, but these are -treasures worth fighting for. Fighting, quotha! Murdering, -stealing. The Pope will absolve you, only bring him home a tear of -Christ, and you will see. A tear of Christ! _Eli, Eli, lama -sabachthani!_ Oh, pitiful world! Pitiful knights in your inlaid -armour! Pitiful Doge, preening himself in the Palace of Blachernæ! - - -Above the despoiled city, the Corinthian horses trot calmly forward, -without moving, and the _quadriga_ behind them glitters in the sun. - -People have blood, but statues have gold, and silver, and bronze. -Melt them! Melt them! "Gee! Haw!" Guide the oxen carefully. Four -oxen to drag the head of Juno to the furnace. White oxen to -transport Minerva; fawn-coloured oxen for the colossal Hercules of -Lysippus. Pour them into the furnaces so that they run out mere soft -metal ripe for coining. Two foot-sergeants get as much as a -horse-sergeant, and two horse-sergeants as much as a knight. Flatten -out Constantinople. Raze her many standing statues, shave the -Augustaion to a stark stretch of paving-stones. Melt the bones of -beauty, indomitable Crusaders, and pay the Venetians fifty thousand -silver marks as befits an honest company of dedicated gentlemen. - -"The Doge wants those horses, does he? Just as they are, unmelted? -Holy Saint Christopher, what for? Pity he didn't speak sooner, I -sent Walter the Smith to cut the gold off them this morning, but it -sticks like the very devil and he hasn't done much. Well, well, the -Doge can have them. A man with a whim must be given way to, -particularly when he owns all the ships. How about that gilded -chariot?" "Oh, he can't manage that. Just the horses. You were in -a mighty hurry with that cutting, it seems to me. You've made them -look like zebras, and he'll not like that. He's a bit of a -connoisseur in horse-flesh, even if he does live in the water. Wants -to mate them to the dolphins probably, and go a-campaigning astride -of fishes. Ha! Ha! Ha!" - -"Steady there, lower the horses carefully, they are for the Doge." -One--one--one--one--down from the top of the Hippodrome. -One--one--one--one--on ox-carts rumbling toward the water's edge, in -boats rowing over the lupin-coloured sea. Great horses, trot calmly -on your sides, roll quietly to the heaving of the bright sea. Above -you, sails go up, anchors are weighed. The gonfalon of Saint Mark -flings its extended lion to the freshening wind. To Venice, -_Aquila_, _Paradiso_, _Pellegrina_, with your attendant _dromi_! To -Venice! Over the running waves of the Spring-blue sea. - - - -_BENEATH A CROOKED RAINBOW_ - -_As the seasons of Earth are Fire, so are the seasons of men. The -departure of Fire is a change, and the coming of Fire is a greater -change. Demand not that which is over, but acclaim what is still to -come. So the Earth builds up her cities, and falls upon them with -weeds and nettles; and Water flows over the orchards of past -centuries. On the sand-hills shall apple trees flourish, and in the -water-courses shall be gathered a harvest of plums. Earth, Air, and -Water abide in fluctuation. But man, in the days between his birth -and dying, fashions metals to himself, and they are without heat or -cold. In the Winter solstice, they are not altered like the Air, nor -hardened like the Water, nor shrivelled like the Earth, and the heats -of Summer bring them no burgeoning. Therefore are metals outside the -elements. Between melting and melting they are beyond the Water, and -apart from the Earth, and severed from the Air. Fire alone is of -them, and master. Withdrawn from Fire, they dwell in isolation._ - - - -VENICE - -Venice anadyomene! City of reflections! A cloud of rose and violet -poised upon a changing sea. City of soft waters washing marble -stairways, of feet moving over stones with the continuous sound of -slipping water. Floating, wavering city, shot through with the -silver threads of water, woven with the green-gold of flowing water, -your marble Rivas block the tides as they sweep in over the Lagoons, -your towers fling golden figures of Fortune into the carnation sky at -sunset, the polished marble of the walls of old palaces burns red to -the flaring torches set in cressets before your doors. Strange city, -belonging neither to earth nor water, where the slender spandrels of -vines melt into the carvings of arched windows, and crabs ferry -themselves through the moon-green water rippling over the steps of a -decaying church. - -Beautiful, faded city. The sea wind has dimmed your Oriental -extravagance to an iris of rose, and amber, and lilac. You are dim -and reminiscent like the frayed hangings of your State Chambers, and -the stucco of your house-fronts crumbles into the canals with a -gentle dripping which no one notices. - -A tabernacle set in glass, an ivory ornament resting upon a table of -polished steel. It is the surface of the sea, spangled, crinkled, -engine-turned to whorls of blue and silver, ridged in waves of -flower-green and gold. Sequins of gold skip upon the water, -crocus-yellow flames dart against white smoothness and disappear, -wafers of many colours float and intermingle. The Lagoons are a -white fire burning to the blue band of the Lido, restlessly shifting -under the cool, still, faint peaks of the Euganean Hills. - -Where is there such another city? She has taken all the Orient to -herself. She has treated with Barbarossa, with Palæologus, with the -Pope, the Tzar, the Caliph, the Sultan, and the Grand Khan. Her -returning vessels have discharged upon the mole metals and jewels, -pearls from the Gulf of Oman, silks from Damascus, camel's-hair -fabrics from Erzeroum. The columns of Saint John of Acre have been -landed on her jetties, and the great lions from the Piræus. Now she -rests and glitters, holding her treasures lightly, taking them for -granted, chatting among the fringes, and tinkling sherbet spoons of -an evening in the dark shadow of the Campanile. - -Up from the flickering water, beyond the laced colonnades of the -Ducal Palace--golden bubbles, lung out upon a sky of ripe blue. -Arches of white and scarlet flowers, pillars of porphyry, columns of -jasper, open loggias of deep-green serpentine flaked with snow. In -the architraves, stones chipped and patterned, the blues studded with -greens, the greens circling round yellows, reds of every depth, clear -purples, heliotropes clouded into a vague white. Above them, all -about them, the restless movement of carven stone; it is involuted -and grotesque, it is acanthus leaves and roses, it is palm branches -and vine tendrils, it is feathers and the tails of birds, all blowing -on a day of _scirocco_. Angels rise among the swirling acanthus -leaves, angels and leaves weaving an upstarting line, ending in the -great star of Christ struck upon the edge of a golden dome. Saint -Mark's Church, gazing down the length of the chequered Piazza, -thrusting itself upon the black and white pavement, rising out of the -flat tiles in a rattle of colours, soaring toward the full sky like a -broken prism whirling at last into the gold bubbles of its five wide -domes. The Campanile mounts above it, but the Campanile is only -brick, even if it has a pointed top which you cannot see without -lying on your back. The pigeons can fly up to it, but the pigeons -prefer the angles and hollows of the sculptured church. - -Saint Mark's Church--and over the chief arch, among the capitals of -foaming leaves and bent grasses, trample four great horses. They are -of gold, of gilding so fine that it has not faded. They are -tarnished here and there, but their fair colour overcomes the green -corroding and is a blinding to the eyes in sunshine. Four -magnificent, muscular horses, lightly stepping upon traceried -columns, one forefoot raised to launch them forward. They stand over -the high door, caught back a moment before springing, held an instant -to the perfection of a movement about to begin, and the pigeons -circle round them brushing against their sides like wind. - - -But, dear me, Saint Mark's is the only thing in the Piazza that is -not talking, and walking to and fro, and cheapening shoe buckles at a -stall, and playing panfil and bassetta at little round tables by the -wall, and singing to guitars, and whistling to poodles, and shouting -to acquaintances, and giving orders to servants, and whispering a -scandal behind fans, and carrying tomatoes in copper pans, and flying -on messages, and lying to creditors, and spying on suspects, and -colliding with masked loungers, and crying out the merits of fried -fish, caught when the tide comes leaping through the Tre Porti. A -dish of tea at a coffee-house, and then cross one leg over the other -and wait. She will be here by seven o'clock, and a faithful -_cicisbeo_ has her charms to muse upon until then. Ah, Venice, -chattering, flattering, occupied Venice, what are the sculptured -angels and golden horses to you. You are far too busy to glance at -them. They are chiefly remarkable as curiosities, for whoever saw a -real angel, and as to a real horse--"I saw a stuffed one for a -_soldo_, the other day, in the Campo San Polo. _Un elephanto_, -Gastone, taller than my shoulder and the eyes were made of glass, -they would pass for perfect any day." - - -Ah, the beautiful palaces, with their gateways of gilded iron frilled -into arms and coronets, quilled into shooting leaves and tendrils, -filled with rosettes, fretted by heraldic emblems! Ah, the beautiful -taste, which wastes no time on heavy stone, but cuts flowers, and -foliage, and flourishes, and ribbons out of--stucco! Bows of stucco -glued about a ceiling by Tiepolo, and ranged underneath, frail -white-and-gold, rose-and-gold, green-and-gold chairs, fair consoles -of polished lacquer supporting great mirrors of Murano. Hangings of -blue silk with silver fringes, behind your folds, la Signora Benzona -accords a favour to the Cavalier Giuseppe Trevis. Upon a -salmon-coloured sofa striped with pistachio-green, the Cavaliera -Contarini flirts with both her _cicisbei_ at once, in a charming -impartiality. Kisses? Ah, indeed, certainly kisses. Hands tickling -against hands? But assuredly, one for each of you. The heel of a -left slipper caught against a buckled shoe, the toe of a right foot -pressed beneath a broader sole; but the toll is finished. "Tut! -Tut! Gentlemen! With the other present! Have you no delicacy? -To-night perhaps, after the Ridotto, we will take a giro in my -gondola as far as Malamocco, Signor Bianchi. And to-morrow, Carlo -Pin, will you go to church with me? There is something in the tones -of an organ, I know not what exactly, but it has its effect." - - -"You rang, _Illustrissima_?" "Of course I rang, Stupid, did you -think it was the cat?" "Your nobility desires?" "The time, -Blockhead, what is the time?" "Past seven, _Illustrissima_." "Ye -Gods, how time passes when one sleeps! Bring my chocolate at once, -and call Giannina." With a yawn, the lady rises, just as the sun -fades away from the flying figure of Fortune on the top of the -Dogana. "Candles, Moracchio." And the misty mirrors prick and -pulsate with reflections of blurred flame. Flame-points, and behind -them the puce-coloured curtains of a bed; an escritoire with -feathered pens and Spanish wax; a table with rouge-pots and -powder-boxes; a lady, naked as a Venus, slipping into a silk shift. -In the misty mirrors, she is all curves and colour, all slenderness -and tapering, all languor and vivacity. Even Giannina murmurs, "_Che -bella Madonna mia!_" as she pulls the shift into place. But the door -is ajar, a mere harmless crack to make a fuss about. "Only one eye, -_Cara Mia_, I assure you the other saw nothing but the panel. I ask -for so much, and I have only taken the pleasure of one little eye. I -must kiss them, _Signora Bellissima_, two little red berries, like -the fruit of the _potentillas_ in the grass at Sant' Elena. _Musica! -Musica!_ The barque of music is coming down the canal. Sit on my -knee a moment, the Casino can wait; and after you have won a thousand -zecchini, will you be a second Danae and go with me to the early -morning market? Then you shall come home and sleep all day in the -great bed among the roses I shall buy for you. With your gold? -Perhaps, my dearest tease, the luck has deserted me lately. But -there are ways of paying, are there not, and I am an honourable man." - - -The great horses of Saint Mark's trot softly forward on their -sculptured pedestals, without moving. Behind them, the glass of the -arched window is dark, but the Piazza is a bowl of lights, a -tambourine of little bell-stroke laughter. The golden horses step -forward, dimly shimmering in the light of the lamps below, and the -pigeons sleep quietly on the stands at their feet. - - -Green Lion of Saint Mark upon your high pedestal! Winged Lion of -Saint Mark, your head turned over the blinding Lagoons to the blue -Lido, your tail pointing down the sweeping flow of the Grand Canal! -What do you see, Green Lion of the Patron Saint? Boats? Masts? -Quaint paintings on the broad bows of bragozzi, orange sails -contra-crossing one another over tossing ripples. Gondolas tipping -to the oars of the _barcajuoli_, slipping under the Ponte della -Paglia, dipping between sardine _topi_, skipping past the Piazzetta, -curving away to the Giudecca, where it lies beyond the crystal -pinnacles of Santa Maria della Salute and San Giorgio Maggiore which -has the lustre of roses. - -What do you smell, Lion? Boiling hot chestnuts, fried cuttles, fried -puffs of pastry; the pungent odour of salt water and of dead fish; -the nostalgic aroma of sandal-wood and myrrh, of musk, of leopard -skins and the twin tusks of elephants. - -And you, great Lion of the Ducal Palace, what goes on at your feet? -People knotted together or scattering, pattering over the old stones -in impertinent satin slippers, flippantly tapping the pavement with -red heels. Whirls of people circle like the pigeons, knots of people -spot the greyness of the stones, ribbons of people file along the -colonnades, rayed lines of people between the Procuratie stripe the -pavement sideways, criss-cross, at oblique angles. Spangles snap and -fade; gems glitter. A gentleman in a buttercup-coloured coat goes by -with a bouquet. A sea-green gown brocaded with cherry and violet -stays an instant before a stall to buy a packet of ambergris. -Pilgrims with staffs and cockles knock the stones as they shuffle -along, a water-carrier shouts out a song. A scarlet sacristan -jingles his keys; purple robes of justices saunter at ease. Messer -Goldoni hustles by to a rehearsal, and three famous _castrati_, i -Signori Pacchierotti, Aprili, Rubenelli, rustle their mantles and -adjust their masks, ogling the ladies with gold lorgnons. Blind men -sniffle into flageolets, marionette men hurry on to a distant Campo -in a flurry of cotton streamers. If Venice is a flowing of water, it -is also a flowing of people. All Europe runs into this wide square. -There is Monsieur Montesquieu, just from France, taking notes on the -sly; there is Mrs. Piozzi, from England, with an eye to everything, -even chicken-coops; Herr Goethe, from the Court at Weimar, trying to -overcome a fit of mental indigestion; Madame Vigée le Brun, -questioning the merit of her work and that of Rosalba Carriera. You -have much to watch, Lion, the whole earth cannot match the pageant of -this great square, in the limpid sun-shot air, between the towering -Campanile and the blaze of Saint Mark's angels. Star-fish patterns, -jelly-fish rounds of colour, if the sea quivers with variety so does -the Piazza. But above, on the façade of the jewelled church, the -horses do not change. They stand vigorous and immovable, stepping -lightly as though poised upon glass. Metal horses set upon shifting -shards of glass, and the soft diphthongs of the Venetian dialect -float over them like wind. - - -There are two Venices, the one we walk upon, and the one which wavers -up to us inverted from the water of the canals. The silver prow of a -gondola winds round a wall, and in the moss-brown water another -gondola joins it, bottom to bottom, with the teeth of the prow -infinitely repeated. A cypress closes the end of a _rio_, and driven -into the thick water another cypress spindles beneath us, and the -wake of our boat leaves its foliage cut to tatters as it passes on. -We plough through the veined pinks and subdued scarlets of the -façades of palaces; we sheer a path through a spotted sky and blunt -the tip of a soaring campanile. Are we swimming in the heavens, -turned legend and constellation? Truly it seems so. "How you go on, -Cavalier, certainly you are a foreigner to notice such things. The -Lido, Giuseppe. I have a nostalgia for flowers to-day, and besides, -abroad so early in the afternoon--what shocking style! The custom of -the country, my dear Sir, here we go to bed by sunlight as you will -see." - -Sweep out of the broad canal, turn to the hanging snow summits. Oh, -the beautiful silver light, the blue light shimmering with silver. -The clear sunlight on rose brick and amber marble. The sky so pale -it is white, so bright it is yellow, so cloudless it is blue. Oh, -the shafts of sapphire striping the wide water, the specks of gold -dancing along it, the diamond roses opening and shutting upon its -surface! Some one is singing in a distant boat: - - "_Amanti, ci vuole costanza in amor' - Amando, - Penando, - Si speri, si, si._" - - -The lady shrugs her shoulders. "These fishermen are very droll. -What do the _canaglia_ know about love. Breeding, yes, that is -certainly their affair, but love! _Più presto_, Giuseppe. How the -sun burns!" Rock over the streaked Lagoon, gondola, pock the blue -strips with white, shock purple shadows through the silver strata, -set blocks of iris cannoning against gold. This is the rainbow over -which we are floating, and the heart-shaped city behind us is a -reliquary of old ivory laid upon azure silk. Your hand, Signor the -Foreigner, be careful lest she wet those fine French stockings, they -cost I do not know how much a pair. Now run away across the Lido, -gathering violets and periwinkles. The lady has a whim for a -_villeggiatura_, and why not? Those scarlet pomegranate blossoms -will look well in her hair to-night at the opera. But one cannot -linger long, already the Dolomites are turning pink, and there is a -whole night ahead of us to be cajoled somehow. A mile away from -Venice and it is too far. "_Felicissima notte!_" Wax candles shine -in the windows. The little stars of the gondola lanterns glide -between dark walls. Broken moonlight shivers in the canals. And the -masks come out, thronging the streets and squares with a chequer-work -of black cloaks and white faces. Little white faces floating like -pond-lilies above the water. Floating faces adrift over unfathomable -depths. Have you ever heard the words, _Libertà, Independenza, e -Eguaglianza_? "What stuff and nonsense! Of course I have read your -great writer, Rousseau; I cried my heart out over '_La Nouvelle -Héloise_,' but in practice! Wake my servants, the lazy fellows are -always asleep, you will find them curled up on the stairs most -likely. It is time we went to the _Mendicanti_ to hear the oratorio. -Ah, but those poor orphans sing with a charm! It makes one weep to -hear them, only the old _Maestro di Capella_ will beat time with his -music on the grill. It is quite ridiculous, they could go through it -perfectly without him. _Misericordia!_ The red light! That is the -gondola of the Supreme Tribunal taking some poor soul to the Piombi; -God protect him! But it does not concern us, my friend. _Ridiamo a -duetto!_" Little tinkling drops from the oars of the boatmen, little -tinkling laughter wafted across the moonlight. - - -Four horses parading in front of a splendid church. Four ancient -horses with ears pointed forward, listening. One foot is raised, -they advance without moving. To what do they listen? To the -serenades they have heard so often? _Cavatine, canzonette_, dance -songs, hymns, for six hundred years the songs of Venice have drifted -past them, lightly, as the wings of pigeons. And month by month the -old moon has sailed over them, as she did in Constantinople, as she -did in Rome. - - -Saint Stephen's Day, and the Carnival! For weeks now Venice will be -amused. Folly to think of anything but fun. Toot the fifes! Bang -the drums! Did you ever see anything so jolly in all your life -before? Keep your elbows to your sides, there isn't room to square -them. "My! What a flare! Rockets in broad daylight! I declare -they make the old horses of Saint Mark's blush pink when they burst. -Thirsty? So am I, what will you have? Wine or oranges? Don't -jostle so, old fellow, we can look in the window as well as you. See -that apothecary's stall, isn't that a gay festoon? Curse me, if it -isn't made of leeches; what will these shopkeepers do next! That -mask has a well-turned ankle. Good evening, my charmer. You are as -beautiful as a parrot, as white as linen, as light as a rabbit. Ay! -O-o-h! The she-camel! She aimed her _confetti_ right at my eye. -Come on, Tito, let's go and see them behead the bull. Hold on a -minute though, somebody's pulling my cloak. Just one little squeeze, -Beauty, you shouldn't tweak a man's cloak if you don't want to be -squeezed. You plump little pudding, you little pecking pigeon, I'll -get more next time. Wow! Here comes Arlecchino. Push back, push -back, the comedians are coming. Stow in your fat belly, -_'lustrissimo_, you take up room enough for two." - -Somebody beats a gong, and three drummers cleave a path through the -crowd. Bang! _Bang!_ BANG! So loud it splits the hearing. -Mattachino leaps down the path. He is in white, with red lacings and -red shoes. On his arm is a basket of eggs. Right, left, into the -crowd, skim the eggs. Duck--jump--it is no use. Plump, on some -one's front; pat, against some one's hat. The eggs crack, and -scented waters run out of them, filling the air with the sweet smells -of musk and bergamot. But here is a wheel of colours rolling down -the path. Clown! Clown! It is Arlecchino, in his patched coat. It -was green and he has botched it with red, or is it yellow, or -possibly blue. It is hard to tell, he turns so fast. Three -somersaults, and he comes up standing, and makes a long nose, and -sweeps off his hat with the hare's fud, and glares solemnly into the -eyes of a gentleman in spectacles. "Sir," says Arlecchino, "have you -by chance a toothache? I can tell you how to cure it. Take an -apple, cut it into four equal parts, put one of these into your -mouth, and thrust your head into an oven until the apple is baked. I -swear on my honour you will never have the toothache again." Zip! -Sizz! No use in the cane. A pirouette and he is away again. A -hand-spring, a double cut-under, and the parti-coloured rags are only -a tag bouncing up out of surging black mantles. But there is -something more wonderful yet. Set your faces to the Piazzetta, -people; push, slam, jam, to keep your places. "A balloon is going up -from the Dogana del Mare, a balloon like a moon or something else -starry. A meteor, a comet, I don't really know what; it looks, so -they say, like a huge apricot, or a pear--yes, that's surely the -thing--blushing red, mellow yellow, a fruit on the wing, garlanded -with streamers and tails, all a-whirl and a-flutter. Cut the string -and she sails, till she lands in the gutter." "How do you know she -lands in the gutter, Booby?" "Where else should she land, unless in -the sea?" "You're a fool, I suppose you sat up all night writing -that doggerel." "Not at all, it is an improvisation." "Here, keep -back, you can't push past me with your talk. Oh! Look! Look!" - -That is a balloon. It rises slowly--slowly--above the Dogana. It -wavers, dips, and poises; it mounts in the silver air, it floats -without direction; suspended in movement, it hangs, a clear pear of -red and yellow, opposite the melting, opal-tinted city. And the -reflection of it also floats, perfect in colour but cooler, perfect -in outline but more vague, in the glassy water of the Grand Canal. -The blue sky sustains it; the blue water encloses it. Then balloon -and reflection swing gently seaward. One ascends, the other -descends. Each dwindles to a speck. Ah, the semblance is gone, the -water has nothing; but the sky focusses about a point of fire, a -formless iridescence sailing higher, become a mere burning, until -that too is absorbed in the brilliance of the clouds. - -You cheer, people, but you do not know for what. A beautiful toy? -Undoubtedly you think so. Shout yourselves hoarse, you who have -conquered the sea, do you underestimate the air? Joke, laugh, -purblind populace. You have been vouchsafed an awful vision, and you -do nothing but clap your hands. - -That is over, and here is Pantalone calling to you. "Going--going--I -am selling my furniture. Two dozen chairs of fine holland; fourteen -tables of almond paste; six majolica mattresses full of scrapings of -haycocks; a semolina bedcover; six truffled cushions; two pavilions -of spider-web trimmed with tassels made from the moustaches of Swiss -door-keepers. Oh! The Moon! The Moon! The good little yellow -moon, no bigger than an omelet of eight eggs. Come, I will throw in -the moon. A quarter-ducat for the moon, good people. Take your -opportunity." - -Great gold horses, quietly stepping above the little mandarin -figures, strong horses above the whirling porcelain figures, are the -pigeons the only birds in Venice? Have the swallows told you -nothing, flying from the West? - -The bells of Saint Mark's Church ring midnight. The carnival is over. - -In the deserted square, the pavement is littered with feathers, -_confetti_, orange-peel, and pumpkin-seeds. But the golden horses on -the balcony over the high door trot forward, without moving, and the -shadow of the arch above them is thrown farther and farther forward -as the moon drops toward the Lagoon. - - -Bronze armies marching on a sea-shell city. Slanted muskets filing -over the passes of tall Alps. Who is this man who leads you, carven -in new bronze, supple as metal still cooling, firm as metal from a -fresh-broken mold? A bright bronze general heading armies. The -tread of his grenadiers is awful, continuous. How will it be in the -streets of the glass city? These men are the flying letters of a new -gospel. They are the tablets of another law. Twenty-eight, this -general! Ah, but the metal is well compounded. He has been -victorious in fourteen pitched battles and seventy fights; he has -taken five hundred field pieces, and two thousand of heavy calibre; -he has sent thirty millions back to the treasury of France. The -Kings of Naples and Sardinia write him friendly letters; the Pope and -the Duke of Parma weary themselves with compliments. The English -have retired from Genoa, Leghorn, and Corsica. - -Little glass masks, have you heard nothing of this man? What of the -new French ambassador, Citizen Lallemont? You have seen his -gondoliers and the _tricolore_ cockade in their caps? It is a -puzzling business, but you can hardly expect us to be alarmed, we -have been a republic for centuries. Still, these new ideas are -intriguing, they say several gentlemen have adopted them. "Alvise -Pisani, my Dear, and Abbate Colalto, also Bragadin, and Soranza, and -Labbia. Oh, there was much talk about it last night. Such strange -notions! But the cockade is very pretty. I have the ribbon, and I -am going to make a few. Signora Fontana gave me the pattern." - -Columbus discovered America. Ah, it was then you should have made -your cockades. Is it Bonaparte or the Cape of Good Hope which has -compassed your destiny? Little porcelain figures, can you stand the -shock of bronze? - -No, evidently. The quills of the Senate secretaries are worn blunt, -writing note after note to the General of the Armies. But still he -marches forward, and his soldiers, dressed as peasants, have invaded -Breschia and Bergamo. And what a man! Never satisfied. He must -have this--that--and other things as well. He must have guns, -cannon, horses, mules, food, forage. What is all this talk of a -Cisalpine Republic? The Senate wavers like so many sea anemones in -an advancing tide. Ascension Day is approaching. Shall the Doge go -in the _Bucentoro_ to wed the sea "in token of real and perpetual -dominion"? The Senate dictates, the secretaries write, and the -_Arsenalotti_ polish the brasses of the _Bucentoro_ and wait. -Brightly shine the overpolished brasses of the _Bucentoro_, but the -ships in the Arsenal are in bad repair and the crews wanting. - -It is Holy Saturday in Venice, and solemn processions march to the -churches. The slow chanting of choirs rises above the floating city, -but in the Citizen Lallemont's apartments is a jangling of spurred -heels, a clanking of cavalry sabres. General Junot arrived in the -small hours of the night. Holy Saturday is nothing to a reformed -Frenchman; the General's business will not wait, he must see the -Signory at once. Desert your churches, convene the College in haste. -A bronze man cannot be opposed by a Senate of glass. Is it for -fantasy that so many people are wearing the _tricolore_, or is it -politeness to the visiting general? But what does he say? French -soldiers murdered! Nonsense, a mere street row between Bergamese. -But Junot thunders and clanks his sabre. A sword is a terrible thing -in a cabinet of biscuit figurines. Let that pass. He has gone. But -Venice is shaken. The stately palaces totter on their rotting piles, -the _campi_ buzz with voices, the Piazza undulates to a gesticulating -multitude. Only the pigeons wheel unconcernedly about the Campanile, -and the great horses stand, poised and majestic, beneath the mounting -angels of Saint Mark's Church. - -Ascension Day draws nearer. The brasses of the _Bucentoro_ shine -like gold. Surely the Doge will not desert his bride; or has the -jilt tired of her long subjection? False water, upon your breast -rock many navies, how should you remain true to a ship which fears to -wet its keel. The _Bucentoro_ glitters in the Arsenal, she blazes -with glass and gilding drawn up safely on a runway of dry planks, -while over the sea, beyond the Lido, rises the spark of sails. The -vessel is hull down, but the tiers of canvas lift up, one after the -other: skysails, royals, topgallantsails, topsails, mainsails, and at -last, the woodwork. Then gleaming ports, then streaming water -flashed from a curved bow. A good ship, but she flys the -_tricolore_. This is no wedding barge, there is no winged lion on -that flag. There is no music, no choir singing hymns. Men run to -and fro in San Nicolo Fort, peering through spy-glasses. Ah, she -will observe the rules, the skysails come down, then the royals--but -why in thunder do not the topgallantsails follow? The fellow is -coming right under the fort. Guns. He salutes. Answer from the -fort. Citizen Lallemont has agreed that no French vessel shall enter -the port, even the English do not attempt it. But the son of a dog -comes on. Send out boats, Comandatore Pizzamano. _Per Dio_, he is -passing them! Touch off the cannon as a warning. One shot. Two. -Some one is on the poop with a speaking-trumpet. "What ship is -that?" "_Le Libérateur d'Italie. Le Capitaine Laugier. Marine de -la République Française._" "It is forbidden to enter the port, -_Signor Capitano Laugier_." "We intend to anchor outside." Do you! -Then why not clew up those damned topgallantsails. My God! She is -past the fort. She has slipped through the entrance; she is in the -Lagoon. Her forefoot cuts the diamond water, she sheers her way -through the calm colour reflections, her bow points straight at the -rose and violet city swimming under the light clouds of early -afternoon. Shock! Shiver! Foul of a Venetian galley, by all that's -holy. What beastly seamanship! The Venetians will not stand it, I -tell you. Pop! Pop! Those are muskets, drop on them with -cutlasses, _mes enfants_. Chop into the cursed foreigners. "_Non -vogliamo forestieri qui._" Boom! The cannon of Fort Sant' Andrea. -Good guns, well pointed, the smoke from them draws a shade over the -water. Down come the topgallantsails. You have paid a price for -your entrance, Captain Laugier, but it is not enough. "_Viva San -Marco!_" Detestable voices, these Venetians. That cry is confusing. -Puff! The smoke goes by. Three marines have fallen. The cannon -fire at intervals of two minutes. Hot work under a burning sky. Hot -work on a burning deck. The smoothness of the water is flecked with -bits of wood. A dead body rolls overboard, and bobs up and down -beside the ships. A sailor slips from a yard, and is spiked on an -upturned bayonet. Over the water comes the pealing of many bells. -Captain Laugier is dead, and the city tolls his requiem. Strike your -colours, beaten Frenchmen. Bronze cannot walk upon the sea. You -have failed and succeeded, for upon your Captain's fallen body the -bronze feet have found their bridge. Do you rejoice, old Arsenal? A -captive ship towed up to you again! Ah, the cannon firing has -brought the rain. Yes, and thunder too, and in the thunder a voice -of bronze. The _Bucentoro_ will not take the water this year. Cover -up the brasses, _Arsenalotti_. Ascension Day is nothing to Venice -now. - - -Yesterday this was matter for rejoicing, but to-day... Get the best -rowers, order relays of horses on the mainland, post hot foot to the -Commissioners at Gratz. One ship is nothing, but if they send -twenty! What has the bronze General already said to the -Commissioners. The Senate wonders, and wears itself out in -speculation. They will give money, they will plunder the pockets of -the populace to save Venice. Can a child save his toys when manhood -is upon him? The century is old, already another lies in its arms. -Month by month a new moon rises over Venice, but century by century! -They cannot see, these Senators. They cannot hear the General -cutting the Commissioners short in a sort of fury. "I wish no more -Inquisition, no more Senate. I will be an Attila for Venice. This -government is old; it must fall!" Pretty words from bronze to -porcelain. A stain on a brave, new gospel. "Save Venice," the -letter urges, and the Commissioners depart for Trieste. But the -doors are locked. The General blocks his entrances. "I cannot -receive you, Gentlemen, you and your Senate are disgusting to the -French blood." A pantomime before a temple, with a priest acting the -part of chief comedian. Strange burlesque, arabesquing the -characters of a creed. You think this man is a greedy conqueror. Go -home, thinking. Your moment flutters off the calendar, your world -dissolves and another takes its place. This is the cock-crow of -ghosts. Slowly pass up the canal, slowly enter the Ducal Palace. -Debate, everlastingly debate. And while you quibble the -communication with the continent is cut. - -He has declared war, the bronze General. What can be done? The -little glass figures crack under the strain. Condulmer will not -fight. Pesaro flees to Austria. So the measure awaits a vote. A -grave Senate consulting a ballot-box as to whether it shall cut its -throat. This is not suicide, but murder; this is not murder, but the -turned leaf of an almanac. "Divide! Divide!" What is the writing -on the other side? "_Viva la Libertà_," shouts General Salimbeni -from a window. Stupid crowd, it will not give a cheer. It is queer -what an unconscionable objection people have to dying. "_Viva San -Marco!_" shouts General Salimbeni. Ah, now you hear! Such a racket, -and the old lion flag hoisted everywhere. But that was a rash thing -to do. It brings the crash. They fight, fight for old Saint Mark, -they smash, burn, demolish. Who wore the _tricolore_? Plunder their -houses. No you don't, no selling us to foreigners. They cannot -read, the people, they do not see that the print has changed. By -dint of cannon you can stop them. Stop them suddenly like a clock -dropped from a wall. - - -Venice! Venice! The star-wakes gleam and shatter in your still -canals, and the great horses pace forward, vigorous, unconcerned, -beautiful, treading your grief as they tread the passing winds. - - -The riot is over, but another may break out. A dead republic cannot -control its citizens. General Baraguey d'Hilliers is at Mestre. His -dragoons will keep order. Shame, nobles and abdicated Senate! But -can one blame the inactivity of the dead? French dragoons in little -boats. The 5th and 63rd of the line proceeding to Venice in forty -little boats. Grenadiers embarked for a funeral. Soldiers cracking -jokes, and steady oar-strokes, warping them over the water toward -Venice. A dark city, scarcely a lamp is lit. A match-spark slits -the darkness, a drummer is lighting his pipe. Ah, there are walls -ahead. The dull bones of the dead. Water swashes against marble. -They are in the canal, their voices echo from doors and porches. -Forty boats, and the bobble of them washes the water step and step -above its usual height on the stairways. "_C'est une église ça!_" -"_Mais, oui, Bêta, tu pensais pourtant pas que tu entrais en France. -Nous sommes dans une sale ville aristocratique, et je m'en fiche, -moi!_" Brave brigadier, spit into the canal, what else can a man of -the new order do to show his enlightenment. Two regiments of -seasoned soldiers, two regiments of free citizens, forty boat-loads -of thinking men to goad a moribund nation into the millennium. The -new century arriving with a flower in its button-hole, the -_carmagnole_ ousting the _furlana_. Perhaps--perhaps--but years pile -up and then collapse. Will gaps start between one and another? -Settle your gun-straps, 63rd of the line, we land here by the dim -shine of a lantern held by a bombardier. Tier and tier the soldiers -march through Venice. Their steps racket like the mallets of -marble-cutters in the narrow _calli_, and the sound of them over -bridges is the drum-beating of hard rain. - -There are soldiers everywhere, Venice is stuffed with soldiers. They -are at the Arsenal, on the Rialto, at San Stefano, and four hundred -stack muskets, and hang their bearskins on the top of them, in the -middle of the Piazza. - - -Golden horses, the sound of violins is hushed, the pigeons who brush -past you in the red and rising sunlight have just been perching on -crossed bayonets. Set your faces to this army, advance toward them, -paw the air over their heads. They do not observe you--yet. You are -confounded with jewels, and leaves, and statues. You are a part of -the great church, even though you stand poised to leave it, and -already a sergeant has seen you. "_Tiens,_" says he, "_voilà les -quatre chevaux d'or. Ah, mais ils sont magnifiques! Et quelle drôle -d'idée de les avoir montés sur la Cathédrale._" - -The century wanes, the moon-century is gnawed and eaten, but the feet -of the great horses stand upon its fragments, full-tilted to an -arrested advance, and the green corroding on their sides is hidden in -the glare of gold. - - -"For the honour and independence of the infant Cisalpine Republic, -the affectionate and loving Republic of France orders and commands--" - -What does she command? Precisely, that the new Government shall walk -in solemn procession round the Piazza, and that a mass of -thanksgiving shall be celebrated in Saint Mark's Church and the image -of the Virgin exposed to the rejoicing congregation. Who would have -supposed that Venetians could be so dumb. The acclamations seem -mostly in the French tongue. Never mind, it takes more than a day to -translate a creed into a new language. Liberty is a great prize, -good Venetians, although it must be admitted that she appears in -disguise for the moment. She wears a mask, that is all, and you -should be accustomed to masks. The soldiers bask in the warm -sunshine, and doubtless the inhabitants bask in the sight of the -soldiers, but they conceal their satisfaction very adroitly. Still, -General Baraguey d'Hilliers has no doubt that it is there. This -liberation of a free people is a famous exploit. He is a bit nettled -at their apathy, for he has always heard that they were of a gay -temperament. "_Sacré Bleu!_ And we are giving them so much!" - -Indeed, this giving is done with a magnificent generosity. It is -exactly on Ascension Day that Bonaparte writes from Montebello: -"Conformably to your desire, Citizens, I have ordered the -municipalities of Padua and Treviso to allow the passage of the -foodstuffs necessary to the provisionment of the town of Venice." - -"Real and perpetual dominion," and now a boat-load of food is a -condescension! Pink and purple water, your little ripples jest at -these emblazoned palaces, your waves chuckle down the long Rivas, you -reflect the new flag of Venice which even the Dey of Algiers refuses -to respect, and patter your light heels upon it as on a -dancing-floor. There will be no more use for the _Bucentoro_, of -course. So rip off the gilding, pack up the mirrors, chop the -timbers into firewood. This is good work for soldiers with nothing -to do. There are other ships to be dismantled too, and some few -seaworthy enough to send to the army at Corfu. But if they have -taken away Ascension Day, the French will give Venice a new fête. -Ah! and one so beautiful! Beat the drums, ring the church-bells, set -up a Tree of Liberty in the Great Square, this fête is past telling. -So writes the Citizen Arnault, from his room in the _Queen of -England_ inn. He bites his pen, he looks out on the little canal -with its narrow bridge, he fusses with his watch-chain. It is not -easy to write to the bronze General. He dips in the ink and starts -again. "The people take no active part in what goes on here. They -have seen the lions fall without making any sign of joy." That -certainly is queer. Perhaps Citizen Arnault did not hear that -gondolier, who when they chiselled out "_Pax tibi, Marce, evangelista -meus_" on the lion's book, and chiselled in "_Diritti dell' uomo e -del cittadino_," exclaimed: "The lion has turned over a new leaf." -Does that sound like grief? Certainly not, think the French -soldiers, and yet the Doge's robes, the Golden Book, burn in silence, -until a corporal strikes up the "_Marseillaise_." They make a grand -blaze too; why, the boatmen far off in the hazy Lagoon can hear the -crackle of it snapping over the water. Then the columns! The -columns produce a lovely effect, one all wound with _tricolore_ flags -and with this inscription: "To the French, regenerators of Italy, -Venice grateful," on its front, and on the back, "Bonaparte." The -other is not so gay, but most proper and desirable. It is hung with -crêpe, and the letters read: "To the shade of the victim of -oligarchy, Venice sorrowful," and, "Laugier." To be sure there has -been considerable excitement, and the great green lion has been -thrown down and shattered in at least eighty fragments, but the -soldiers did it. The populace were simply stolid and staring. -Citizen Arnault fidgets in his chair. But other affairs march -better. He has found the only copy of Anacharsis which is known to -be in Venice; he is going to hunt for Homer, for he wants to put it -with the Ossian of Cesarotti which he has already taken from the -Library. Here his pen runs rapidly, he has an inspiration. "There -are four superb horses which the Venetians took when, in company with -the French, they sacked Constantinople. These horses are placed over -the portal of the Ducal Church. Have not the French some right to -claim them, or at least to accept them of Venetian gratitude?" The -bronze General has an eye to a man, witness this really excellent -plan. Fold your letter, Citizen. Press your fob down upon the seal. -You may feel proud as you ring for candles, no one will have hurt -Venice more than you. - - -The blue night softens the broken top of the column in the Piazzetta -where it juts against the sky. The violet night sifts shadows over -the white, mounting angels of Saint Mark's Church; it throws an -aureole of lilac over the star of Christ and melts it into the -glimmering dome behind. But upon the horses it clashes with the -glitter of steel. Blue striking gold, and together producing a -white-heart fire. Cold, as in great fire, hard as in new-kindled -fire, outlined as behind a flame which folds back upon itself in lack -of fuel, the great horses stand. They strain forward, they recoil -even when starting, they raise one foot and hold it lifted, and all -about them the stones of the jewelled church writhe, and convolute, -and glisten, and dash the foam of their tendrils against the clear -curve of the moulded flanks. - - -The Treaty of Campo Formio! A mask stripped off a Carnival figure, -and behold, the sneering face of death! What of the creed the French -were bringing the Venetians! Was it greed after all, or has a seed -been sown? If so, the flowering will be long delayed. The French -are leaving us, and almost we wish they would remain. For Austria! -What does it matter that the _Bucentoro_ is broken up; the lions from -the Piræus loaded into a vessel; books, parchments, pictures, packed -in travelling cases! What does anything matter! A gondolier snaps -his fingers: "_Francese non tutti ladri, ma Buona-parte!_" Hush, my -friend, that is a dangerous remark, for Madame Bonaparte has -descended upon Venice in a whirlwind of laughter, might have made -friends had she not been received in an overturned storehouse. But -she stays only three days, and the song of the gondoliers who row her -away can scarcely be heard for the hammering they make, putting up an -immense scaffolding in front of Saint Mark's Church. They have -erected poles too, and tackle. It is an awful nuisance, for soldiers -are not skilled in carpenter work, and no Venetian will lend a hand. -A grand ship sails for Toulon as soon as the horses are on board. - -Golden horses, at last you leave your pedestals, you swing in the -blue-and-silver air, you paw the reflections flung by rippled water, -and the starved pigeons whirl about you chattering. -One--one--one--one! The tackle creaks, the little squeaks of the -pigeons are sharp and pitiful. A gash in the front of the great -Church. A blank window framing nothing. The leaves of the -sculptures curl, the swirling angels mount steadily, the star of -Christ is the pointed jet of a flame, but the horses drop--drop-- -They descend slowly, they jerk, and stop, and start again, and -one--one--one--one--they touch the pavement. Women throw shawls over -their heads and weep; men pull off their caps and mutter prayers and -imprecations. Then silently they form into a procession and march -after the hand-carts, down to the quay, down to the waiting vessel. -Slow feet following to a grave. Here is a sign, but hardly of joy. -This is a march of mourning. Depart, vessel, draw out over the -bright Lagoon, grow faint, vague, blur and disappear. The murder is -accomplished. To-morrow come the Austrians. - - - -_BONFIRES BURN PURPLE_ - -_Then the energy which peoples the Earth crystallized into a single -man. And this man was Water, and Fire, and Flesh. His core had the -strength of metal, and the hardness of metal was in his actions, and -upon him the sun struck as upon polished metal. So he went to and -fro among the nations, gleaming as with jewels. Of himself were the -monuments he erected, and his laws were engraved tablets of fairest -bronze. But there grew a great terror among the lesser peoples of -the Earth, and they ran hither and yon like the ants, they swarmed -like beetles, and they saw themselves impotent, merely making tracks -in sand. Now as speed is heat, so did this man soften with the haste -of his going. For Fire is supreme even over metal, and the Fire in -him overcame the strong metal, so that his limbs failed, and his -brain was hot and molten. Then was he consumed, but those of his -monuments which harboured not Fire, and were without spirit, and -cold, these endured. In the midst of leaping flame, they kept their -semblances, and turning many colours in heat, still they cooled as -the Fire cooled. For metal is unassailable from without, only a -spark in the mid-most circle can force a double action which pours it -into Water, and volatilizes it into Air, and sifts it to ashes which -are Earth. For man can fashion effigies, but the spark of Life he -can neither infuse nor control._ - -_As a sharp sun this man passed across his century, and of the -cenotaphs of his burning, some remain as a shadow of splendour in the -streets of his city, but others have returned whence he gathered -them, for the years of these are many and the touch of kings upon -them is as the dropping of particles of dust._ - - - -VENICE AGAIN - -Sunday evening, May 23, 1915. A beautiful Sunday evening with the -Lagoon just going purple, and the angel on the tip of the new -Campanile dissolved to a spurt of crocus-coloured flame. Up into the -plum-green sky mount the angels of the Basilica of Saint Mark, their -wings, curved up and feathered to the fragility of a blowing leaf, -making incisive stabs of whiteness against the sky. - -An organ moans in the great nave, and the high voices of choristers -float out through the open door and surge down the long Piazza. The -chugging of a motor-boat breaks into the chant, swirls it, churns -upon it, and fades to a distant pulsing down the Grand Canal. The -Campanile angel goes suddenly crimson, pales to rose, dies out in -lilac, and remains dark, almost invisible, until the starting of -stars behind it gives it a new solidity in hiding them. - -In the warm twilight, the little white tables of the Café Florian are -like petals dropped from the rose of the moon. For a moment they are -weird and magical, but the abrupt glare of electric lights touches -them back into mere tables: mere tables, flecked with coffee-cups and -liqueur-glasses; mere tables, crumpling the lower halves of -newspapers with their hard edges; mere tables, where gesticulating -arms rest their elbows, and ice-cream plates nearly meet disaster in -the excitement of a heated discussion. Venice discusses. What will -the Government do? Austria has asked that her troops might cross -over Italian territory, South of Switzerland, in order to attack the -French frontier. Austria! "I tell you, Luigi, that alliance the -Government made with the Central Powers was a ghastly blunder. You -could never have got Italians to fight on the side of Austrians. -Blood is thicker than ink, fortunately. But we are ready, thanks to -Commandante Cadorna. It was a foregone conclusion, ever since we -refused passage to their troops." "I saw Signor Colsanto, yesterday. -He told me that the order had come from the General Board of -Antiquities and Fine Arts to remove everything possible to Rome, and -protect what can't be moved. He begins the work to-morrow." "He -does! Well, that tells us. Here, Boy, Boy, give me a paper. Listen -to that roar! There you are, _cinque centesimi_. Well, we're off, -Luigi. It's declared. Italy at war with Austria again. Thank God, -we've wiped off the stain of that abominable treaty." With heads -bared, the crowd stands, and shouts, and cheers, and the pigeons -fleer away in frightened circles to the sculptured porticoes of the -Basilica. The crowd bursts into a sweeping song. A great patriotic -chorus. It echoes from side to side of the Piazza, it runs down the -colonnades of the Procuratie like a splashing tide, it dashes upon -the arched portals of Saint Mark's and flicks upward in jets of -broken music. Wild, shooting, rolling music; vibrant, solemn, -dedicated music; throbbing music flung out of loud-pounding hearts. -The Piazza holds the sound of it and lifts it up as one raises an -offering before an altar. Higher--higher--the song is lifted, it -engulfs the four golden horses over the centre door of the church. -The horses are as brazen cymbals crashing back the great song in a -cadence of struck metal, the carven capitals are fluted reeds to this -mighty anthem, the architraves bandy it to and fro in revolving -canons of harmony. Up, up, spires the song, and the mounting angels -call it to one another in an ascending scale even to the star of fire -on the topmost pinnacle which is the Christ, even into the distant -sky where it curves up and over falling down to the four horizons, to -the highest point of the aconite-blue sky, the sky of the Kingdom of -Italy. - -Garibaldi's Hymn! For war is declared and Italy has joined the -Allies! - - -Soft night falling upon Venice. Summer night over the moon-city, the -flower-city. _Fiore di Mare!_ Garden of lights in the midst of dark -waters, your star-blossoms will be quenched, the strings of your -guitars will snap and slacken. Nights, you will gird on strange -armour, and grow loud and strident. But now-- The gilded horses -shimmer above the portico of Saint Mark's! How still they are, and -powerful. Pride, motion, activity set in a frozen patience. - -Suddenly--Boom! A signal gun. Then immediately the shrill shriek of -a steam whistle, and another, and whistles and whistles, from -factories and boats, yawling, snarling, mewling, screeching, a -cracked cacophony of horror. - -Minutes--one--two--three--and the batteries of the Aerial-Guard -Station begin to fire. Shells--red and black, white and -grey--bellow, snap, and crash into the blue-black sky. A whirr--the -Italian planes are rising. Their white centre lights throw a halo -about them, and, tip and tip, a red light and a green, spark out to a -great spread, closing together as the planes gain in altitude. Up -they go, the red, white, and green circles underneath their wings and -on either side of the fan-tails bright in the glow of the white -centre light. Up, up, slanting in mounting circles. "Holy Mother of -God! What is it?" Taubes over the city, flying at a great height, -flying in a wedge like a flight of wild geese. Boom! The -anti-aircraft guns are flinging up strings of luminous balls. Range -10,000 feet, try 10,500. Loud detonations, echoing far over the -Lagoon. The navigation lights of the Italian planes are a faint -triangle of bright dots. They climb in deliberate spirals, up and -up, up and up. They seem to hang. They hover without direction. -Ah, there are the Taubes, specks dotting the beam of a search-light. -One of them is banking. Two Italian machines dart up over him. He -spins, round--round--top-whirling, sleeping in speed, to us below he -seems stationary. Pup-pup-pup-pup-pup--machine-guns, clicking like -distant typewriters, firing with indescribable rapidity. The Italian -planes drop signal balloons, they hang in the air like suspended -sky-rockets, they float down, amber balls, steadily burning. The -ground guns answer, and white buds of smoke appear in the sky. They -seem to blossom out of darkness, silver roses beyond the silver shaft -of the search-light. The air is broken with noise: thunder-drumming -of cannon, sharp pocking of machine-guns, snap and crack of rifles. -Above, the specks loop, and glide, and zig-zag. The spinning Taube -nose-dives, recovers, and zums upward, topping its adversary. -Another Taube swoops in over a Nieuport and wags its tail, spraying -lead bullets into the Italian in a wide, wing-and-wing arc. The sky -is bitten red with stinging shrapnel. Two machines charge head on, -the Taube swerves and rams the right wing of the Nieuport. Flame! -Flame leaping and dropping. A smear from zenith to--following it, -the eye hits the shadow of a roof. Blackness. One poor devil gone, -and the attacking plane is still airworthy though damaged. It -wobbles out of the search-light and disappears, rocking. Two Taubes -shake themselves free of the tangle, they glide down--down--all round -them are ribbons of "flaming onions," they avoid them and pass on -down, close over the city, unscathed, so close you can see the black -crosses on their wings with a glass. Rifles crack at them from -roofs. Pooh! You might as well try to stop them with pea-shooters. -They curve, turn, and hang up-wind. Small shells beat about them -with a report like twanged harp-strings. "_Klar sum Werfen?_" -"_Jawohl._" "_Gut dock, werfen._" Words cannot carry down thousands -of feet, but the ominous hovering is a sort of speech. People wring -their hands and clutch their throats, some cover their ears. -Z-z-z-z-z! That whine would pierce any covering. The bomb has -passed below the roofs. Nothing. A pause. Then a report, breaking -the hearing, leaving only the apprehension of a great light and no -sound. They have hit us! _Misericordia_! They have hit Venice! -One--two--four--ten bombs. People sob and pray, the water lashes the -Rivas as though there were a storm. Another machine falls, shooting -down in silence. It is not on fire, it merely falls. Then slowly -the Taubes draw off. The search-light shifts, seeking them. The -gun-fire is spaced more widely. Field-glasses fail to show even a -speck. There is silence. The silence of a pulse which has stopped. -But the people walk in the brightness of fire. Fire from the Rio -della Tanna, from the Rio del Carmine, from the quarter of Santa -Lucia. Bells peal in a fury, fire-boats hurry with forced engines -along the canals. Water streams jet upon the fire; and, in the -golden light, the glittering horses of Saint Mark's pace forward, -silent, calm, determined in their advance, above the portal of the -untouched church. - -The night turns grey, and silver, and opens into a blue morning. -Diamond roses sparkle on the Lagoon, but the people passing quickly -through the Piazza are grim, and workmen sniff the smoky air as they -fix ladders and arrange tools. Venice has tasted war. "_Evviva -Italia!_" - -City of soft colours, of amber and violet, you are turning -grey-green, and grey-green are the uniforms of the troops who defend -you. The Bersaglieri still wear their cocks' feathers, but they are -green too, and black. Black as the guns mounted on pontoons among -the Lagoons before Venice, green as the bundles of reeds camouflaging -them from Austrian observation balloons. Drag up metre after metre -of grey-green cloth, stretch it over the five golden domes of Saint -Mark's Basilica. Hood their splendour in umbrella bags of cloth, so -that not one glint shall answer the mocking shimmer of the moon. -Barrows and barrows of nails for the wooden bastion of the Basilica, -hods and hods of mortar and narrow bricks to cover the old mosaics of -the lunettes. Cart-loads of tar and planking, and heaps, heaps, -hills and mountains of sand--the Lido protecting Venice, as it has -done for hundreds of years. They shovel sand, scoop sand, pour sand, -into bags and bags and bags. Thousands of bags piled against the -bases of columns, rising in front of carved corners, blotting out -altars, throttling the open points of arches. Porphyries, -malachites, and jades are squarely boarded, pulpits and fonts -disappear in swaddling bands. Why? The battle front is forty miles -away in Friuli, and Venice is not a fortified town. Why? Answer, -Reims! Bear witness, Ypres! Do they cover Venice without reason? -Nietzsche was a German, still I believe they read him in Vienna. -Blood and Iron! And is there not also Blood and Stone, Blood and -Bronze, Blood and Canvas? "Kultur," Venetians, in the Rio del -Carmine; there is no time to lose. Take down the great ceiling -pictures in the Ducal Palace and wrap them on cylinders. Build a -high trestle, and fashion little go-carts which draw with string. - -Hush! They are coming--the four beautiful horses. They rise in a -whirl of disturbed pigeons. They float and descend. The people -watch in silence as, one after another, they reach the ground. -Across the tiles they step at last, each pulled in a go-cart; -merry-go-round horses, detached and solitary, one foot raised, tramp -over chequered stones, over chequered centuries. The merry-go-round -of years has brought them full circle, for are they not returning to -Rome? - -For how long? Ask the guns embedded in the snow of glaciers; ask the -rivers pierced from their beds, overflowing marshes and meadows, -forming a new sea. Seek the answer in the faces of the Grenatieri -Brigade, dying to a man, but halting the invaders. Demand it of the -women and children fleeing the approach of a bitter army. Provoke -the reply in the dryness of those eyes which gaze upon the wreck of -Tiepolo's ceiling in the Church of the Scalzi. Yet not in Italy -alone shall you find it. The ring of searching must be widened, and -France, England, Japan, and America, caught within its edge. Moons -and moons, and seas seamed with vessels. Needles stitching the cloth -of peace to choke the cannon of war. - -The boat draws away from the Riva. The great bronze horses mingle -their outlines with the distant mountains. Dim gold, subdued -green-gold, flashing faintly to the faint, bright peaks above them. -Granite and metal, earth over water. Down the canal, old, beautiful -horses, pride of Venice, of Constantinople, of Rome. Wars bite you -with their little flames and pass away, but roses and oleanders strew -their petals before your going, and you move like a constellation in -a space of crimson stars. - -So the horses float along the canal, between barred and shuttered -palaces, splendid against marble walls in the fire of the sun. - - - -Printed in the United States of America. - - - - - - -Books by AMY LOWELL - -PUBLISHED BY - -HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY - - -_Poetry_ - - WHAT'S O'CLOCK - LEGENDS - PICTURES OF THE FLOATING WORLD - CAN GRANDE'S CASTLE - MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS - SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED - A DOME OF MANY-COLOURED GLASS - A CRITICAL FABLE - - (IN COLLABORATION WITH FLORENCE ATSCOUGH) - FIR-FLOWER TABLETS: POEMS TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE - - -_Prose_ - - TENDENCIES IN MODERN AMERICAN POETRY - SIX FRENCH POETS: STUDIES IN CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE - JOHN KEATS - - - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAN GRANDE'S CASTLE *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Can Grande's castle</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Amy Lowell</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 23, 2022 [eBook #68156]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Al Haines</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAN GRANDE'S CASTLE ***</div> - -<h1> -<br /><br /> - CAN GRANDE'S CASTLE<br /> -</h1> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> - BY<br /> -</p> - -<p class="t2"> - AMY LOWELL<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> - BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br /> - HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br /> - The Riverside Press Cambridge<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> - COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY AMY LOWELL<br /> -<br /> - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br /> -<br /> - PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1918<br /> -<br /> - REPRINTED OCTOBER, 1918; MARCH, DECEMBER, 1919;<br /> - MARCH, 1922; DECEMBER, 1924; DECEMBER, 1925<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> - The Riverside Press<br /> - CAMBRIDGE * MASSACHUSETTS<br /> - PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - <i>I turn the page and read...<br /> - . . .<br /> - The heavy musty air, the black desks,<br /> - The bent heads and the rustling noises<br /> - In the great dome<br /> - Vanish...<br /> - And<br /> - The sun hangs in the cobalt-blue sky,<br /> - The boat drifts over the lake shallows,<br /> - The fishes skim like umber shades through the undulating weeds,<br /> - The oleanders drop their rosy petals on the lawns,<br /> - And the swallows dive and swirl and whistle<br /> - About the cleft battlements of Can Grande's castle...</i>"<br /> -</p> - -<p> - Richard Aldington. "AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM."<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap00b"></a></p> - -<p class="t3b"> -PREFACE -</p> - -<p> -The four poems in this book are more closely -related to one another than may at first appear. -They all owe their existence to the war, for I -suppose that, had there been no war, I should -never have thought of them. They are scarcely -war poems, in the strict sense of the word, nor -are they allegories in which the present is made -to masquerade as the past. Rather, they are -the result of a vision thrown suddenly back upon -remote events to explain a strange and terrible -reality. "Explain" is hardly the word, for to -explain the subtle causes which force men, once -in so often, to attempt to break the civilization -they have been at pains to rear, and so oblige -other, saner, men to oppose them, is scarcely the -province of poetry. Poetry works more -deviously, but perhaps not less conclusively. -</p> - -<p> -It has frequently been asserted that an -artist lives apart, that he must withdraw -himself from events and be somehow above and -beyond them. To a certain degree this is -true, as withdrawal is usually an inherent -quality of his nature, but to seek such a -withdrawal is both ridiculous and frustrating. For -an artist to shut himself up in the proverbial -"ivory tower" and never look out of the window -is merely a tacit admission that it is his -ancestors, not he, who possess the faculty of -creation. This is the real decadence: to see -through the eyes of dead men. Yet to-day -can never be adequately expressed, largely -because we are a part of it and only a part. -For that reason one is flung backwards to a -time which is not thrown out of proportion -by any personal experience, and which on -that very account lies extended in something -like its proper perspective. -</p> - -<p> -Circumstances beget an interest in like -circumstances, and a poet, suddenly finding -himself in the midst of war, turns naturally -to the experiences of other men in other wars. -He discovers something which has always -hitherto struck him as preposterous, that life -goes on in spite of war. That war itself is -an expression of life, a barbaric expression on -one side calling for an heroic expression on -the other. It is as if a door in his brain -crashed open and he looked into a distance -of which he had heard but never before seen. -History has become life, and he stands aghast -and exhilarated before it. -</p> - -<p> -That is why I have chosen Mr. Aldington's -poem as a motto to this book. For it is -obvious that I cannot have experienced what -I have here written. I must have got it from -books. But, living now, in the midst of events -greater than these, the books have become -reality to me in a way that they never could -have become before, and the stories I have -dug out of dusty volumes seem as actual as -my own existence. I hope that a little of -this vividness may have got into the poems -themselves, and so may reach my readers. -Perhaps it has been an impossible task, I can -only say that I was compelled to attempt it. -</p> - -<p> -The poems are written in "polyphonic -prose," a form which has proved a stumbling-block -to many people. "Polyphonic prose" is -perhaps a misleading title, as it tends to make -the layman think that this is a prose form. -Nothing could be farther from the truth. The -word "prose" in its title simply refers to the -manner in which the words are printed; -"polyphonic"—many-voiced—giving the real key. -"Polyphonic prose" is the freest, the most -elastic, of all forms, for it follows at will any, -and all, of the rules which guide other forms. -Metrical verse has one set of laws, cadenced -verse another; "polyphonic prose" can go -from one to the other in the same poem with -no sense of incongruity. Its only touchstone -is the taste and feeling of its author. -</p> - -<p> -Yet, like all other artistic forms, it has -certain fundamental principles, and the chief of -these is an insistence on the absolute adequacy -of the manner of a passage to the thought it -embodies. Taste is therefore its determining -factor; taste and a rhythmic ear. -</p> - -<p> -In the preface to "Sword Blades and Poppy -Seed," I stated that I had found the idea of -the form in the works of the French poet, -M. Paul Fort. But in adapting it for use -in English I was obliged to make so many -changes that it may now be considered as -practically a new form. The greatest of these -changes was in the matter of rhythm. M. Fort's -practice consists, almost entirely, of -regular verse passages interspersed with -regular prose passages. But a hint in one of his -poems led me to believe that a closer blending -of the two types was desirable, and here -at the very outset I met with a difficulty. -Every form of art must have a base; to -depart satisfactorily from a rhythm it is first -necessary to have it. M. Fort found this -basic rhythm in the alexandrine. But the -rhythm of the alexandrine is not one of the -basic rhythms to an English ear. Altered -from syllables to accent, it becomes light, -even frivolous, in texture. There appeared -to be only one basic rhythm for English -serious verse: iambic pentameter, which, -either rhymed as in the "heroic couplet" or -unrhymed as in "blank verse," seems the chief -foundation of English metre. It is so heavy -and so marked, however, that it is a difficult -rhythm to depart from and go back to; therefore -I at once discarded it for my purpose. -</p> - -<p> -Putting aside one rhythm of English prosody -after another, I finally decided to base my -form upon the long, flowing cadence of -oratorical prose. The variations permitted to -this cadence enable the poet to change the -more readily into those of <i>vers libre</i>, or even -to take the regular beat of metre, should such -a marked time seem advisable. It is, of course, -important that such changes should appear as -not only adequate but necessary when the -poem is read aloud. And so I have found it. -However puzzled a reader may be in trying -to apprehend with the eye a prose which is -certainly not prose, I have never noticed that an -audience experiences the slightest confusion in -hearing a "polyphonic prose" poem read aloud. -I admit that the typographical arrangement of -this form is far from perfect, but I have not as -yet been able to hit upon a better. As all -printing is a mere matter of convention, -however, I hope that people will soon learn to -read it with no more difficulty than a musician -knows in reading a musical score. -</p> - -<p> -So much for the vexed question of rhythm. -Others of the many voices of "polyphonic -prose" are rhyme, assonance, alliteration, and -return. Rhyme is employed to give a richness -of effect, to heighten the musical feeling of a -passage, but it is employed in a different way -from that usual in metrical verse. For, -although the poet may, indeed must, employ -rhyme, it is not done always, nor, for the most -part, regularly. In other words, the rhymes -should seldom come at the ends of the -cadences, unless such an effect be especially -desired. This use of rhyme has been another -difficulty to readers. Seeing rhymes, their -minds have been compelled by their seeming -strangeness to pull them, Jack-Horner-like, -out of the text and unduly notice them, to -the detriment of the passage in which they -are embedded. Hearing them read without -stress, they pass unobserved, merely adding -their quota of tonal colour to the whole. -</p> - -<p> -Return in "polyphonic prose" is usually -achieved by the recurrence of a dominant -thought or image, coming in irregularly and -in varying words, but still giving the spherical -effect which I have frequently spoken of as -imperative in all poetry. -</p> - -<p> -It will be seen, therefore, that "polyphonic -prose" is, in a sense, an orchestral form. Its -tone is not merely single and melodic as is -that of <i>vers libre</i>, for instance, but -contrapuntal and various. I have analyzed it here -with some care because, as all the poems in -this volume are written in it, some knowledge -of how to approach it is necessary if one is -to understand them. I trust, however, that -my readers will speedily forget matters of -technique on turning to the poems themselves. -</p> - -<p> -One thing more I wish to say in regard to -"Guns as Keys: and the Great Gate Swings." I -should be exceedingly sorry if any part of -this poem were misunderstood, and so -construed into an expression of discourtesy toward -Japan. No such idea entered my mind in -writing it; in fact, the Japanese sections in -the first part were intended to convey quite -the opposite meaning. I wanted to place in -juxtaposition the delicacy and artistic clarity -of Japan and the artistic ignorance and gallant -self-confidence of America. Of course, each -country must be supposed to have the faults of -its virtues; if, therefore, I have also opposed -Oriental craft to Occidental bluff, I must beg -indulgence. -</p> - -<p> -I have tried to give a picture of two races at -a moment when they were brought in contact -for the first time. Which of them has gained -most by this meeting, it would be difficult to -say. The two episodes in the "Postlude" are -facts, but they can hardly epitomize the whole -truth. Still they are striking, occurring as -they did in the same year. I owe the scene -of the drowning of the young student in the -Kegon waterfall to the paper "Young Japan," -by Seichi Naruse, which appeared in the -"Seven Arts" for April, 1917. The inscription -on the tree I have copied word for word -from Mr. Naruse's translation, and I wish -here to express my thanks, not for his -permission (as with a perfect disregard of morals, -I never asked it), but for his beautiful rendering -of the original Japanese. I trust that my -appreciation will exonerate my theft. -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -AMY LOWELL. -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - BROOKLINE, MASS.<br /> - MAY 24, 1918.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap00c"></a></p> - -<p class="t3b"> -CONTENTS -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a href="#chap01">Sea-Blue and Blood-Red</a> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a href="#chap02">Guns as Keys: and the Great Gate Swings</a> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a href="#chap03">Hedge Island</a> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a href="#chap04">The Bronze Horses</a> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Thanks are due to the editor of <i>The North American Review</i> for -permission to reprint "Sea-Blue and Blood-Red" and "Hedge Island," -and to the editor of <i>The Seven Arts</i> for a like permission in regard to -"Guns as Keys: and the Great Gate Swings." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap01"></a></p> - -<h3> -SEA-BLUE AND BLOOD-RED -</h3> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -I -<br /><br /> -THE MEDITERRANEAN -</p> - -<p> -Blue as the tip of a salvia blossom, the inverted -cup of the sky arches over the sea. Up to meet it, -in a flat band of glaring colour, rises the water. The -sky is unspecked by clouds, but the sea is flecked -with pink and white light shadows, and silver -scintillations snip-snap over the tops of the waves. -</p> - -<p> -Something moves along the horizon. A puff of -wind blowing up the edges of the silver-blue sky? -Clouds! Clouds! Great thunderheads marching -along the skyline! No, by Jove! The sun shining -on sails! Vessels, hull down, with only their tiers -of canvas showing. Beautiful ballooning thunderheads -dipping one after another below the blue -band of the sea. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -II -<br /><br /> -NAPLES -</p> - -<p> -Red tiles, yellow stucco, layer on layer of windows, -roofs, and balconies, Naples pushes up the hill away -from the curving bay. A red, half-closed eye, -Vesuvius watches and waits. All Naples prates of -this and that, and runs about its little business, -shouting, bawling, incessantly calling its wares. -Fish frying, macaroni drying, seven feet piles of -red and white brocoli, grapes heaped high with -rosemary, sliced pomegranates dripping seeds, plucked -and bleeding chickens, figs on spits, lemons in baskets, -melons cut and quartered nicely, "<i>Ah, che bella -cosa!</i>" They even sell water, clear crystal water -for a paul or two. And everything done to a -hullabaloo. They jabber over cheese, they chatter over -wine, they gabble at the corners in the bright -sunshine. And piercing through the noise is the -beggar-whine, always, like an undertone, the beggar-whine; -and always the crimson, watching eye of Vesuvius. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Have you seen her—the Ambassadress? Ah, -<i>Bellissima Creatura!</i> <i>Una Donna Kara!</i> She is -fairer than the Blessed Virgin; and good! Never -was such a soul in such a body! The role of her -benefactions would stretch from here to Posilipo. -And she loves the people, loves to go among them -and speak to this one and that, and her apple-blossom -face under the big blue hat works miracles -like the Holy Images in the Churches. -</p> - -<p> -In her great house with the red marble stairway, -Lady Hamilton holds brilliant sway. From her -boudoir windows she can see the bay, and on the -left, hanging there, a flame in a cresset, the blood-red -glare of Vesuvius staring at the clear blue air. -</p> - -<p> -Blood-red on a night of stars, red like a wound, -with lava scars. In the round wall-mirrors of her -boudoir, is the blackness of the bay, the whiteness -of a star, and the bleeding redness of the mountain's -core. Nothing more. All night long, in the mirrors, -nothing more. Black water, red stain, and above, -a star with its silver rain. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Over the people, over the king, trip the little -Ambassadorial feet; fleet and light as a pigeon's -wing, they brush over the artists, the friars, the -<i>abbés</i>, the Court. They bear her higher and higher -at each step. Up and over the hearts of Naples -goes the beautiful Lady Hamilton till she reaches -even to the Queen; then rests in a sheening, shimmering -altitude, between earth and sky, high and floating -as the red crater of Vesuvius. Buoyed up and -sustained in a blood-red destiny, all on fire for the -world to see. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Proud Lady Hamilton! Superb Lady Hamilton! -Quivering, blood-swept, vivid Lady Hamilton! Your -vigour is enough to awake the dead, as you tread -the newly uncovered courtyards of Pompeii. There -is a murmur all over the opera house when you enter -your box. And your frocks! Jesu! What frocks! -"India painting on wyte sattin!" And a new -camlet shawl, all sea-blue and blood-red, in an -intricate pattern, given by Sir William to help you -do your marvellous "Attitudes." Incomparable -actress! No theatre built is big enough to compass -you. It takes a world; and centuries shall elbow -each other aside to watch you act your part. Art, -Emma, or heart? -</p> - -<p> -The blood-red cone of Vesuvius glows in the night. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -She sings "<i>Luce Bella</i>," and Naples cries "<i>Brava! -Ancora!</i>" and claps its hands. She dances the -tarantella, and poses before a screen with the -red-blue shawl. It is the frescoes of Pompeii unfrozen; -it is the fine-cut profiles of Sicilian coins; it is Apollo -Belvedere himself—Goethe has said it. She wears -a Turkish dress, and her face is sweet and lively as -rippled water. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The lava-streams of Vesuvius descend as far as -Portici. She climbs the peak of fire at midnight—five -miles of flame. A blood-red mountain, seeping -tears of blood. She skips over glowing ashes and -laughs at the pale, faded moon, wan in the light of -the red-hot lava. What a night! Spires and sparks -of livid flame shooting into the black sky. Blood-red -smears of fire; blood-red gashes, flashing her -out against the smouldering mountain. A tossing -fountain of blood-red jets, it sets her hair flicking -into the air like licking flamelets of a burning aureole. -Blood-red is everywhere. She wears it as a halo and -diadem. Emma, Emma Hamilton, Ambassadress of -Great Britain to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -III -<br /><br /> -ABOUKIR BAY, EGYPT -</p> - -<p> -North-north-west, and a whole-sail breeze, ruffling -up the larkspur-blue sea, breaking the tops of -the waves into egg-white foam, shoving ripple after -ripple of pale jade-green over the shoals of Aboukir -Bay. Away to the East rolls in the sluggish water -of old Nile. West and South—hot, yellow land. -Ships at anchor. Thirteen ships flying the <i>tricolore</i>, -and riding at ease in a patch of blue water inside a -jade-green hem. What of them? Ah, fine ships! -The <i>Orient</i>, one hundred and twenty guns, <i>Franklin</i>, -<i>Tonnant</i>, each with eighty. Weighty metal to float -on a patch of blue with a green hem. They ride -stem to stern, in a long line, pointing the way to -Aboukir Bay. -</p> - -<p> -To the North are thunderheads, ballooning silver-white -thunderheads rising up out of the horizon. -The thunderheads draw steadily up into the -blue-blossomed sky. A topgallant breeze pushes them -rapidly over the white-specked water. One, two, -six, ten, thirteen separate tiered clouds, and the wind -sings loud in their shrouds and spars. The royals -are furled, but the topgallantsails and topsails are -full and straining. Thirteen white thunderheads -bearing down on Aboukir Bay. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The Admiral is working the stump of his right -arm; do not cross his hawse, I advise you. -</p> - -<p> -"Youngster to the mast-head. What! Going -without your glass, and be damned to you! Let me -know what you see, immediately." -</p> - -<p> -"The enemy fleet, Sir, at anchor in the bay." -</p> - -<p> -"Bend on the signal to form in line of battle, Sir -Ed'ard." -</p> - -<p> -The bright wind straightens the signal pennants -until they stand out rigid like boards. -</p> - -<p> -"Captain Hood reports eleven fathoms, Sir, and -shall he bear up and sound?" -</p> - -<p> -"Signal Captain Hood to lead, sounding." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"By the mark ten! A quarter less nine! By -the deep eight!" -</p> - -<p> -Round to starboard swing the white thunderheads, -the water of their bows washing over the green jade -hem. An orange sunset steams in the shrouds, and -glints upon the muzzles of the cannon in the open -ports. The hammocks are down; the guns run out -and primed; beside each is a pile of canister and -grape; gunners are blowing on their matches; -snatches of fife music drift down to the lower decks. -In the cockpits, the surgeons are feeling the edges -of knives and saws; men think of their wives and -swear softly, spitting on their hands. -</p> - -<p> -"Let go that anchor! By God, she hangs!" -</p> - -<p> -Past the <i>Guerrier</i> slides the <i>Goliath</i>, but the anchor -drops and stops her on the inner quarter of the -<i>Conquérant</i>. The <i>Zealous</i> brings up on the bow of the -<i>Guerrier</i>, the <i>Orion</i>, <i>Theseus</i>, <i>Audacious</i>, are all come -to, inside the French ships. -</p> - -<p> -The <i>Vanguard</i>, Admiral's pennant flying, is lying -outside the <i>Spartiate</i>, distant only a pistol shot. -</p> - -<p> -In a pattern like a country dance, each balanced -justly by its neighbour, lightly, with no apparent -labour, the ships slip into place, and lace a design -of white sails and yellow yards on the purple, -flowing water. Almighty Providence, what a day! -Twenty-three ships in one small bay, and away to -the Eastward, the water of old Nile rolling -sluggishly between its sand-bars. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Seven hundred and forty guns open fire on the -French fleet. The sun sinks into the purple-red -water, its low, straight light playing gold on the -slaughter. Yellow fire, shot with red, in wheat -sheafs from the guns; and a racket and ripping -which jerks the nerves, then stuns, until another -broadside crashes the ears alive again. The men -shine with soot and sweat, and slip in the blood which -wets the deck. -</p> - -<p> -The surgeons cut and cut, but men die steadily. -It is heady work, this firing into ships not fifty feet -distant. Lilac and grey, the heaving bay, slapped -and torn by thousands of splashings of shot and -spars. Great red stars peer through the smoke, a -mast is broke short off at the lashings and falls -overboard, with the rising moon flashing in its -top-hamper. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -There is a rattle of musketry; pipe-clayed, -red-coated marines swab, and fire, and swab. A round -shot finishes the job, and tears its way out through -splintering bulwarks. The roar of broadside after -broadside echoes from the shore in a long, hoarse -humming. Drums beat in little fire-cracker -snappings, and a boatswain's whistle wires, thin and -sharp, through the din, and breaks short off against -the scream of a gun crew, cut to bits by a bursting -cannon. -</p> - -<p> -Three times they clear the <i>Vanguard's</i> guns of a -muck of corpses, but each new crew comes on with -a cheer and each discharge is a jeer of derision. -</p> - -<p> -The Admiral is hit. A flying sliver of iron has -shivered his head and opened it, the skin lies -quivering over his one good eye. He sees red, blood-red, -and the roar of the guns sounds like water running -over stones. He has to be led below. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Eight bells, and the poop of the <i>Orient</i> is on fire. -"Higher, men, train your guns a little higher. Don't -give them a loophole to scotch the flame. 'Tis their -new fine paint they'll have to blame." Yellow and -red, waving tiger-lilies, the flames shoot up—round, -serrated petals, flung out of the black-and-silver cup -of the bay. Each stay is wound with a flickering -fringe. The ropes curl up and shrivel as though a -twinge of pain withered them. Spasm after spasm -convulses the ship. A Clap!—A Crash!—A Boom!—and -silence. The ships have ceased firing. -</p> - -<p> -Ten, twenty, forty seconds ... -</p> - -<p> -Then a dash of water as masts and spars fall from -an immense height, and in the room of the floating, -licking tiger-lily is a chasm of yellow and red -whirling eddies. The guns start firing again. -</p> - -<p> -Foot after foot across the sky goes the moon, with -her train of swirling silver-blue stars. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The day is fair. In the clear Egyptian air, the -water of Aboukir Bay is as blue as the bottom flowers -of a larkspur spray. The shoals are green with a -white metal sheen, and between its sand-bars the -Nile can be seen, slowly rolling out to sea. -</p> - -<p> -The Admiral's head is bound up, and his eye is -bloodshot and very red, but he is sitting at his desk -writing, for all that. Through the stern windows is -the blue of the sea, and reflections dance waveringly -on his paper. This is what he has written: -</p> - -<p><br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -"VANGUARD. MOUTH OF THE NILE. -<br /> -August 8th, 1798. -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -MY DEAR SIR— -</p> - -<p> -Almighty God has made me the happy instrument -in destroying the enemy's fleet; which, I hope, -will be a blessing to Europe... I hope there will -be no difficulty in our getting refitted at Naples... -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Your most obliged and affectionate -<br /> -HORATIO NELSON." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Dance, little reflections of blue water, dance, while -there is yet time. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -IV -<br /><br /> -NAPLES -</p> - -<p> -"Get out of the way, with your skewbald ass. -Heu! Heu!" There is scant room for the quality -to pass up and down the whole Strada di Toledo. -Such a running to and fro! Such a clacking, and -clapping, and fleering, and cheering. Holy Mother -of God, the town has gone mad. Listen to the bells. -They will crack the very doors of Heaven with their -jangling. The sky seems the hot half-hollow of a -clanging bell. I verily believe they will rock the -steeples off their foundations. Ding! <i>Dang!</i> Dong! -Jingle-Jingle! Clank! Clink! Twitter! Tingle! -Half Naples is hanging on the ropes, I vow it is -louder than when they crown the Pope. The lapis-lazuli -pillars in Jesus Church positively lurch with -the noise; the carvings of Santa Chiara are at -swinging poise. In San Domenico Maggiore, the altar -quivers; Santa Maria del Carmine's chimes run -like rivers tinkling over stones; the big bell of the -Cathedral hammers and drones. It is gay to-day, -with all the bells of Naples at play. -</p> - -<p> -That's a fine equipage; those bays shine like satin. -Why, it is the British Ambassadress, and two British -officers with her in the carriage! Where is her hat? -Tut, you fool, she doesn't need one, she is wearing a -ribbon like a Roman senator. Blue it is, and there -are gold letters: "Nelson and Victory." The woman -is undoubtedly mad, but it is a madness which kindles. -"Viva Nelson! <i>Viva Miladi!</i>" Half a hundred hats -are flying in the air like kites, and all the white -handkerchiefs in Naples wave from the balconies. -</p> - -<p> -Brava, Emma Hamilton, a fig for the laws of good -taste, your heart beats blood, not water. Let -pale-livered ladies wave decorously; do you drive the -streets and tell the lazzaroni the good news. Proud -Lady Hamilton! Mad, whole-hearted Lady -Hamilton! <i>Viva!</i> <i>Viva ancora!</i> Wear your Nelson-anchor -earrings for the sun to flash in; cut a dash -in your new blue shawl, spotted with these same -anchors. What if lily-tongued dandies dip their -pens in gall to jeer at you, your blood is alive. The -red of it stains a bright band across the pages of -history. The others are ghosts, rotting in aged -tombs. Light your three thousand lamps, that -your windows spark and twinkle "Nelson" for all -the world to see, and even the little wavelets of the -bay have a largess of gold petals dropped from his -name. Rule, Britannia, though she doesn't deserve -it; it is all Nelson and the Ambassadress, in the -streets of Naples. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -He has rooms at the Palazzo Sesso, the British -Admiral, and all day long he watches the red, -half-closed eye of Vesuvius gazing down at his riding -ships. At night, there is a red plume over the -mountain, and the light of it fills the room with a crimson -glow, it might be a gala lit for him. His eyes swim. -In the open sky hangs a steel-white star, and a bar -of silver cuts through the red reflections of the -mirrors. Red and silver, for the bay is not blue -at night. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Oh brave Nelson, oh God bless and protect our -brave deliverer, oh, Nelson, Nelson, what do we not -owe to you." Sea-blue, the warp; but the thread -of the woof is bolted red. Fiddlers and dinners—Well, -or Hell! as the case may be. Queens, populace—these -are things, like guns, to face. Rostral -Columns and birthday fêtes jar the nerves of a -wounded head; it is better in bed, in the rosy gloom -of a plume-lit room. -</p> - -<p> -So the Admiral rests in the Palazzo Sesso, the guest -of his Ambassador, and his ships ride at anchor under -the flaming mountain. -</p> - -<p> -The shuttle shoots, the shuttle weaves. The red -thread to the blue thread cleaves. The web is -plaiting which nothing unreaves. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The Admiral buys the Ambassadress a table, a -pleasant tribute to hospitality. It is of satin-wood, -sprinkled over with little flying loves arrayed in -pink and blue sashes. They sit at this table for -hours, he and she, discussing the destiny of the -Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, and her voice is like -water tinkling over stones, and her face is like the -same water twinkling in shallows. -</p> - -<p> -She counts his money for him, and laughs at his -inability to reduce carotins to English sixpences. -She drives him out to Caserta to see the Queen, and -parades him on the Chiaia to delight the common -people. She is always before him, a mist of rose -and silver, a damask irradiation, shading and -lighting like a palpitant gem. -</p> - -<p> -In the evenings, by the light of two wax candles, -the Admiral writes kind acknowledgements to the -tributes of half a world. Moslem and Christian -sweetly united to stamp out liberty. It is an -inspiring sight to see. Rule Britannia indeed, with -Slavs and Turks boosting up her footstool. The -Sultan has sent a Special Envoy bearing gifts: the -<i>Chelenck</i>—"Plume of Triumph," all in diamonds, -and a pelisse of sables, just as bonds of his eternal -gratitude. "<i>Viva il Turco!</i>" says Lady Hamilton. -The Mother of His Sultanic Majesty begs that the -Admiral's pocket may be the repository of a diamond-studded -box to hold his snuff. The Russian Tzar, a -bit self-centred as most monarchs are, sends him his -portrait, diamond-framed of course. The King of -Sardinia glosses over his fewer gems by the richness -of his compliments. The East India Company, secure -of its trade, has paid him ten thousand pounds. -The Turkish Company has given him plate. A -grateful country augments his state by creating him -the smallest kind of peer, with a couple of tuppences -a year, and veneering it over by a grant of arms. -Arms for an arm, but what for an eye! Does the -Admiral smile as he writes his reply? Writes with -his left hand that he is aware of the high honour it -will be to bear this shield: "A chief undulated -argent, from which a palm-tree issuant, between a -disabled ship on the dexter, and a ruinous battery on -the sinister, all proper." "Very proper, indeed," -nods Sir William, but Lady Hamilton prods the -coloured paper shield a trifle scornfully. "If I was -King of England, I would make you Duke Nelson, -Marquis Nile, Earl Aboukir, Viscount Pyramid, -Baron Crocodile and Prince Victory." "My dear -Emma, what a child you are," says Sir William, but -the Admiral looks out of the window at the blood-red -mountain and says nothing at all. -</p> - -<p> -Something shakes Naples. Shakes so violently -that it makes the candles on the Admiral's writing-table -flicker. Earthquakes, perhaps. Aye, earthquakes, -but not from the red, plumed mountain. The -dreadful tread of marching men is rocking the Bourbon -Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, and the fanfare of -Republican trumpets blows over the city like a great -wind. It swirls the dust of Monarchy in front of it, -across Naples and out over the Chiaia to the sea. -</p> - -<p> -The Admiral walks his quarter-deck with the blue -bay beneath him, but his eyes are red with the glare -of Vesuvius, and the blood beats in and out of his -heart so rapidly that he is almost stifled. All Naples -is red to the Admiral, but the core of crimson is the -Palazzo Sesso, in whose windows, at night, the silver -stars flash so brightly. "Crimson and silver," -thinks the Admiral, "O Emma, Emma Hamilton!" -</p> - -<p> -It is December now, and Naples is heaving and -shuddering with the force of the Earth shock. There -is no firm ground on which to stand. Beneath the -Queen's footsteps is a rocking jelly. Even the water -of the bay boils and churns and knocks loudly against -the wooden sides of the British ships. -</p> - -<p> -Over the satin-wood table, the Admiral and the -Ambassadress sit in consultation, and red fire flares -between them across its polished surface. "My -adorable, unfortunate Queen! Dear, dear Queen!" Lady -Hamilton's eyes are carbuncles burning into -the Admiral's soul. He is dazzled, confused, used -to the glare on blue water he thinks he sees it now. -It is Duty and Kings. Caste versus riff-raff. The -roast-beef of old England against fried frogs' legs. -</p> - -<p> -Red, blood-red, figures the weaving pattern, red -blushing over blue, flushing the fabric purple, like -lees of wine. -</p> - -<p> -A blustering night to go to a party. But the -coach is ready, and Lord Nelson is arrived from his -ship. Official persons cannot give the slip to other -official persons, and it is Kelim Effendi who gives -the reception, the Sultan's Special Envoy. "Wait," -to the coachman; then lights, jewels, sword-clickings, -compliments, a promenade round the rooms, -bowing, and a quick, unwatched exit from a side -door. Someone will wake the snoring coachman -hours hence and send him away. But it will not be -his Master or Mistress. These hurry through dark, -windy streets to the Molesiglio. How the waves -flow by in the darkness! "A heavy ground-swell," -says the Admiral, but there is a lull in the wind. A -password in English—we are all very English -to-night. "Can you find your way, Emma?" Sir -William is perturbed. But the Ambassadress is -gone, gone lightly, swiftly, up the dark mole and -disappeared through a postern in the wall. She is -aflame, scorching with red and gold fires, a torch of -scarlet and ochre, a meteor of sulphur and chrome -dashed with vermilion. -</p> - -<p> -There are massacres in the streets of Naples; in -the Palace, a cowering Queen. This is melodrama, -and Emma is the Princess of Opera Bouffe. Opera -Bouffe, with Death as Pulchinello. Ho! Ho! You -laugh. A merry fellow, and how if Death had you -by the gizzard? Comedy and Tragedy shift masks, -but Emma is intent on her task and sees neither. -Frightened, vacillating monarchs to guide down a -twisting stair; but there is Nelson climbing up. -And there are lanterns, cutlasses, pistols, and, at -last, the night air, black slapping water, and boats. -</p> - -<p> -They are afloat, off the trembling, quivering soil -of Naples, and their way is lit by a blood-red glimmer -from the tossing fires of Vesuvius. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -V -<br /><br /> -PALERMO, ET AL. -</p> - -<p> -Storm-tossed water, and an island set in a sea -as blue as the bottom flowers of a spike of larkspur, -come upon out of a hurly-burly of wind, and rain, -and jagged waves. Through it all has walked the -Ambassadress like some starry saint, pouring mercy -out of full hands. The Admiral sees her misted -with rose and purple, radiating comfort in a phosphoric -glow. Is it wise to light one's life with an -iridescence? Perhaps not, but the bolt is shot. -</p> - -<p> -The stuff is weaving. Now one thread is uppermost, -now another, making striæ of reds and blues, -or clouding colour over colour. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -There are lemon groves, and cool stars, and love -flooding beneath them. There are slanting decks, -and full sails, and telescopes, wearying to a one-eyed -man. Then a span of sunlight under pink oleanders; -and evenings beneath painted ceilings, surrounded -by the hum of a court. -</p> - -<p> -Naples again, with cannon blazing. A haze of -orders, documents, pardons, and a hanging. Palermo, -and Dukedoms and "<i>Nostro Liberatore</i>." One -cannot see everything with one eye. Flight is -possible, but misted vision shows strange shapes. It -is Opera Bouffe, with Tragedy in the front row. -Downing Street hints reproof, mentions stories of -gaming-tables and high piles of gold. What nonsense -to talk of a duel! Sir William and the Admiral -live like brothers. But they will not be silent, those -others. "Poor Lady Nelson, what will she do?" Still -it is true that the lady in question is a bit of a shrew. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Blood beats back and forth under the lemon -groves, proving itself a right of way. "I worship, -nay, adore you, and if you was single, and I found -you under a hedge, I would instantly marry you. -Santa Emma! As truly as I believe in God, do I -believe you are a saint." If the lady is a saint and -he her acolyte, it is by a Divine right. These are -the ways of Heaven; the Admiral prays and knows -himself forgiven and absolved. -</p> - -<p> -Revolve slowly, shuttle of the blue thread, red is -a strong colour under Sicilian skies. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -VI -<br /><br /> -LEGHORN TO LONDON -</p> - -<p> -A court, an Ambassador, and a great Admiral, -in travelling carriages rolling over the map of Europe. -Straining up hills, bowling along levels, rolling down -slopes, and all to the tune of "Hip! Hip! Hurrah!" From -Leghorn to Florence, to Ancona, to Trieste, is -one long <i>Festa</i>. Every steeple sways with clashing -bells, and people line the roads, yelling "<i>Viva -Nelson! Hola! Hola! Viva Inghilterra!</i>" Wherever -they go, it is a triumphal progress and a -pinny-pinny-poppy-show. Whips crack, sparks fly, sails -fill—another section of the map is left behind. Carriages -again, up hill and down, from the seaboard straight -into Austria. -</p> - -<p> -Hip! Hip! Hip! The wheels roll into Vienna. -Then what a to-do! Concerts, Operas, Fireworks -too. Dinners where one hundred six-foot grenadiers -do the waiting at table. Such grandiloquence! -Such splendid, regal magnificence! Trumpets and -cannons, and Nelson's health; the Jew wealth of -Baron Arnstein, and the excellent wine of his cellars. -Haydn conducts an oratorio while the guests are -playing faro. Delightful city! What a pity one -must leave! These are rewards worthy of the Battle -of the Nile. You smile. Tut! Tut! Remember they -are only foreigners; the true British breed writes -home scurvy letters for all London to read. Hip! -Hip! God save the King! -</p> - -<p> -For two months, the travelling carriages stand in -the stables; but horses are put to them at last, and -they are off again. No Court this time; but what -is a fleeing Queen to a victorious Admiral! Up hill, -down dale, round and round roll the sparkling wheels, -kicking up all the big and little stones of Austria. -"Huzza for the Victor of Aboukir!" shouts the -populace. The traces tighten, and the carriages -are gone. In and out of Prague roll the wheels, and -across the border into Germany. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Dresden at last, but an Electress turning her back -on Lady Hamilton. A stuffy state, with a fussy -etiquette! Why distress oneself for such a rebuff? -Emma will get even with them yet. It is enough for -her to do her "Attitudes," and to perfection. And -still—and still— But Lady Hamilton has an iron -will. -</p> - -<p> -Proud Lady Hamilton! Blood-betrayed, -hot-hearted Lady Hamilton! The wheels roll out of -Dresden, and Lady Hamilton looks at the Admiral. -"Oh, Nelson, Nelson." But the whips are cracking -and one cannot hear. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Roll over Germany, wheels. Roll through Magdeburg, -Lodwostz, Anhalt. Roll up to the banks of the -Elbe, and deposit your travellers in a boat once more. -Along the green shores of the green-and-brown river -to Hamburg, where merchants and bankers are -waiting to honour the man who has saved their gold. -Huzza for Nelson, Saviour of Banks! Where is the -frigate a thankful country might have sent him? -Not there. Why did he come overland, forsooth? -The Lion and the Unicorn are uncouth beasts, but -we do not mind in the least. No, indeed! We take -a packet and land at Yarmouth. -</p> - -<p> -"Hip! Hip! Hip! God save the King! Long -live Nelson, Britain's Pride!" The common people -are beside themselves with joy, there is no alloy to -their welcome. Before <i>The Wrestler's</i> inn, troops -are paraded. And every road is arcaded with flags -and flowers. "He is ours! Hip! Hip! Nelson!" Cavalcades -of volunteer cavalry march before him. -Two days to London, and every road bordered with -smiling faces. They cannot go faster than a footpace -because the carriage is drawn by men. Muskets -pop, and every shop in every town is a flutter of -bunting. -</p> - -<p> -Red, Lady Hamilton, red welcome for your Admiral. -Red over foggy London. Bow bells peeling, -and the crowded streets reeling through fast tears. -Years, Emma, and Naples covered by their ashes. -</p> - -<p> -Blood-red, his heart flashes to hers, but the great -city of London is blurred to both of them. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -VII -<br /><br /> -MERTON -</p> - -<p> -Early Autumn, and a light breeze rustling through -the trees of Paradise Merton, and pashing the ripples -of the Little Nile against the sides of the arched stone -bridge. It is ten o'clock, and through the blowing -leaves, the lighted windows of the house twinkle -like red, pulsing stars. Far down the road is a jingle -of harness, and a crunching of wheels. Out of the -darkness flare the lamps of a post-chaise, blazing -basilisk eyes, making the smooth sides of leaves shine, -as they approach, the darkness swallowing in behind -them. A rattle, a stamping of hoofs, and the chaise -comes to a stand opposite a wooden gate. It is not -late, maybe a bit ahead of time. The post-boy eases -himself in the saddle, and loosens his reins. The -light from the red windows glitters in the varnished -panels of the chaise. -</p> - -<p> -How tear himself away from so dear a home! -Can he wrench himself apart, can he pull his heart -out of his body? Her face is pitiful with tears. -Two years gone, and only a fortnight returned. His -head hums with the rushing of his blood. "Wife in -the sight of Heaven"—surely one life between them -now, and yet the summons has come. Blue water -is calling, the peaked seas beckon. -</p> - -<p> -The Admiral kneels beside his child's bed, and -prays. These are the ways of the Almighty. "His -will be done." Pathetic trust, thrusting aside -desire. The fire on the hearth is faint and glowing, -and throws long shadows across the room. How -quiet it is, how far from battles and crowning -seas. -</p> - -<p> -She strains him in her arms, she whispers, -sobbing, "Dearest husband of my heart, you are all -the world to Emma." She delays his going by -minute and minute. "My Dearest and most -Beloved, God protect you and my dear Horatia and -grant us a happy meeting. Amen! Amen!" -</p> - -<p> -Tear, blue shuttle, through the impeding red, but -have a care lest the thread snap in following. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"God bless you, George. Take care of Lady -Hamilton." He shakes his brother-in-law by the -hand. The chaise door bangs. The post-boy flicks -his whip, the horses start forward. Red windows -through flecking trees. Blood-red windows growing -dimmer behind him, until they are only a shimmer -in the distance. His eyes smart, searching for their -faint glimmer through blowing trees. His eyes -smart with tears, and fears which seem to haunt -him. All night he drives, through Guildford, over -Hindhead, on his way to Portsmouth. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -VIII -<br /><br /> -AT SEA, OFF CAPE TRAFALGAR -</p> - -<p> -Blue as the tip of a deep blue salvia blossom, the -inverted cup of the sky arches over the sea. Up to -meet it, in a concave curve of bright colour, rises -the water, flat, unrippled, for the wind scarcely stirs. -How comes the sky so full of clouds on the horizon, -with none over head? Clouds! Great clouds of -canvas! Mighty ballooning clouds, bearing thunder -and crinkled lightning in their folds. They roll up -out of the horizon, tiered, stately. Sixty-four great -thunder-clouds, more perhaps, throwing their shadows -over ten miles of sea. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Boats dash back and forth. Their ordered oars -sparkling like silver as they lift and fall. Frigate -captains receiving instructions, coming aboard the -flagship, departing from it. Blue and white, with a -silver flashing of boats. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Thirty-three clouds headed South, twenty-three -others converging upon them! They move over -the water as silently as the drifting air. Lines to -lines, drawing nearer on the faint impulse of the -breeze. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Blue coated, flashing with stars, the Admiral walks -up and down the poop. Stars on his breast, in -his eyes the white glare of the sea. The enemy -wears, looping end to end, and waits, poised in a -half-circle like a pale new moon upon the water. -The British ships point straight to the hollow -between the horns, and even their stu'nsails are -set. Arrows flung at a crescent over smooth blue -water. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Now, Blackwood, I am going to amuse the fleet -with a signal. Mr. Pasco, I wish to say to the fleet, -'England confides that every man will do his duty.' You -must be quick, for I have one more to make, -which is for close action." -</p> - -<p> -"If your Lordship will permit me to substitute -'expects' for 'confides,' it will take less time, -because 'expects' is in the vocabulary and 'confides' -must be spelt." -</p> - -<p> -Flutter flags, fling out your message to the -advancing arrows. Ripple and fly over the Admiral's -head. Signal flags are of all colours, but the -Admiral sees only the red. It beats above him, -outlined against the salvia-blue sky. A crimson blossom -sprung from his heart, the banner royal of his Destiny -struck out sharply against the blue of Heaven. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Frigate Captain Blackwood bids good-bye to the -Admiral. "I trust, my Lord, that on my return to -the Victory, I shall find your Lordship well and in -possession of twenty prizes." A gash of blood-colour -cuts across the blue sky, or is it that the Admiral's -eyes are tired with the flashing of the sea? -"God bless you, Blackwood, I shall never speak to -you again." What is it that haunts his mind? He -is blinded by red, blood-red fading to rose, smeared -purple, blotted out by blue. Larkspur sea and blue -sky above it, with the flickering flags of his signal -standing out in cameo. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Boom! A shot passes through the main topgallantsail -of the <i>Victory</i>. The ship is under fire. -Her guns cannot bear while she is head on. Straight -at the floating half-moon of ships goes the <i>Victory</i>, -leading her line, muffled in the choking smoke of the -<i>Bucentaure's</i> guns. The sun is dimmed, but through -the smoke-cloud prick diamond sparkles from the -Admiral's stars as he walks up and down the quarter-deck. -</p> - -<p> -Red glare of guns in the Admiral's eyes. Red -stripe of marines drawn up on the poop. Eight are -carried off by a single shot, and the red stripe -liquefies, and seeps, lapping, down the gangway. Every -stu'nsail boom is shot away. The blue of the sea -has vanished; there is only the red of cannon, and -the white twinkling sparks of the Admiral's stars. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The bows of the <i>Victory</i> cross the wake of the -<i>Bucentaure</i>, and one after another, as they bear, -the double-shotted guns tear through the woodwork -of the French ship. The <i>Victory</i> slips past like a -shooting shuttle, and runs on board the <i>Redoubtable</i>, -seventy-four, and their spars lock, with a shock -which almost stops their headway. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -It is a glorious Autumn day outside the puff-ball -of smoke. A still, blue sea, unruffled, banded to -silver by a clear sun. -</p> - -<p> -Guns of the <i>Victory</i>, guns of the <i>Redoubtable</i>, -exploding incessantly, making one long draw of sound. -Rattling upon it, rain on a tin roof, the pop-pop of -muskets from the mizzen-top of the <i>Redoubtable</i>. -There are sharpshooters in the mizzen-top, aiming -at the fog below. Suddenly, through it, spears the -gleam of diamonds; it is the Admiral's stars, -reflecting the flashes of the guns. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Red blood in a flood before his eyes. Red from -horizon to zenith, crushing down like beaten metal. -The Admiral falls to his knees, to his side, and lies -there, and the crimson glare closes over him, a cupped -inexorable end. "They have done for me at last, -Hardy. My back-bone is shot through." -</p> - -<p> -The blue thread is snapped and the bolt falls from -the loom. Weave, shuttle of the red thread. Weave -over and under yourself in a scarlet ecstasy. It is -all red now he comes to die. Red, with the white -sparkles of those cursed stars. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Carry him gently down, and let no man know that -it is the Admiral who has fallen. He covers his face -and his stars with his handkerchief. The white -glitter is quenched; the white glitter of his life will -shine no more. "Doctor, I am gone. I leave Lady -Hamilton and my daughter Horatia as a legacy to -my Country." Pathetic trust, thrusting aside -knowledge. Flint, the men who sit in Parliament, flint -which no knocking can spark to fire. But you still -believe in men's goodness, knowing only your own -heart. "Let my dear Lady Hamilton have my hair, -and all other things belonging to me." -</p> - -<p> -The red darkens, and is filled with tossing fires. -He sees Vesuvius, and over it the single silver -brilliance of a star. -</p> - -<p> -"One would like to live a little longer, but thank -God, I have done my duty." -</p> - -<p> -Slower, slower, passes the red thread and stops. -The weaving is done. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -In the log-book of the <i>Victory</i>, it is written: "Partial -firing continued until 4.30, when a victory having -been reported to the Right Honourable Lord -Viscount Nelson, K.B., he died of his wound." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -IX -<br /><br /> -CALAIS -</p> - -<p> -It is a timber-yard, pungent with the smell of -wood: Oak, Pine, and Cedar. But under the piles -of white boards, they say there are bones rotting. -An old guide to Calais speaks of a wooden marker -shaped like a battledoor, handle downwards, on the -broad part of which was scratched: "Emma -Hamilton, England's Friend." It was a poor thing and -now even that has gone. Let us buy an oak chip -for remembrance. It will only cost a sou. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> - -<h3> -GUNS AS KEYS: AND THE GREAT GATE SWINGS -</h3> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> -PART I -</p> - -<p> -Due East, far West. Distant as the nests of the -opposite winds. Removed as fire and water are, as -the clouds and the roots of the hills, as the wills of -youth and age. Let the key-guns be mounted, make -a brave show of waging war, and pry off the lid of -Pandora's box once more. Get in at any cost, and -let out at little, so it seems, but wait—wait—there -is much to follow through the Great Gate! -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -They do not see things in quite that way, on this -bright November day, with sun flashing, and waves -splashing, up and down Chesapeake Bay. On shore, -all the papers are running to press with huge -headlines: "Commodore Perry Sails." Dining-tables -buzz with travellers' tales of old Japan culled -from Dutch writers. But we are not like the Dutch. -No shutting the stars and stripes up on an island. -Pooh! We must trade wherever we have a mind. -Naturally! -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The wharves of Norfolk are falling behind, becoming -smaller, confused with the warehouses and the -trees. On the impetus of the strong South breeze, -the paddle-wheel steam frigate, <i>Mississippi</i>, of the -United States Navy, sails down the flashing bay. -Sails away, and steams away, for her furnaces are -burning, and her paddle-wheels turning, and all her -sails are set and full. Pull, men, to the old chorus: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "A Yankee ship sails down the river,<br /> - Blow, boys, blow;<br /> - Her masts and spars they shine like silver,<br /> - Blow, my bully boys, blow."<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -But what is the use? That plaguy brass band -blares out with "The Star Spangled Banner," and -you cannot hear the men because of it. Which is -a pity, thinks the Commodore, in his cabin, studying -the map, and marking stepping-stones: Madeira, -Cape Town, Mauritius, Singapore, nice firm stepping-places -for seven-league boots. Flag-stones up and -down a hemisphere. -</p> - -<p> -My! How she throws the water off from her bows, -and how those paddle-wheels churn her along at the -rate of seven good knots! You are a proud lady, -Mrs. <i>Mississippi</i>, curtseying down Chesapeake Bay, -all a-flutter with red white and blue ribbons. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - At Mishima in the Province of Kai,<br /> - Three men are trying to measure a pine tree<br /> - By the length of their outstretched arms.<br /> - Trying to span the bole of a huge pine tree<br /> - By the spread of their lifted arms.<br /> - Attempting to compress its girth<br /> - Within the limit of their extended arms.<br /> - Beyond, Fuji,<br /> - Majestic, inevitable,<br /> - Wreathed over by wisps of cloud.<br /> - The clouds draw about the mountain,<br /> - But there are gaps.<br /> - The men reach about the pine tree,<br /> - But their hands break apart;<br /> - The rough bark escapes their hand-clasps;<br /> - The tree is unencircled.<br /> - Three men are trying to measure the stem of a gigantic pine tree,<br /> - With their arms,<br /> - At Mishima in the Province of Kai.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Furnaces are burning good Cumberland coal at the -rate of twenty-six tons per diem, and the paddle-wheels -turn round and round in an iris of spray. -She noses her way through a wallowing sea; foots -it, bit by bit, over the slanting wave slopes; pants -along, thrust forward by her breathing furnaces, -urged ahead by the wind draft flattening against -her taut sails. -</p> - -<p> -The Commodore, leaning over the taffrail, sees the -peak of Madeira sweep up out of the haze. The -<i>Mississippi</i> glides into smooth water, and anchors -under the lee of the "Desertas." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Ah! the purple bougainvilia! And the sweet smells -of the heliotrope and geranium hedges! Ox-drawn -sledges clattering over cobbles—what a fine pause -in an endless voyaging. Stars and stripes demanding -five hundred tons of coal, ten thousand gallons -of water, resting for a moment on a round stepping-stone, -with the drying sails slatting about in the -warm wind. -</p> - -<p> -"Get out your accordion, Jim, and give us the -'Suwannee River' to show those Dagoes what a -tune is. Pipe up with the chorus, boys. Let her -go." -</p> - -<p> -The green water flows past Madeira. Flows -under the paddle-boards, making them clip and clap. -The green water washes along the sides of the -Commodore's steam flagship and passes away to leeward. -</p> - -<p> -"Hitch up your trowsers, Black Face, and do a -horn-pipe. It's a fine quiet night for a double -shuffle. Keep her going, Jim. Louder. That's the -ticket. Gosh, but you can spin, Blackey!" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - The road is hilly<br /> - Outside the Tiger Gate,<br /> - And striped with shadows from a bow moon<br /> - Slowly sinking to the horizon.<br /> - The roadway twinkles with the bobbing of lanterns,<br /> - Melon-shaped, round, oblong,<br /> - Lighting the steps of those who pass along it;<br /> - And there is a sweet singing of many <i>semi</i>,<br /> - From the cages which an insect-seller<br /> - Carries on his back.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Westward of the Canaries, in a wind-blazing sea. -Engineers, there, extinguish the furnaces; -carpenters, quick, your screwdrivers and mallets, and -unship the paddle-boards. Break out her sails, -quartermasters, the wind will carry her faster than she -can steam, for the trades have her now, and are -whipping her along in fine clipper style. Key-guns, your -muzzles shine like basalt above the tumbling waves. -Polished basalt cameoed upon malachite. -Yankee-doodle-dandy! A fine upstanding ship, clouded with -canvas, slipping along like a trotting filly out of the -Commodore's own stables. White sails and sailors, -blue-coated officers, and red in a star sparked through -the claret decanter on the Commodore's luncheon -table. -</p> - -<p> -The Commodore is writing to his wife, to be posted -at the next stopping place. Two years is a long time -to be upon the sea. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - Nigi-oi of Matsuba-ya<br /> - Celebrated oiran,<br /> - Courtesan of unrivalled beauty,<br /> - The great silk mercer, Mitsui,<br /> - Counts himself a fortunate man<br /> - As he watches her parade in front of him<br /> - In her robes of glazed blue silk<br /> - Embroidered with singing nightingales.<br /> - He puffs his little silver pipe<br /> - And arranges a fold of her dress.<br /> - He parts it at the neck<br /> - And laughs when the falling plum-blossoms<br /> - Tickle her naked breasts.<br /> - The next morning he makes out a bill<br /> - To the Director of the Dutch Factory at Nagasaki<br /> - For three times the amount of the goods<br /> - Forwarded that day in two small junks<br /> - In the care of a trusted clerk.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The North-east trades have smoothed away into -hot, blue doldrums. Paddle-wheels to the rescue. -Thank God, we live in an age of invention. What -air there is, is dead ahead. The deck is a bed of -cinders, we wear a smoke cloud like a funeral plume. -Funeral—of whom? Of the little heathens inside -the Gate? Wait! Wait! These monkey-men have -got to trade, Uncle Sam has laid his plans with care, -see those black guns sizzling there. "It's deuced -hot," says a lieutenant, "I wish I could look in at a -hop in Newport this evening." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - The one hundred and sixty streets in the Sanno quarter<br /> - Are honey-gold,<br /> - Honey-gold from the gold-foil screens in the houses,<br /> - Honey-gold from the fresh yellow mats;<br /> - The lintels are draped with bright colours,<br /> - And from eaves and poles<br /> - Red and white paper lanterns<br /> - Glitter and swing.<br /> - Through the one hundred and sixty decorated<br /> - streets of the Sanno quarter,<br /> - Trails the procession,<br /> - With a bright slowness,<br /> - To the music of flutes and drums.<br /> - Great white sails of cotton<br /> - Belly out along the honey-gold streets.<br /> - Sword bearers,<br /> - Spear bearers,<br /> - Mask bearers,<br /> - Grinning masks of mountain genii,<br /> - And a white cock on a drum<br /> - Above a purple sheet.<br /> - Over the flower hats of the people,<br /> - Shines the sacred palanquin,<br /> - "Car of gentle motion,"<br /> - Upheld by fifty men,<br /> - Stalwart servants of the god,<br /> - Bending under the weight of mirror-black lacquer,<br /> - Of pillars and roof-tree<br /> - Wrapped in chased and gilded copper.<br /> - Portly silk tassels sway to the marching of feet,<br /> - Wreaths of gold and silver flowers<br /> - Shoot sudden scintillations at the gold-foil screens.<br /> - The golden phoenix on the roof of the palanquin<br /> - Spreads its wings,<br /> - And seems about to take flight<br /> - Over the one hundred and sixty streets<br /> - Straight into the white heart<br /> - Of the curved blue sky.<br /> - Six black oxen,<br /> - With white and red trappings,<br /> - Draw platforms on which are musicians, dancers, actors,<br /> - Who posture and sing,<br /> - Dance and parade,<br /> - Up and down the honey-gold streets,<br /> - To the sweet playing of flutes,<br /> - And the ever-repeating beat of heavy drums,<br /> - To the constant banging of heavily beaten drums,<br /> - To the insistent repeating rhythm of beautiful great drums.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Across the equator and panting down to Saint -Helena, trailing smoke like a mourning veil. Jamestown -jetty, and all the officers in the ship making at -once for Longwood. Napoleon! Ah, tales—tales—with -nobody to tell them. A bronze eagle caged -by floating woodwork. A heart burst with beating -on a flat drop-curtain of sea and sky. Nothing now -but pigs in a sty. Pigs rooting in the Emperor's -bedroom. God be praised, we have a plumed smoking -ship to take us away from this desolation. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Boney was a warrior<br /> - Away-i-oh;<br /> - Boney was a warrior,<br /> - John François."<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Oh, shut up, Jack, you make me sick. Those -pigs are like worms eating a corpse. Bah!" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - The ladies,<br /> - Wistaria Blossom, Cloth-of-Silk, and Deep Snow,<br /> - With their ten attendants,<br /> - Are come to Asakusa<br /> - To gaze at peonies.<br /> - To admire crimson-carmine peonies,<br /> - To stare in admiration at bomb-shaped, white and sulphur peonies,<br /> - To caress with a soft finger<br /> - Single, rose-flat peonies,<br /> - Tight, incurved, red-edged peonies,<br /> - Spin-wheel circle, amaranth peonies.<br /> - To smell the acrid pungence of peony blooms,<br /> - And dream for months afterwards<br /> - Of the temple garden at Asakusa,<br /> - Where they walked together<br /> - Looking at peonies.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The Gate! The Gate! The far-shining Gate! -Pat your guns and thank your stars you have not -come too late. The Orient's a sleepy place, as all -globe-trotters say. We'll get there soon enough, -my lads, and carry it away. That's a good enough -song to round the Cape with, and there's the Table -Cloth on Table Mountain and we've drawn a Lead -over half the curving world. Three cheers for Old -Glory, fellows. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - A Daimio's procession<br /> - Winds between two green hills,<br /> - A line of thin, sharp, shining, pointed spears<br /> - Above red coats<br /> - And yellow mushroom hats.<br /> - A man leading an ox<br /> - Has cast himself upon the ground,<br /> - He rubs his forehead in the dust,<br /> - While his ox gazes with wide, moon eyes<br /> - At the glittering spears<br /> - Majestically parading<br /> - Between two green hills.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Down, down, down, to the bottom of the map; -but we must up again, high on the other side. -America, sailing the seas of a planet to stock the -shop counters at home. Commerce-raiding a nation; -pulling apart the curtains of a temple and calling -it trade. Magnificent mission! Every shop-till -in every bye-street will bless you. Force the shut -gate with the muzzles of your black cannon. Then -wait—wait for fifty years—and see who has conquered. -But now the <i>Mississippi</i> must brave the Cape, in -a crashing of bitter seas. The wind blows East, the -wind blows West, there is no rest under these -clashing clouds. Petrel whirl by like torn newspapers -along a street. Albatrosses fly close to the -mastheads. Dread purrs over this stormy ocean, and the -smell of the water is the dead, oozing dampness of -tombs. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - Tiger rain on the temple bridge of carved green-stone,<br /> - Slanting tiger lines of rain on the lichened lanterns<br /> - of the gateway,<br /> - On the stone statues of mythical warriors.<br /> - Striped rain making the bells of the pagoda roofs flutter,<br /> - Tiger-footing on the bluish stones of the court-yard,<br /> - Beating, snapping, on the cheese-rounds of open umbrellas,<br /> - Licking, tiger-tongued, over the straw mat which<br /> - a pilgrim wears upon his shoulders,<br /> - Gnawing, tiger-toothed, into the paper mask<br /> - Which he carries on his back.<br /> - Tiger-clawed rain scattering the peach-blossoms,<br /> - Tiger tails of rain lashing furiously among the cryptomerias.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Land—O." Mauritius. Stepping-stone four. -The coaling ships have arrived, and the shore is a -hive of Negroes, and Malays, and Lascars, and -Chinese. The clip and clatter of tongues is -unceasing. "What awful brutes!" "Obviously, but -the fruits they sell are good." "Food, fellows, bully -good food." Yankee money for pine-apples, shaddocks, -mangoes. "Who were Paul and Virginia?" "Oh, -a couple of spooneys who died here, in a shipwreck, -because the lady wouldn't take off her smock." "I -say, Fred, that's a shabby way to put it. You've -no sentiment." "Maybe. I don't read much myself, -and when I do, I prefer United States, something -like old Artemus Ward, for instance." "Oh, dry up, -and let's get some donkeys and go for a gallop. -We've got to begin coaling to-morrow, remember." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - The beautiful dresses,<br /> - Blue, Green, Mauve, Yellow;<br /> - And the beautiful green pointed hats<br /> - Like Chinese porcelains!<br /> - See, a band of geisha<br /> - Is imitating the state procession of a Corean Ambassador,<br /> - Under painted streamers,<br /> - On an early afternoon.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The hot sun burns the tar up out of the deck. The -paddle-wheels turn, flinging the cupped water over -their shoulders. Heat smoulders along the horizon. -The shadow of the ship floats off the starboard quarter, -floats like a dark cloth upon the sea. The watch -is pulling on the topsail halliards: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "O Sally Brown of New York City,<br /> - Ay ay, roll and go."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Like a tired beetle, the <i>Mississippi</i> creeps over the -flat, glass water, creeps on, breathing heavily. -Creeps—creeps—and sighs and settles at Pointe de Galle, -Ceylon. -</p> - -<p> -Spice islands speckling the Spanish Main. Fairy -tales and stolen readings. Saint John's Eve! -Mid-summer Madness! Here it is all true. But the -smell of the spice-trees is not so nice as the smell of -new-mown hay on the Commodore's field at Tarrytown. -But what can one say to forests of rose-wood, -satin-wood, ebony! To the talipot tree, one leaf of -which can cover several people with its single shade. -Trade! Trade! Trade in spices for an earlier -generation. We dream of lacquers and precious stones. -Of spinning telegraph wires across painted fans. -Ceylon is an old story, ours will be the glory of more -important conquests. -</p> - -<p> -But wait—wait. No one is likely to force the -Gate. The smoke of golden Virginia tobacco floats -through the blue palms. "You say you killed forty -elephants with this rifle!" "Indeed, yes, and a -trifling bag, too." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - Down the ninety-mile rapids<br /> - Of the Heaven Dragon River,<br /> - He came,<br /> - With his bowmen,<br /> - And his spearmen,<br /> - Borne in a gilded palanquin,<br /> - To pass the Winter in Yedo<br /> - By the Shōgun's decree.<br /> - To pass the Winter idling in the Yoshiwara,<br /> - While his bowmen and spearmen<br /> - Gamble away their rusted weapons<br /> - Every evening<br /> - At the Hour of the Cock.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Her Britannic Majesty's frigate <i>Cleopatra</i> salutes -the <i>Mississippi</i> as she sails into the harbour of -Singapore. Vessels galore choke the wharves. From -China, Siam, Malaya; Sumatra, Europe, America. -This is the bargain counter of the East. Goods—Goods, -dumped ashore to change boats and sail on -again. Oaths and cupidity; greasy clothes and greasy -dollars wound into turbans. Opium and birds'-nests -exchanged for teas, cassia, nankeens; gold thread -bartered for Brummagem buttons. Pocket knives -told off against teapots. Lots and lots of cheap -damaged porcelains, and trains of silken bales -awaiting advantageous sales to Yankee merchantmen. -The figure-head of the <i>Mississippi</i> should be a -beneficent angel. With her guns to persuade, she -should lay the foundation of such a market on the -shores of Japan. "We will do what we can," writes -the Commodore, in his cabin. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - Outside the drapery shop of Taketani Sabai,<br /> - Strips of dyed cloth are hanging out to dry.<br /> - Fine Arimitsu cloth,<br /> - Fine blue and white cloth,<br /> - Falling from a high staging,<br /> - Falling like falling water,<br /> - Like blue and white unbroken water<br /> - Sliding over a high cliff,<br /> - Like the Ono Fall on the Kisokaido Road.<br /> - Outside the shop of Taketani Sabai,<br /> - They have hung the fine dyed cloth<br /> - In strips out to dry.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Romance and heroism; and all to make one dollar -two. Through grey fog and fresh blue breezes, -through heat, and sleet, and sheeted rain. For -centuries men have pursued the will-o'-the-wisp—trade. -And they have got—what? All civilization -weighed in twopenny scales and fastened with -string. A sailing planet packed in a dry-goods box. -Knocks, and shocks, and blocks of extended knowledge, -contended for and won. Cloves and nutmegs, -and science stowed among the grains. Your gains -are not in silver, mariners, but in the songs of violins, -and the thin voices whispering through printed books. -</p> - -<p> -"It looks like a dinner-plate," thinks the officer -of the watch, as the <i>Mississippi</i> sails up the muddy -river to Canton, with the Dragon's Cave Fort on -one side, and the Girl's Shoe Fort on the other. -</p> - -<p> -The Great Gate looms in a distant mist, and the -anchored squadron waits and rests, but its coming is -as certain as the equinoxes, and the lightning bolts -of its guns are ready to tear off centuries like husks -of corn. -</p> - -<p> -The Commodore sips bottled water from Saratoga, -and makes out a report for the State Department. -The men play pitch-and-toss, and the officers poker, -and the betting gives heavy odds against the little -monkey-men. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="poem"> - On the floor of the reception room of the Palace<br /> - They have laid a white quilt,<br /> - And on the quilt, two red rugs;<br /> - And they have set up two screens of white paper<br /> - To hide that which should not be seen.<br /> - At the four corners, they have placed lanterns,<br /> - And now they come.<br /> - Six attendants,<br /> - Three to sit on either side of the condemned man,<br /> - Walking slowly.<br /> - Three to the right,<br /> - Three to the left,<br /> - And he between them<br /> - In his dress of ceremony<br /> - With the great wings.<br /> - Shadow wings, thrown by the lantern light,<br /> - Trail over the red rugs to the polished floor,<br /> - Trail away unnoticed,<br /> - For there is a sharp glitter from a dagger<br /> - Borne past the lanterns on a silver tray.<br /> - "O my Master,<br /> - I would borrow your sword,<br /> - For it may be a consolation to you<br /> - To perish by a sword to which you are accustomed."<br /> - Stone, the face of the condemned man,<br /> - Stone, the face of the executioner,<br /> - And yet before this moment<br /> - These were master and pupil,<br /> - Honoured and according homage,<br /> - And this is an act of honourable devotion.<br /> - Each face is passive,<br /> - Hewed as out of strong stone,<br /> - Cold as a statue above a temple porch.<br /> - Down slips the dress of ceremony to the girdle.<br /> - Plunge the dagger to its hilt.<br /> - A trickle of blood runs along the white flesh<br /> - And soaks into the girdle silk.<br /> - Slowly across from left to right,<br /> - Slowly, upcutting at the end,<br /> - But the executioner leaps to his feet,<br /> - Poises the sword—<br /> - Did it flash, hover, descend?<br /> - There is a thud, a horrible rolling,<br /> - And the heavy sound of a loosened, falling body,<br /> - Then only the throbbing of blood<br /> - Spurting into the red rugs.<br /> - For he who was a man is that thing<br /> - Crumpled up on the floor,<br /> - Broken, and crushed into the red rugs.<br /> - The friend wipes the sword,<br /> - And his face is calm and frozen<br /> - As a stone statue on a Winter night<br /> - Above a temple gateway.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> -PART II -</p> - -<p> -Four vessels giving easily to the low-running waves -and cat's-paw breezes of a Summer sea. July, 1853, -Mid-Century, but just on the turn. Mid-Century, -with the vanishing half fluttering behind on a -foam-bubbled wake. Four war ships steering for the "Land -of Great Peace," caparisoned in state, cleaving a -jewelled ocean to a Dragon Gate. Behind it, the -quiet of afternoon. Golden light reflecting from the -inner sides of shut portals. War is an old wives' -tale, a frail beautiful embroidery of other ages. The -panoply of battle fades. Arrows rust in arsenals, -spears stand useless on their butts in vestibules. -Cannon lie unmounted in castle yards, and rats -and snakes make nests in them and rear their young -in unmolested satisfaction. -</p> - -<p> -The sun of Mid-Summer lies over the "Land of -Great Peace," and behind the shut gate they do not -hear the paddle-wheels of distant vessels unceasingly -turning and advancing, through the jewelled -scintillations of the encircling sea. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -<i>Susquehanna</i> and <i>Mississippi</i>, steamers, towing -<i>Saratoga</i> and <i>Plymouth</i>, sloops of war. Moving on -in the very eye of the wind, with not a snip of canvas -upon their slim yards. Fugi!—a point above nothing, -for there is a haze. Stop gazing, that is the bugle -to clear decks and shot guns. We must be prepared, -as we run up the coast straight to the Bay of Yedo. -"I say, fellows, those boats think they can catch us, -they don't know that this is Yankee steam." Bang! -The shore guns are at work. And that smoke-ball -would be a rocket at night, but we cannot see the -gleam in this sunshine. -</p> - -<p> -Black with people are the bluffs of Uraga, -watching the "fire-ships," lipping windless up the bay. -Say all the prayers you know, priests of Shinto and -Buddha. Ah! The great splashing of the wheels -stops, a chain rattles. The anchor drops at the Hour -of the Ape. -</p> - -<p> -A clock on the Commodore's chest of drawers strikes -five with a silvery tinkle. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Boats are coming from all directions. Beautiful -boats of unpainted wood, broad of beam, with tapering -sterns, and clean runs. Swiftly they come, with -shouting rowers standing to their oars. The shore -glitters with spears and lacquered hats. Compactly -the boats advance, and each carries a -flag—white-black-white—and the stripes break and blow. But -the tow-lines are cast loose when the rowers would -make them fast to the "black ships," and those who -would climb the chains slip back dismayed, checked -by a show of cutlasses, pistols, pikes. "<i>Naru Hodo!</i>" -This is amazing, unprecedented! Even the Vice-Governor, -though he boards the Susquehanna, cannot -see the Commodore. "His High Mighty Mysteriousness, -Lord of the Forbidden Interior," remains in -his cabin. Extraordinary! Horrible! -</p> - -<p> -Rockets rise from the forts, and their trails of -sparks glitter faintly now, and their bombs break -in faded colours as the sun goes down. -</p> - -<p> -Bolt the gate, monkey-men, but it is late to begin -turning locks so rusty and worn. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Darkness over rice-fields and hills. The Gold Gate -hides in shadow. Upon the indigo-dark water, millions -of white jelly-fish drift, like lotus-petals over -an inland lake. The land buzzes with prayer, low, -dim smoke hanging in air; and every hill gashes and -glares with shooting fires. The fire-bells are ringing -in double time, and a heavy swinging boom clashes -from the great bells of temples. Couriers lash their -horses, riding furiously to Yedo; junks and scull-boats -arrive hourly at Shinagawa with news; runners, -bearing dispatches, pant in government offices. The -hollow doors of the Great Gate beat with alarms. -The charmed Dragon Country shakes and trembles, -Iyéyoshi, twelfth Shōgun of the Tokugawa line, sits -in his city. Sits in the midst of one million, two -hundred thousand trembling souls, and his mind -rolls forward and back like a ball on a circular -runway, and finds no goal. Roll, poor distracted mind -of a sick man. What can you do but wait, trusting -in your Dragon Gate, for how should you know that -it is rusted. -</p> - -<p> -But there is a sign over the "black ships." A -wedge-shaped tail of blue sparklets, edged with red, -trails above them as though a Dragon were pouring -violet sulphurous spume from steaming nostrils, -and the hulls and rigging are pale, quivering, bright -as Taira ghosts on the sea of Nagato. -</p> - -<p> -Up and down walk sentinels, fore and aft, and at -the side gangways. There is a pile of round shot -and four stands of grape beside each gun; and carbines, -and pistols, and cutlasses, are laid in the boats. -Floating arsenals—floating sample-rooms for the -wares of a continent; shop-counters, flanked with -weapons, adrift among the jelly-fishes. -</p> - -<p> -Eight bells, and the meteor washes away before -the wet, white wisps of dawn. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Through the countrysides of the "Land of Great -Peace," flowers are blooming. The greenish-white, -sterile blossoms of hydrangeas boom faintly, like -distant inaudible bombs of colour exploding in the -woods. Weigelias prick the pink of their slender -trumpets against green backgrounds. The fan-shaped -leaves of ladies' slippers rustle under cryptomerias. -</p> - -<p> -Midsummer heat curls about the cinnamon-red -tree-boles along the Tokaido. The road ripples and -glints with the passing to and fro, and beyond, in -the roadstead, the "black ships" swing at their -anchors and wait. -</p> - -<p> -All up and down the Eastern shore of the bay is -a feverish digging, patting, plastering. Forts to be -built in an hour to resist the barbarians, if, -peradventure, they can. Japan turned to, what will it -not do! Fishermen and palanquin-bearers, -pack-horse-leaders and farm-labourers, even women and -children, pat and plaster. Disaster batters at the -Dragon Gate. Batters at the doors of Yedo, where -Samurai unpack their armour, and whet and feather -their arrows. -</p> - -<p> -Daimios smoke innumerable pipes, and drink -unnumbered cups of tea, discussing—discussing—"What -is to be done?" The Shōgun is no Emperor. -What shall they do if the "hairy devils" take a -notion to go to Kiōto! Then indeed would the -Tokugawa fall. The prisons are crammed with those who -advise opening the Gate. Open the Gate, and let -the State scatter like dust to the winds! Absurd! -Unthinkable! Suppress the "brocade pictures" of -the floating monsters with which book-sellers and -picture-shop keepers are delighting and affrighting -the populace. Place a ban on speech. Preach, -inert Daimios—the Commodore will <i>not</i> go to Nagasaki, -and the roar of his guns will drown the clattering -fall of your Dragon Doors if you do not open them -in time. East and West, and trade shaded by heroism. -Hokusai is dead, but his pupils are lampooning -your carpet soldiers. Spare the dynasty—parley, -procrastinate. Appoint two Princes to receive the -Commodore, at once, since he will not wait over -long. At Kurihama, for he must not come to Yedo. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Flip—flap—flutter—flags in front of the Conference -House. Built over night, it seems, with -unpainted peaked summits of roofs gleaming like ricks -of grain. Flip—flutter—flap—variously-tinted -flags, in a crescent about nine tall standards whose -long scarlet pennons brush the ground. Beat—tap—fill -and relapse—the wind pushing against -taut white cloth screens, bellying out the Shōgun's -crest of heart-shaped Asarum leaves in the panels, -crumpling them to indefinite figures of scarlet -spotting white. Flip—ripple—brighten—over serried -ranks of soldiers on the beach. Sword-bearers, -spear-bearers, archers, lancers, and those who carry -heavy, antiquated matchlocks. The block of them -five thousand armed men, drawn up in front of a -cracking golden door. But behind their bristling -spears, the cracks are hidden. -</p> - -<p> -Braying, blasting blares from two brass bands, -approaching in glittering boats over glittering water. -One is playing the "Overture" from "William Tell," -the other, "The Last Rose of Summer," and the way -the notes clash, and shock, and shatter, and dissolve, -is wonderful to hear. Queer barbarian music, and the -monkey-soldiers stand stock still, listening to its -reverberation humming in the folded doors of the -Great Gate. -</p> - -<p> -Stuff your ears, monkey-soldiers, screw your -faces, shudder up and down your spines. Cannon! -Cannon! from one of the "black ships." Thirteen -thudding explosions, thirteen red dragon tongues, -thirteen clouds of smoke like the breath of the -mountain gods. Thirteen hammer strokes shaking the -Great Gate, and the seams in the metal widen. Open -Sesame, shotless guns; and "The Only, High, Grand -and Mighty, Invisible Mysteriousness, Chief Barbarian" -reveals himself, and steps into his barge. -</p> - -<p> -Up, oars, down; drip—sun-spray—rowlock-rattle. -To shore! To shore! Set foot upon the -sacred soil of the "Land of Great Peace," with its -five thousand armed men doing nothing with their -spears and matchlocks, because of the genii in the -black guns aboard the "black ships." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -One hundred marines in a line up the wharf. One -hundred sailors, man to man, opposite them. Officers, -two deep; and, up the centre—the Procession. -Bands together now: "Hail Columbia." Marines -in file, sailors after, a staff with the American -flag borne by seamen, another with the Commodore's -broad pennant. Two boys, dressed for ceremony, -carrying the President's letter and credentials in -golden boxes. Tall, blue-black negroes on either -side of—THE COMMODORE! Walking slowly, gold, -blue, steel-glitter, up to the Conference House, -walking in state up to an ancient tottering Gate, lately -closed securely, but now gaping. Bands, ram your -music against this golden barrier, harry the ears of -the monkey-men. The doors are ajar, and the -Commodore has entered. -</p> - -<p> -Prince of Idzu—Prince of Iwami—in winged -dresses of gold brocade, at the end of a red carpet, -under violet, silken hangings, under crests of scarlet -heart-shaped Asarum leaves, guardians of a scarlet -lacquered box, guardians of golden doors, worn thin -and bending. -</p> - -<p> -In silence the blue-black negroes advance and take -the golden boxes from the page boys; in silence they -open them and unwrap blue velvet coverings. Silently -they display the documents to the Prince of -Idzu—the Prince of Iwami—motionless, -inscrutable—beyond the red carpet. -</p> - -<p> -The vellum crackles as it is unfolded, and the long -silk-gold cords of the seals drop their gold tassels to -straight glistening inches and swing slowly—gold -tassels clock-ticking before a doomed, burnished gate. -</p> - -<p> -The negroes lay the vellum documents upon the -scarlet lacquered box; bow, and retire. -</p> - -<p> -"I am desirous that our two countries should trade -with each other." Careful letters, carefully traced -on rich parchment, and the low sun casts the shadow -of the Gate far inland over high hills. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"The letter of the President of the United States -will be delivered to the Emperor. Therefore you can -now go." -</p> - -<p> -The Commodore, rising: "I will return for the -answer during the coming Spring." -</p> - -<p> -But ships are frail, and seas are fickle, one can nail -fresh plating over the thin gate before Spring. Prince -of Idzu—Prince of Iwami—inscrutable statesmen, -insensate idiots, trusting blithely to a lock when the -key-guns are trained even now upon it. -</p> - -<p> -Withdraw, Procession. Dip oars back to the "black -ships." Slip cables and depart, for day after -day will lapse and nothing can retard a coming -Spring. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Panic Winter throughout the "Land of Great -Peace." Panic, and haste, wasting energies and -accomplishing nothing. Kiōto has heard, and prays, -trembling. Priests at the shrine of Isé whine long, -slow supplications from dawn to dawn, and through -days dropping down again from morning. Iyéyoshi -is dead, and Iyésada rules in Yedo; thirteenth Shōgun -of the Tokugawa. Rules and struggles, rescinds -laws, urges reforms; breathless, agitated endeavours -to patch and polish where is only corroding and -puffed particles of dust. -</p> - -<p> -It is Winter still in the Bay of Yedo, though the -plum-trees of Kamata and Kinagawa are white and -fluttering. -</p> - -<p> -Winter, with green, high, angular seas. But over -the water, far toward China, are burning the furnaces -of three great steamers, and four sailing vessels heel -over, with decks slanted and sails full and pulling. -</p> - -<p> -"There's a bit of a lop, this morning. Mr. Jones, -you'd better take in those royals." -</p> - -<p> -"Ay, ay, Sir. Tumble up here, men! Tumble up! -Lay aloft and stow royals. Haul out to leeward." -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "To <i>my</i>,<br /> - Ay,<br /> - And we'll <i>furl</i><br /> - Ay,<br /> - And pay Paddy Doyle for his boots."<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -"Taut band—knot away." -</p> - -<p> -Chug! Chug! go the wheels of the consorts, -salting smoke-stacks with whirled spray. -</p> - -<p> -The Commodore lights a cigar, and paces up and -down the quarter-deck of the Powhatan. "I wonder -what the old yellow devils will do," he muses. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Forty feet high, the camellia trees, with hard, green -buds unburst. It is early yet for camellias, and the -green buds and the glazed green leaves toss frantically -in a blustering March wind. Sheltered behind -the forty feet high camellia trees, on the hills of Idzu, -stand watchmen straining their eyes over a broken -dazzle of sea. -</p> - -<p> -Just at the edge of moonlight and sunlight—moon -setting; sun rising—they come. Seven war ships -heeled over and flashing, dashing through heaped -waves, sleeping a moment in hollows, leaping over -ridges, sweeping forward in a strain of canvas and -a train of red-black smoke. -</p> - -<p> -"The fire-ships! The fire-ships!" -</p> - -<p> -Slip the bridles of your horses, messengers, and -clatter down the Tokaido; scatter pedestrians, -palanquins, slow moving cattle, right and left into the -cryptomerias; rattle over bridges, spatter dust into -shop-windows. To Yedo! To Yedo! For Spring -is here, and the fire-ships have come! -</p> - -<p> -Seven vessels, flying the stars and stripes, three -more shortly to join them, with ripe, fruit-bearing -guns pointed inland. -</p> - -<p> -Princes evince doubt, distrust. Learning must -beat learning. Appoint a Professor of the University. -Delay, prevaricate. How long can the play -continue? Hayashi, learned scholar of Confucius -and Mencius—he shall confer with the barbarians -at Uraga. Shall he! Word comes that the Mighty -Chief of Ships will not go to Uraga. Steam is up, -and—Horror! Consternation! The squadron moves -toward Yedo! Sailors, midshipmen, lieutenants, pack -yards and cross-trees, seeing temple gates, castle -towers, flowered pagodas, and look-outs looming -distantly clear, and the Commodore on deck can hear -the slow booming of the bells from the temples of -Shiba and Asakusa. -</p> - -<p> -You must capitulate, great Princes of a quivering -gate. Say Yokohama, and the Commodore will agree, -for they must not come to Yedo. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Rows of japonicas in full bloom outside the -Conference House. Flags, and streamers, and musicians, -and pikemen. Five hundred officers, seamen, -marines, and the Commodore following in his white-painted -gig. A jig of fortune indeed, with a sailor -and a professor manoeuvring for terms, chess-playing -each other in a game of future centuries. -</p> - -<p> -The Americans bring presents. Presents now, to -be bought hereafter. Good will, to head long bills of -imports. Occidental mechanisms to push the Orient -into limbo. Fox-moves of interpreters, and Pandora's -box with a contents rated far too low. -</p> - -<p> -Round and round goes the little train on its -circular railroad, at twenty miles an hour, with grave -dignitaries seated on its roof. Smiles, gestures, at -messages running over wire, a mile away. Touch -the harrows, the ploughs, the flails, and shudder at -the "spirit pictures" of the daguerreotype machine. -These Barbarians have harnessed gods and dragons. -They build boats which will not sink, and tinker little -gold wheels till they follow the swinging of the sun. -</p> - -<p> -Run to the Conference House. See, feel, listen. -And shrug deprecating shoulders at the glisten of silk -and lacquer given in return. What are cups cut out -of conch-shells, and red-dyed figured crêpe, to -railroads, and burning engines! -</p> - -<p> -Go on board the "black ships" and drink mint -juleps and brandy smashes, and click your tongues -over sweet puddings. Offer the strangers pickled -plums, sugared fruits, candied walnuts. Bruit the -news far inland through the mouths of countrymen. -Who thinks of the Great Gate! Its portals are -pushed so far back that the shining edges of them -can scarcely be observed. The Commodore has -never swerved a moment from his purpose, and the -dragon mouths of his guns have conquered without -the need of a single powder-horn. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The Commodore writes in his cabin. Writes an -account of what he has done. -</p> - -<p> -The sands of centuries run fast, one slides, and -another, each falling into a smother of dust. -</p> - -<p> -A locomotive in pay for a Whistler; telegraph -wires buying a revolution; weights and measures -and Audubon's birds in exchange for fear. Yellow -monkey-men leaping out of Pandora's box, shaking -the rocks of the Western coastline. Golden California -bartering panic for prints. The dressing-gowns -of a continent won at the cost of security. -Artists and philosophers lost in the hour-glass sand -pouring through an open Gate. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Ten ships sailing for China on a fair May wind. -Ten ships sailing from one world into another, but -never again into the one they left. Two years and a -tip-turn is accomplished. Over the globe and back, -Rip Van Winkle ships. Slip into your docks in -Newport, in Norfolk, in Charlestown. You have blown off -the locks of the East, and what is coming will come. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> -POSTLUDE -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - In the Castle moat, lotus flowers are blooming,<br /> - They shine with the light of an early moon<br /> - Brightening above the Castle towers.<br /> - They shine in the dark circles of their unreflecting leaves.<br /> - Pale blossoms,<br /> - Pale towers,<br /> - Pale moon,<br /> - Deserted ancient moat<br /> - About an ancient stronghold,<br /> - Your bowmen are departed,<br /> - Your strong walls are silent,<br /> - Their only echo<br /> - A croaking of frogs.<br /> - Frogs croaking at the moon<br /> - In the ancient moat<br /> - Of an ancient, crumbling Castle.<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> -1903. JAPAN -</p> - -<p> -The high cliff of the Kegon waterfall, and a young -man carving words on the trunk of a tree. He -finishes, pauses an instant, and then leaps into the -foam-cloud rising from below. But, on the tree-trunk, -the newly-cut words blaze white and hard as -though set with diamonds: -</p> - -<p> -"How mightily and steadily go Heaven and Earth! -How infinite the duration of Past and Present! Try -to measure this vastness with five feet. A word -explains the Truth of the whole Universe—<i>unknowable</i>. -To cure my agony I have decided to die. -Now, as I stand on the crest of this rock, no -uneasiness is left in me. For the first time I know that -extreme pessimism and extreme optimism are one." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3b"> -1903. AMERICA -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "Nocturne—Blue and Silver—Battersea Bridge.<br /> - Nocturne—Grey and Silver—Chelsea Embankment.<br /> - Variations in Violet and Green."<br /> -</p> - -<p> -Pictures in a glass-roofed gallery, and all day long -the throng of people is so great that one can scarcely -see them. Debits—credits? Flux and flow through -a wide gateway. Occident—Orient—after fifty -years. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> - -<h3> -HEDGE ISLAND -</h3> - -<p class="t3b"> -A RETROSPECT AND A PROPHECY -</p> - -<p> -Hedges of England, peppered with sloes; hedges -of England, rows and rows of thorn and brier -raying out from the fire where London burns with its -steaming lights, throwing a glare on the sky o' nights. -Hedges of England, road after road, lane after lane, -and on again to the sea at the North, to the sea at -the East, blackberry hedges, and man and beast -plod and trot and gallop between hedges of -England, clipped and clean; beech, and laurel, and -hornbeam, and yew, wheels whirl under, and circle -through, tunnels of green to the sea at the South; -wind-blown hedges to mark the mouth of Thames -or Humber, the Western rim. Star-point hedges, -smooth and trim. -</p> - -<p> -Star-point indeed, with all His Majesty's mails agog -every night for the provinces. Twenty-seven fine -crimson coaches drawn up in double file in Lombard -Street. Great gold-starred coaches, blazing with -royal insignia, waiting in line at the Post-Office. -Eight of a Summer's evening, and the sun only -just gone down. "Lincoln," "Winchester," -"Portsmouth," shouted from the Post-Office steps; and -the Portsmouth chestnuts come up to the collar -with a jolt, and stop again, dancing, as the bags are -hoisted up. "Gloucester," "Oxford," "Bristol," -"York," "Norwich." Rein in those bays of the -Norwich team, they shy badly at the fan-gleam of -the lamp over the Post-Office door. "All in. No -more." The stones of St. Martin's-le-Grand sparkle -under the slap of iron shoes. Off you go, bays, and -the greys of the Dover mail start forward, -twitching, hitching, champing, stamping, their little feet -pat the ground in patterns and their bits fleck foam. -"Whoa! Steady!" with a rush they are gone. -But Glasgow is ready with a team of piebalds and -sorrels, driven chess-board fashion. Bang down, -lids of mail-boxes—thunder-lids, making the horses -start. They part and pull, push each other sideways, -sprawl on the slippery pavement, and gather -wave-like and crashing to a leap. Spicey tits those! -Tootle-too! A nice calculation for the gate, not a -minute to spare, with the wheelers well up in the bit -and the leaders carrying bar. Forty-two hours to -Scotland, and we have a coachman who keeps his -horses like clock-work. Whips flick, buckles click, -and wheels turn faster and faster till the spokes -blur. "Sound your horn, Walter." Make it echo -back and forth from the fronts of houses. Good-night, -London, we are carrying the mails to the -North. Big, burning light which is London, we dip -over Highgate hill and leave you. The air is steady, -the night is bright, the roads are firm. The wheels -hum like a gigantic spinning-jenny. Up North, -where the hedges bloom with roses. Through -Whetstone Gate to Alconbury Hill. Stop at the -<i>Wheatsheaf</i> one minute for the change. They always -have an eye open here, it takes thirty seconds to -drink a pot of beer, even the post-boys sleep in their -spurs. The wheels purr over the gravel. "Give -the off-hand leader a cut on the cheek." Whip! -Whew! This is the first night of three. Three -nights to Glasgow; hedges—hedges—shoot and -flow. Eleven miles an hour, and the hedges are -showered with glow-worms. The hedges and the -glow-worms are very still, but we make a prodigious -clatter. What does it matter? It is good for these -yokels to be waked up. Tootle-toot! The diamond-paned -lattice of a cottage flies open. Post-office -here. Throw them on their haunches. Bag -up—bag down—and the village has grown indistinct -behind. The old moon is racing us, she slices through -trees like a knife through cheese. Distant clocks -strike midnight. The coach rocks—this is a -galloping stage. We have a roan near-wheel and a -grey off-wheel and our leaders are chestnuts, "quick -as light, clever as cats." -</p> - -<p> -The sickle-flame of our lamps cuts past sequences -of trees and well-plashed quickset hedges—hedges -of England, long shafts of the nimbus of London. -Hurdles here and there. Park palings. Reflections -in windows. On—on—through the night to the -North. Over stretched roads, with a soft, -continuous motion like slipping water. Nights and -days unwinding down long roads. -</p> - -<p> -In the green dawn, spires and bell-towers start up -and stare at us. Hoary old woods nod and beckon. -A castle turret glitters through trees. There is a -perfume of wild-rose and honey-bine, twining in the -hedges—Northerly hedges, sliding away behind us. -The pole-chains tinkle tunes and play a saraband -with sheep-bells beyond the hedges. Wedges of -fields—square, flat, slatted green with corn, purple -with cabbages. The stable clocks of Gayhurst and -Tyringham chime from either side of the road. The -Ouse twinkles blue among smooth meadows. Go! -Go! News of the World! Perhaps a victory! the -"Nile" or "Salamanca"! Perhaps a proclamation, -or a fall in the rate of consols. Whatever it is, the -hedges of England hear it first. Hear it, and flick -and flutter their leaves, and catch the dust of it on -their shining backs. Bear it over the dumpling -hills and the hump-backed bridges. Start it down -the rivers: Eden, Eshe, Sark, Milk, Driff, and Clyde. -Shout it to the sculptured corbels of old churches. -Lurch round corners with it, and stop with a snap -before the claret-coloured brick front of the <i>Bell</i> -at Derby, and call it to the ostler as he runs out with -fresh horses. The twenty Corinthian columns of -pale primrose alabaster at Keddleston Hall tremble -with its importance. Even the runaway couples -bound for Gretna Green cheer and wave. Laurels, -and ribbons, and a red flag on our roof. "Wellesley -forever!" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Dust dims the hedges. A light travelling chariot -running sixteen miles an hour with four blood mares -doing their bravest. Whip, bound, and cut again. -Loose rein, quick spur. He stands up in the chariot -and shakes a bag full of broad guineas, you can hear -them—clinking, chinking—even above the roar -of wheels. "Go it! Go it! We are getting away -from them. Fifty guineas to each of you if we get -there in time." Quietly wait, grey hedges, it will -all happen again: quick whip, spur, strain. Two -purple-faced gentlemen in another chariot, black -geldings smoking hot, blood and froth flipped over -the hedges. They hail the coach: "How far ahead? -Can we catch them?" "Ten minutes gone by. Not -more." The post-boys wale their lunging horses. -Rattle, reel, and plunge. -</p> - -<p> -But the runaways have Jack Ainslee from the -<i>Bush</i>, Carlisle. He rides in a yellow jacket, and -he knows every by-lane and wood between here and -the border. In an hour he will have them at Gretna, -and to-night the lady will write to her family at -Doncaster, and the down mail will carry the letter, -with tenpence halfpenny to pay for news that -nobody wishes to hear. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"Buy a pottle of plums, Good Sir." "Cherries, -fine, ripe cherries O." Get your plums and cherries, -and hurry into the <i>White Horse Cellar</i> for a last -rum and milk. You are a poet, bound to Dover -over Westminster Bridge. Ah, well, all the same. -You are an Essex farmer, grown fat by selling your -peas at Covent Garden Market at four guineas a -pint. Certainly; as you please. You are a prebend -of Exeter or Wells, timing your journey to the -Cathedral Close. If you choose. You are a -Corinthian Buck going down to Brighton by the <i>Age</i> -which runs "with a fury." Mercury on a box seat. -</p> - -<p> -Get up, beavers and top-boots. Shoot the last -parcel in. Now—"Let 'em go. I have 'em." That -was a jerk, but the coachman lets fly his whip and -quirks his off-wheeler on the thigh. Out and under -the archway of the coach-yard, with the guard -playing "Sally in our Alley" on his key-bugle. White -with sun, the streets of London. Cloud-shadows -run ahead of us along the streets. Morning. Summer. -England. "Have a light, Sir? Tobacco tastes -well in this fresh air." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Hedges of England, how many wheels spatter you -in a day? How many coaches roll between you on -their star-point way? What rainbow colours slide -past you with the fluency of water? Crimson mails -rumble and glide the night through, but the Cambridge -<i>Telegraph</i> is a brilliant blue. The <i>Bull and -Mouth</i> coaches are buttercup yellow, those of the -<i>Bull</i> are painted red, while the <i>Bell and Crown</i> -sports a dark maroon with light red wheels. They -whirl by in a flurry of dust and colours. Soon -all this will drop asunder like the broken glass of -a kaleidoscope. Hedges, you will see other -pictures. New colours will flow beside you. New -shapes will intersect you. Tut! Tut! Have you -not hawthorn blossoms and the hips and haws -of roses? -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Trundle between your sharp-shorn hedges, old -<i>Tally-hoes</i>, and <i>Comets</i>, and <i>Regents</i>. Stop at the -George, and turn with a flourish into the yard, -where a strapper is washing a mud-splashed chaise, -and the horsekeeper is putting a "point" on that -best whip of yours. "Coach stops here half an -hour, Gentlemen: dinner quite ready." A long -oak corridor. Then a burst of sunshine through -leaded windows, spangling a floor, iris-tinting rounds -of beef, and flaked veal pies, and rose-marbled hams, -and great succulent cheeses. Wine-glasses take it -and break it, and it quivers away over the table-cloth -in faint rainbows; or, straight and sudden, stamps -a startling silver whorl on the polished side of a -teapot of hot bohea. A tortoise-shell cat naps -between red geraniums, and myrtle sprigs tap the -stuccoed wall, gently blowing to and fro. -</p> - -<p> -Ah, hedges of England, have you led to this? Do -you always conduct to galleried inns, snug bars, -beds hung with flowered chintz, sheets smelling of -lavender? -</p> - -<p> -What of the target practice off Spithead? What -of the rocking seventy-fours, flocking like gulls about -the harbour entrances? Hedges of England, can -they root you in the sea? -</p> - -<p> -Your leaves rustle to the quick breeze of wheels -incessantly turning. This island might be a treadmill -kept floating right side up by galloping hoofs. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Gabled roofs of <i>Green Dragons</i>, and <i>Catherine -Wheels</i>, and <i>Crowns</i>, ivy-covered walls, cool cellars -holding bins and bins of old port, and claret, and -burgundy. You cannot hear the din of passing -chaises, underground, there is only the sound of -beer running into a jug as the landlord turns the -spiggot of a barrel. Green sponge of England, your -heart is red with wine. "Fine spirits and brandies." Ha! -Ha! Good old England, drinking, blinking, -dreading new ideas. Queer, bluff, burly England. -You have Nelsons, and Wellesleys, and Tom Cribbs, -but you have also Wordsworths and Romneys, and -(a whisper in your ear) Arkwrights and Stevensons. -"Time's up, Gentlemen; take your places, please!" The -horn rings out, the bars rattle, the horses sidle -and paw and swing; swish—clip—with the long -whip, and away to the hedges again. The high, bordering -hedges, leading to Salisbury, and Bath, and Exeter. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Christmas weather with a hard frost. Hips -and haws sparkle in the hedges, garnets and -carnelians scattered on green baize. The edges of the -coachman's hat are notched with icicles. The horses -slip on the frozen roads. Loads are heavy at this -time of year, with rabbits and pheasants tied under -the coach, but it is all hearty Christmas cheer, -rushing between the hedges to get there in time for the -plum-pudding. Old England forever! And coach-horns, -and waits, and Cathedral organs hail the Star -of Bethlehem. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -But our star, our London, gutters with fog. The -Thames rolls like smoke under charcoal. The dome -of St. Paul's is gone, so is the spire of -St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, only the fires of torches are brisk and -tossing. Tossing torches; tossing heads of horses. -Eight mails following each other out of London by -torchlight. Scarcely can we see the red flare of the -horn lantern in the hand of the ostler at the -Peacock, but his voice blocks squarely into the fog: -"<i>York Highflyer</i>," "<i>Leeds Union</i>," "<i>Stamford Regent</i>." Coach -lamps stream and stare, and key-bugles play -fugues with each other; "Oh, Dear, What Can the -Matter Be?" and "The Flaxen Headed Plough-boy" -canon and catch as the mails take the road. There -will be no "springing" the horses over the -"hospital ground" on a day like this; we cannot make -more than three miles an hour in such a fog. -Hedges of England, you are only ledges from which -water drips back to the sea. The rain is so heavy -the coach sways. There will be floods farther on. -Floods over the river Mole, with apples, and trees, -and hurdles floating. Have a care with your leaders -there, they have lost the road, and the wheelers have -toppled into a ditch of swirling, curling water. The -wheelers flounder and squeal and drown, but the -coach is hung up on the stump of a willow-tree, and -the passengers have only a broken leg or two among -them. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Double thong your team, Coachman, that creaking -gibbet on the top of Hindhead is an awesome -sight at the fall of night, with the wind roaring and -squeaking over the heather. The murder, they say, -was done at this spot. Give it to them on the flank, -good and hot. "Lord, I wish I had a nip of -cherry-brandy." "What was that; down in the -bowl!" "Drop my arm, Damn you! or you will roll the -coach over!" Teeth chatter, bony -castanets—click—click—to a ghastly tune, click—click—on -the gallows-tree, where it blows so windily. Blows -the caged bones all about, one or two of them have -dropped out. The up coach will see them lying on -the ground like snow-flakes to-morrow. But we -shall be floundering in a drift, and shifting the -mailbags to one of the horses so that the guard can carry -them on. -</p> - -<p> -Hedges of England, smothered in snow. Hedges -of England, row after row, flat and obliterate down -to the sea; but the chains are choked on the -gallows-tree. Round about England the toothed waves -snarl, gnarling her cliffs of chalk and marl. Crabbed -England, consuming beef and pudding, and pouring -down magnums of port, to cheat the elements. Go -it, England, you will beat Bonaparte yet. What -have you to do with ideas! You have Bishops, and -Squires, and Manor-houses, and—rum. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -London shakes with bells. Loud, bright bells -clashing over roofs and steeples, exploding in the -sunlight with the brilliance of rockets. Every -clock-tower drips a tune. The people are merry-making, -for this is the King's Birthday and the mails parade -this afternoon. -</p> - -<p> -"Messrs. Vidler and Parrat request the pleasure -of Mr. Chaplin's company on Thursday the twenty-eighth -of May, to a cold collation at three o'clock -and to see the Procession of the Mails." -</p> - -<p> -What a magnificent spectacle! A coil of coaches -progressing round and round Lincoln's Inn Fields. -Sun-mottled harness, gold and scarlet guards, horns -throwing off sprays of light and music. Liverpool, -Manchester—blacks and greys; Bristol, Devonport—satin -bays; Holyhead—chestnuts; Halifax—roans, -blue-specked, rose-specked ... On their box-seat -thrones sit the mighty coachmen, twisting their -horses this way and that with a turn of the wrist. -These are the spokes of a wheeling sun, these are the -rays of London's aureole. This is her star-fire, -reduced by a prism to separate sparks. Cheer, good -people! Chuck up your hats, and buy violets to -pin in your coats. You shall see it all to-night, when -the King's arms shine in lamps from every house-front, -and the mails, done parading, crack their whips -and depart. England forever! Hurrah! -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -England forever—going to the Prize Fight on -Copthorne Common. England forever, with a blue -coat and scarlet lining hanging over the back of the -tilbury. England driving a gig and one horse; -England set up with a curricle and two. England in -donkey-carts and coaches. England swearing, pushing, -drinking, happy, off to see the "Game Chicken" -punch the "Nonpareil's" face to a black-and-blue -jelly. Good old England, drunk as a lord, cursing -the turn-pike men. Your hedges will be a nest of -broken bottles before night, and clouds of dust will -quench the perfume of your flowers. I bet you three -bulls to a tanner you can't smell a rose for a week. -</p> - -<p> -They've got the soldiers out farther along. "Damn -the soldiers! Drive through them, Watson." A -fine, manly business; are we slaves? "Britons -never—never—" Waves lap the shores of England, -waves like watchdogs growling; and long hedges -bind her like a bundle. Sit safe, England, trussed -and knotted; while your strings hold, all will be -well. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -But in the distance there is a puff of steam. Just -a puff, but it will do. Post-boys, coachmen, guards, -chaises, melt like meadow rime before the sun. -</p> - -<p> -You spun your webs over England, hedge to hedge. -You kept England bound together by your spinning -wheels. But it is gone. They have driven a wedge -of iron into your heart. They have dried up the -sea, and made pathways in the swimming air. They -have tapped the barrels in your cellars and your -throats are parched and bleeding. But still the -hedges blow for the Spring, and dusty soldiers smell -your roses as they tramp to Aldershot or Dorchester. -</p> - -<p> -England forever! Star-pointed and shining. Flinging -her hedges out and asunder to embrace the -world. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> - -<h3> -THE BRONZE HORSES -</h3> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -<i>ELEMENTS</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Earth, Air, Water, and Fire! Earth beneath, Air -encompassing, Water within its boundaries. But Fire -is nothing, comes from nothing, goes nowhither. Fire -leaps forth and dies, yet is everything sprung out of Fire.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>The flame grows and drops away, and where it stood -is vapour, and where was the vapour is swift revolution, -and where was the revolution is spinning resistance, and -where the resistance endured is crystallization. Fire -melts, and the absence of Fire cools and freezes. So are -metals fused in twisted flames and take on a form other -than that they have known, and this new form shall be -to them rebirth and making. For in it they will stand -upon the Earth, and in it they will defy the Air, and in it -they will suffer the Water.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>But Fire, coming again, the substance changes and is -transformed. Therefore are things known only between -burning and burning. The quickly consumed more -swiftly vanish, yet all must feel the heat of the flame -which waits in obscurity, knowing its own time and -what work it has to do.</i> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -ROME -</p> - -<p> -The blue sky of Italy; the blue sky of Rome. -Sunlight pouring white and clear from the -wide-stretched sky. Sunlight sliding softly over white -marble, lying in jasmine circles before cool porticoes, -striking sharply upon roofs and domes, recoiling before -straight façades of grey granite, foiled and beaten -by the deep halls of temples. -</p> - -<p> -Sunlight on tiles and tufa, sunlight on basalt and -porphyry. The sky stripes Rome with sun and -shadow; strips of yellow, strips of blue, pepper-dots -of purple and orange. It whip-lashes the four great -horses of gilded bronze, harnessed to the bronze -<i>quadriga</i> on the Arch of Nero, and they trot slowly -forward without moving. The horses tread the -marbles of Rome beneath their feet. Their golden -flanks quiver in the sunlight. One foot paws the -air. A step, and they will lance into the air, -Pegasus-like, stepping the wind. But they do not take the -step. They wait—poised, treading Rome as they -trod Alexandria, as they trod the narrow Island of -Cos. The spokes of the <i>quadriga</i> wheels flash, but -they do not turn. They burn like day-stars above -the Arch of Nero. The horses poise over Rome, a -constellation of morning, triumphant above Emperors, -proud, indifferent, enduring, relentlessly spurning the -hot dust of Rome. Hot dust clouds up about them, -but not one particle sticks to their gilded manes. Dust -is nothing, a mere smoke of disappearing hours. Slowly -they trot forward without moving, and time passes -and passes them, brushing along their sides like wind. -</p> - -<p> -People go and come in the streets of Rome, shuffling -over the basalt paving-stones in their high latcheted -sandals. White and purple, like the white sun and -the purple shadows, the senators pass, followed by a -crowd of slaves. Waves of brown-coated populace -efface themselves before a litter, carried by eight -Cappadocians in light-red tunics; as it moves along, -there is the flicker of a violet <i>stola</i> and the blowing -edge of a palla of sky-white blue. A lady, going to -the bath to lie for an hour in the crimson and wine-red -reflections of a marble chamber, to glide over a -floor of green and white stones into a Carraran basin, -where the green and blue water will cover her rose -and blue-veined flesh with a slipping veil. Aqua -Claudia, Aqua Virgo, Aqua Marcia, drawn from the -hills to lie against a woman's body. Her breasts -round hollows for themselves in the sky-green water, -her fingers sift the pale water and drop it from -her as a lark drops notes backwards into the sky. -The lady lies against the lipping water, supine and -indolent, a pomegranate, a passion-flower, a silver-flamed -lily, lapped, slapped, lulled, by the ripples -which stir under her faintly moving hands. -</p> - -<p> -Later, beneath a painting of twelve dancing girls -upon a gold ground, the slaves will anoint her with -cassia, or nakte, or spikenard, or balsam, and she -will go home in the swaying litter to eat the tongues -of red flamingoes, and drink honey-wine flavoured -with far-smelling mint. -</p> - -<p> -Legionaries ravish Egypt for her entertainment; -they bring her roses from Alexandria at a cost of -thirty thousand pounds. Yet she would rather be -at Baiae, one is so restricted in one's pleasures in -Rome! The games are not until next week, and her -favourite gladiator, Naxos, is in training just now, -therefore time drags. The lady lags over her quail -and peacocks' eggs. How dull it is. White, and blue, -and stupid. Rome! -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Smoke flutters and veers from the top of the Temple -of Vesta. Altar smoke winding up to the gilded -horses as they tread above Rome. Below—laughing, -jangling, pushing and rushing. Two carts are -jammed at a street corner, and the oaths of the -drivers mingle, and snap, and corrode, like hot fused -metal, one against another. They hiss and sputter, -making a confused chord through which the squeal -of a derrick winding up a granite slab pierces, shrill -and nervous, a sharp boring sound, shoring through -the wide, white light of the Roman sky. People -are selling things: matches, broken glass, peas, -sausages, cakes. A string of donkeys, with panniers -loaded with red asparagus and pale-green rue, minces -past the derrick, the donkeys squeeze, one by one, -with little patting feet, between the derrick and the -choked crossing. "Hey! Gallus, have you heard -that Cæsar has paid a million <i>sestertii</i> for a Murrhine -vase. It is green and white, flaked like a Spring -onion, and has the head of Minerva cut in it, sharp -as a signet." "And who has a better right indeed, -now that Titus has conquered Judea. He will be -here next week, they say, and then we shall have a -triumph worth looking at." "Famous indeed! We -need something. It's been abominably monotonous -lately. Why, there was not enough blood spilled in -the games last week to give one the least appetite. -I'm damned stale, for one." -</p> - -<p> -Still, over Rome, the white sun sails the blue, -stretching sky, casting orange and purple striæ -down upon the marble city, cool and majestic, -between cool hills, white and omnipotent, dying of -languor, amusing herself for a moment with the little -boats floating up the Tiber bringing the good grain -of Carthage, then relaxed and falling as water falls, -dropping into the bath. Weak as water; without -contour as water; colourless as water; Rome bathes, -and relaxes, and melts. Fluid and fluctuating, a -liquid city pouring itself back into the streams of -the earth. And above, on the Arch of Nero, hard, -metallic, firm, cold, and permanent, the bronze -horses trot slowly, not moving, and the moon casts -the fine-edged shadow of them down upon the paving-stones. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Hills of the city: Pincian, Esquiline, Cælian, -Aventine, the crimson tip of the sun burns against -you, and you start into sudden clearness and glow red, -red-gold, saffron, gradually diminishing to an outline -of blue. The sun mounts over Rome, and the Arch -of Augustus glitters like a cleft pomegranate; the -Temples of Julius Cæsar, Castor, and Saturn, turn -carbuncle, and rose, and diamond. Columns divide -into double edges of flash and shadow; domes glare, -inverted beryls hanging over arrested scintillations. -The fountains flake and fringe with the scatter of -the sun. The mosaic floors of <i>atriums</i> are no longer -stone, but variegated fire; higher, on the walls, the -pictures painted in the white earth of Melos, the -red earth of Sinope, the yellow ochre of Attica, erupt -into flame. The legs of satyrs jerk with desire, the -dancers whirl in torch-bright involutions. Grapes -split and burst, spurting spots and sparks of sun. -</p> - -<p> -It is morning in Rome, and the bronze horses on -the Arch of Nero trot quietly forward without moving, -but no one can see them, they are only a dazzle, -a shock of stronger light against the white-blue sky. -</p> - -<p> -Morning in Rome; and the whole city foams out -to meet it, seething, simmering, surging, seeping. -All between the Janiculum and the Palatine is -undulating with people. Scarlet, violet, and purple -togas pattern the mass of black and brown. Murex-dyed -silk dresses flow beside raw woollen fabrics. -The altars smoke incense, the bridges shake under -the caking mass of sight-seers. "Titus! Titus! -<i>Io triumphe!</i>" Even now the troops are collected -near the Temple of Apollo, outside the gates, waiting -for the signal to march. In the parching Roman -morning, the hot dust rises and clouds over the -city—an aureole of triumph. The horses on the Arch -of Nero paw the golden dust, but it passes, passes, -brushing along their burnished sides like wind. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -What is that sound? The marble city shivers -to the treading of feet. Cæsar's legions marching, -foot—foot—hundreds, thousands of feet. They -beat the ground, rounding each step double. -Coming—coming—cohort after cohort, with brazen -trumpets marking the time. One—two—one—two—laurel-crowned -each one of you, cactus-fibred, -harsh as sand grinding the rocks of a treeless land, -rough and salt as a Dead Sea wind, only the fallen -are left behind. Blood-red plumes, jarring to the -footfalls; they have passed through the gate, they -are in the walls of the mother city, of marble Rome. -Their tunics are purple embroidered with gold, their -armour clanks as they walk, the cold steel of their -swords is chill in the sun, each is a hero, one by one, -endless companies, the soldiers come. Back to Rome -with a victor's spoils, with a victor's wreath on -every head, and Judah broken is dead, dead! "<i>Io -triumphe!</i>" The shout knocks and breaks upon -the spears of the legionaries. -</p> - -<p> -The God of the Jews is overborne, he has failed -his people. See the stuffs from the Syrian looms, -and the vestments of many-colours, they were taken -from the great Temple at Jerusalem. And the -watching crowds split their voices acclaiming the -divine triumph. Mars, and Juno, and Minerva, and -the rest, those gods are the best who bring victory! -And the beasts they have over there! Is that a -crocodile? And that bird with a tail as long as a -banner, what do you call that? Look at the -elephants, and the dromedaries! They are harnessed -in jewels. Oh! Oh! The beautiful sight! Here -come the prisoners, dirty creatures. "That's a -good-looking girl there. I have rather a fancy for a -Jewess. I'll get her, by Bacchus, if I have to -mortgage my farm. A man too, of course, to keep the -breed going; it will be a good investment, although, -to be sure, I want the girl myself. Castor and Pollux, -did you see that picture! Ten men disembowelled -on the steps of the altar. That is better than a -gladiator show any day. I wish I had been there. -Simon, oh, Simon! Spit at him, Lucullus. Thumbs -down for Simon! Fancy getting him alive, I wonder -he didn't kill himself first like Cleopatra. This is a -glorious day, I haven't had such fun in years." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The bronze horses tread quietly above the -triumphing multitudes. They too have been spoils of war, -yet they stand here on the Arch of Nero dominating -Rome. Time passes—passes—but the horses, calm -and contained, move forward, dividing one minute -from another and leaving each behind. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -You should be still now, Roman populace. These -are the decorations of the Penetralia, the holy -Sanctuary which your soldiers have profaned. But the -people jeer and scoff, and comment on the queer -articles carried on the heads of the soldiers. Tragedy -indeed! They see no tragedy, only an immense -spectacle, unique and satisfying. The crowd clears -its throat and spits and shouts "<i>Io triumphe! Io -triumphe!</i>" against the cracking blare of brazen -trumpets. -</p> - -<p> -Slowly they come, the symbols of a beaten religion: -the Golden Table for the Shew-Bread, the Silver -Trumpets that sounded the Jubilee, the -Seven-Branched Candlestick, the very Tables of the Law -which Moses brought down from Mount Sinai. -Can Jupiter conquer these? Slowly they pass, -glinting in the sunlight, staring in the light of day, -mocked and exhibited. Lord God of Hosts, fall -upon these people, send your thunders upon them, -hurl the lightnings of your wrath against this -multitude, raze their marble city so that not one stone -remain standing. But the sun shines unclouded, -and the holy vessels pass onward through the Campus -Martius, through the Circus Flaminius, up the Via -Sacra to the Capitol, and then... The bronze horses -look into the brilliant sky, they trot slowly without -moving, they advance slowly, one foot raised. There -is always another step—one, and another. How -many does not matter, so that each is taken. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The <i>spolia opima</i> have passed. The crowd holds -its breath and quivers. Everyone is tiptoed up to -see above his neighbour; they sway and brace themselves -in their serried ranks. Away, over the heads, -silver eagles glitter, each one marking the passage -of a legion. The "Victorious Legion" goes by, the -"Indomitable Legion," the "Spanish Legion," and -those with a crested lark on their helmets, and that -other whose centurions are almost smothered under -the shining reflections of the medallions fastened to -their armour. Cohort after cohort, legion on the -heels of legion, the glistening greaves rise and flash -and drop and pale, scaling from sparkle to dullness -in a series of rhythmic angles, constantly repeated. -They swing to the tones of straight brass trumpets, -they jut out and fall at the call of spiral bugles. -Above them, the pointed shields move evenly, right -to left—right to left. The horses curvet and prance, -and shiver back, checked, on their haunches; the -javelins of the horsemen are so many broad-ended -sticks of flame. -</p> - -<p> -Those are the eagles of the Imperial Guard, and -behind are two golden chariots. "<i>Io triumphe!</i>" The -roar drowns the trumpets and bugles, the clatter -of the horses' hoofs is a mere rattle of sand -ricocheting against the voice of welcoming Rome. The -Emperor Vespasian rides in one chariot, in the other -stands Titus. Titus, who has subdued Judea, who -has humbled Jehovah, and brought the sacred vessels -of the Lord God of Hosts back with him as a worthy -offering to the people of Rome. Cheer, therefore, -good people, you have the Throne of Heaven to -recline upon; you are possessed of the awful majesty -of the God of the Jews; beneath your feet are spread -the emblems of the Most High; and your hands are -made free of the sacred instruments of Salvation. -</p> - -<p> -What god is that who falls before pikes and spears! -Here is another god, his face and hands stained with -vermilion, after the manner of the Capitoline Jupiter. -His car is of ivory and gold, green plumes nod -over the heads of his horses, the military bracelets -on his arms seem like circling serpents of bitter flame. -The milk-white horses draw him slowly to the Capitol, -step by step, along the Via Triumphalis, and step by -step the old golden horses on the Arch of Nero tread -down the hours of the lapsing day. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -That night, forty elephants bearing candelabra -light up the ranges of pillars supporting the triple -portico of the Capitol. Forty illuminated elephants—and -the light of their candles is reflected in the -polished sides of the great horses, above, on the Arch -of Nero, slowly trotting forward, stationary yet -moving, in the soft night which hangs over Rome. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -<i>PAVANNE TO A BRASS ORCHESTRA</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Water falls from the sky, and green-fanged lightning -mouths the heavens. The Earth rolls upon itself, -incessantly creating morning and evening. The moon -calls to the waters, swinging them forward and back, -and the sun draws closer and as rhythmically recedes, -advancing in the pattern of an ancient dance, making a -figure of leaves and aridness. Harmony of chords and -pauses, fugue of returning balances, canon and canon -repeating the theme of Earth, Air, and Water.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>A single cymbal-crash of Fire, and for an instant the -concerted music ceases. But it resumes—Earth, Air, -and Water, and out of it rise the metals, unconsumed. -Brazen cymbals, trumpets of silver, bells of bronze. They -mock at fire. They burn upon themselves and retain their -entities. Not yet the flame which shall destroy them. -They shall know all flames but one. They shall be -polished and corroded, yet shall they persist and play the -music which accompanies the strange ceremonious dance -of the sun.</i> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -CONSTANTINOPLE -</p> - -<p> -Empire of the East! Byzantium! Constantinople! -The Golden City of the World. A crystal fixed in -aquamarines; a jewel-box set down in a seaside -garden. All the seas are as blue as Spring lupins, -and there are so many seas. Look where you please, -forward, back, or down, there is water. The deep -blue water of crisp ripples, the long light shimmer -of flat undulations, the white glare, smoothing into -purple, of a sun-struck ebb. The Bosphorus winds -North to the Black Sea. The Golden Horn curves -into the Sweet Waters. The edge of the city swerves -away from the Sea of Marmora. Aquamarines, did -I say? Sapphires, beryls, lapis-lazuli, amethysts, -and felspar. Whatever stones there are, bluer than -gentians, bluer than cornflowers, bluer than asters, -bluer than periwinkles. So blue that the city must -be golden to complement the water. A geld city, -shimmering and simmering, starting up like mica -from the green of lemon trees, and olives, and cypresses. -</p> - -<p> -Gold! Gold! Walls and columns covered with -gold. Domes of churches resplendent with gold. -Innumerable statues of "bronze fairer than pure -gold," and courts paved with golden tiles. Beyond -the white and rose-coloured walls of Saint Sophia, -the city rounds for fourteen great miles; fourteen -miles of onychite, and porphyry, and marble; fourteen -miles of colonnades, and baths, and porticoes; -fourteen miles of gay, garish, gaudy, glaring gold. -Why, even the Imperial <i>triremes</i> in the harbour have -gold embroidered gonfalons, and the dolphins, -ruffling out of the water between them, catch the colour -and dive, each a sharp cutting disk-edge of yellow -flame. -</p> - -<p> -It is the same up above, where statues spark like -stars jutted from a mid-day sky. There are golden -Emperors at every crossing, and golden Virgins -crowding every church-front. And, in the centre of the -great Hippodrome, facing the <i>triremes</i> and the leaping -dolphins, is a fine chariot of Corinthian brass. -Four horses harnessed to a gilded <i>quadriga</i>. The -horses pace evenly forward, in a moment they will -be trampling upon space, facing out to sea on the -currents of the morning breeze. But their heads -are arched and checked, gracefully they pause, one -leg uplifted, seized and baffled by the arrested -movement. They are the horses of Constantine, brought -from Rome, so people say, buzzing in the -Augustaion. "Fine horses, hey?" "A good breed, Persia -from the look of them, though they're a bit thick -in the barrel for the horses they bring us from -there." "They bring us their worst, most likely." "Oh, I -don't know, we buy pretty well. Why, only the -other day I gave a mint of money for a cargo of -Egyptian maize." "Lucky dog, you'll make on that, with -all the harvest here ruined by the locusts." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -It is a pretty little wind which plays along the sides -of the gilded horses, a coquettish little sea wind, -blowing and listing and finally dropping away altogether -and going to sleep in a plane-tree behind the Hippodrome. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Constantinople is a yellow honey-comb, with fat -bees buzzing in all its many-sided cells. Bees come -over the flower-blue seas; bees humming from the -Steppes of Tartary, from the long line of Nile-fed -Egypt. Tush! What would you! Where there is -gold there are always men about it; to steal it, to -guard it, to sit and rot under its lotus-shining -brilliance. The very army is woven of threads drawn -from the edges of the world. Byzantines are -merchantmen, they roll and flounder in the midst of -gold coins, they tumble and wallow in money-baths, -they sit and chuckle under a continuous money-spray. -And ringed about them is the army, paid to -shovel back the scattering gold pieces: Dalmatians -with swords and arrows; Macedonians with silver -belts and gilt shields; Scholarii, clad in rose-coloured -tunics; Varangians, shouldering double battle-axes. -When they walk, the rattle of them can be heard -pattering back from every wall and doorway. It -clacks and cracks even in the Copper Market, above -the clang of cooking pots and the wrangling whine -of Jewish traders. Constantinople chatters, buzzes, -screams, growls, howls, squeals, snorts, brays, croaks, -screeches, crows, neighs, gabbles, purrs, hisses, brawls, -roars, shouts, mutters, calls, in every sort of crochet -and demi-semi-quaver, wavering up in a great -contrapuntal murmur—adagio, maestoso, capriccioso, -scherzo, staccato, crescendo, vivace, veloce, -brio—brio—brio!! A racket of dissonance, a hubbub -of harmony. Chords? Discords? Answer: Byzantium! -</p> - -<p> -People pluck the strings of rebecks and psalteries; -they shock the cords of lyres; they batter tin drums, -and shatter the guts of kettle-drums when the -Emperor goes to Saint Sophia to worship at an altar of -precious stones fused into a bed of gold and silver, -and, as he walks up the nave between the columns -of green granite, and the columns of porphyry, under -the golden lily on the Octagonal Tower, the bells -pour their notes over the roofs, spilling them in single -jets down on each side of the wide roofs. -Drip—drip—drip—out of their hearts of beaten bronze, -slipping and drowning in the noise of the crowds -clustered below. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -On the top of the Hippodrome, the bronze horses -trot toward the lupin-coloured Sea of Marmora, -slowly, without moving; and, behind them, the -spokes of the <i>quadriga</i> wheels remain separate and -single, with the blue sky showing between each one. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -What a city is this, builded of gold and alabaster, -with myrtle and roses strewn over its floors, and -doors of embossed silver opening upon golden trees -where jewelled birds sing clock-work notes, and -fountains flow from the beaks of silver eagles. All -this splendour cooped within the fourteen miles of -a single city, forsooth! In Britain, they sit under -oaken beams; in France, they eat with hunting-knives; -in Germany, men wear coats of their wives' -weaving. In Italy—but there is a Pope in Italy! -The bronze horses pause on the marble Hippodrome, -and days blow over them, brushing their sides like -wind. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -It is May eleventh in Constantinople, and the -Spring-blue sea shivers like a field of lupins run over -by a breeze. Every tree and shrub spouted over -every garden-wall flouts a chromatic sequence of -greens. A long string of camels on the Bridge of -Justinian moves, black and ostrich-like, against the -sheen of water. A swallow sheers past the bronze -horses and drops among the pillars on top of the -curve of the Hippodrome; the great cistern on the -Spina reflects a speckless sky. It is race-day in -Constantinople, and the town is turned out upon -the benches of the Hippodrome, waiting for the -procession to begin. "Hola! You fellows on the top -tier, do you see anything?" "Nothing yet, but I -hear music." "Music! Oh, Lord! I should think -you did. Clear the flagged course there, the procession -is coming." "Down in front. Sit down, you." "Listen. -Oh, dear, I'm so fidgety. If the Green -doesn't win, I'm out a fortune." "Keep still, will -you, we can't hear the music, you talk so loud." "Here -they come! Green! Green! Green! Drown -those Blues over there. Oh, Green, I say!" -</p> - -<p> -Away beyond, through the gates, flageolets are -squealing, and trumpets are splitting their brass -throats and choking over the sound. -Patter—patter—patter—horses' hoofs on flagstones. They -are coming under the paved arch. There is the President -of the Games in a tunic embroidered with golden -palm-branches; there is the Emperor in his -pearl-lappeted cap, and his vermilion buskins; and here -are the racers—Green—Blue—driving their chariots, -easily standing in their high-wheeled chariots. -The sun whitens the knives in their girdles, the reins -flash in the sun like ribbons of spun glass. -Three-year-olds in the Green chariot, so black they are blue. -Four blue-black horses, with the sheen of their flanks -glistening like the grain of polished wood. The -little ears point forward, their teeth tease the bits. -They snort and jerk, and the chariot wheels quirk -over an outstanding stone and jolt down, flat and -rumbling. The Blue chariot-driver handles a team -of greys, white as the storks who nest in the cemetery -beyond the Moslem quarter. He gathers up his -reins, and the horses fall back against the pole, -clattering, then fling forward, meet the bit, rear up, -and swing inward, settling gradually into a nervous -jigging as they follow round the course. "Blue! -Blue! Go for him, Blue!" from the North Corner. -"Hurrah for the Blue! Blue to Eternity!" Slowly -the procession winds round the Spina, and the crowd -stands up on the seats and yells and cheers and waves -handkerchiefs, sixty thousand voices making such a -noise that only the high screaming of the flageolets -can be heard above it. The horses toss and twitch, -the harness jingles, and the gilded eggs and dolphins -on the Spina coruscate in versicoloured stars. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Above the Emperor's balcony, the bronze horses -move quietly forward, and the sun outlines the great -muscles of their lifted legs. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -They have reached the Grand Stand again, and the -chariots are shut and barred in their stalls. The -multitude, rustling as though they were paper being -folded, settles down into their seats. The President -drops a napkin, the bars are unlocked, and the -chariots in a double rush take the straight at top speed, -Blue leading, Green saving up for the turn at the -curve. Round the three cones at the end, Blue on -one wheel, Green undercutting him. Blue turns -wide to right himself, takes the outside course and -flashes up the long edge so that you cannot count -two till he curves again. Down to the Green Corner, -Blue's off horses slipping just before the cones, one -hits the pole, loses balance and falls, drags a moment, -catches his feet as the chariot slows for the circle, -gathers, plunges, and lunges up and on, while the -Greens on the benches groan and curse. But the -black team is worse off, the inside near colt has got -his leg over a trace. Green checks his animals, the -horse kicks free, but Blue licks past him on the up -way, and is ahead at the North turn by a wheel length. -Green goes round, flogging to make up time. Two -eggs and dolphins gone, three more to go. The pace -has been slow so far, now they must brace up. Bets -run high, screamed out above the rumble of the chariots. -"Ten on the Green." "Odds fifty for the Blue." "Double -mine; those greys have him." "The blacks, -the blacks, lay you a hundred to one the blacks -beat." Down, round, up, round, down, so fast they are only -dust puffs, one can scarcely see which is which. The -horses are badly blown now, and the drivers yell to -them, and thrash their churning flanks. The course -is wet with sweat and blood, the wheels slide over the -wet course. Green negotiates the South curve with -his chariot sideways; Blue skids over to the flagged -way and lames a horse on the stones. The Emperor -is on his feet, staring through his emerald spy-glass. -Once more round for the last egg and dolphin. Down -for the last time, Blue's lame horse delays him, but -he flays him with the whip and the Green Corner -finds them abreast. The Greens on the seats burst -upstanding. "Too far out! Well turned!" "The -Green's got it!" "Well done, Hirpinus!" The -Green driver disappears up the long side to the goal, -waving his right hand, but Blue's lame horse staggers, -stumbles, and goes down, settling into the dust -with a moan. Vortex of dust, struggling horses, -golden glitter of the broken chariot. "Overthrown, -by the Holy Moses! And hurt too! Well, well, he -did his best, that beast always looked skittish to -me." "Is he dead, do you think? They've got -the litter." "Most likely. Green! Green! See, -they're crowning him. Green and the people! -Oh-hé! Green!" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Cool and imperturbable, the four great gilt horses -slowly pace above the marble columns of the Grand -Stand. They gaze out upon the lupin-blue water -beyond the Southern curve. Can they see the Island -of Corfu from up there, do you think? There are -vessels at the Island of Corfu waiting to continue a -journey. The great horses trot forward without -moving, and the dust of the race-track sifts over -them and blows away. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Constantinople from the Abbey of San Stefano: -bubbles of opal and amber thrust up in a distant sky, -pigeon-coloured nebulæ closing the end of a long -horizon. Tilting to the little waves of a harbour, the -good ships <i>Aquila</i>, <i>Paradiso</i>, <i>Pellegrina</i>, leaders of a -fleet of galleys: <i>dromi</i>, <i>hippogogi</i>, vessels carrying -timber for turrets, strong vessels holding mangonels. -Proud vessels under an ancient Doge, keeping Saint -John's Day at the Abbey of San Stefano, within -sight of Constantinople. -</p> - -<p> -Knights in blue and crimson inlaid armour clank -up and down the gang-planks of the vessels. Flags -and banners flap loosely at the mast-heads. There -is the banner of Baldwin of Flanders, the standard -of Louis of Blois, the oriflamme of Boniface of -Montferrat, the pennon of Hugh, Count of Saint Paul, and -last, greatest, the gonfalon of Saint Mark, dripped so -low it almost touches the deck, with the lion of Venice -crumpled in its windless folds. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Saint John's Day, and High Mass in the Abbey of -San Stefano. They need God's help who would pass -over the double walls and the four hundred towers -of Constantinople. <i>Te Deum Laudamus!</i> The -armoured knights make the sign of the cross, lightly -touching the crimson and azure devices on their -breasts with mailed forefingers. -</p> - -<p> -South wind to the rescue; that was a good mass. -"Boatswain, what's the direction of that cat's-paw, -veering round a bit? Good." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Fifty vessels making silver paths in the Summer-blue -Sea of Marmora. Fifty vessels passing the -Sweet Waters, blowing up the Bosphorus. -</p> - -<p> -Strike your raucous gongs, City of Byzantium. Run -about like ants between your golden palaces. These -vessels are the chalices of God's wrath. The spirit -of Christ walking upon the waters. Or is it -anti-Christ? This is the true Church. Have we not -the stone on which Jacob slept, the rod which -Moses turned into a serpent, a portion of the -bread of the Last Supper? We are the Virgin's -chosen abiding place; why, the picture which -Saint Luke painted of her is in our keeping. We -have pulled the sun's rays from the statue of -Constantine and put up the Cross instead. Will that -bring us nothing? Cluster round the pink and white -striped churches, throng the alabaster churches, -fill the naves with a sound of chanting. Strike the -terror-gongs and call out the soldiers, for even -now the plumed knights are disembarking, and the -snarling of their trumpets mingles with the beating -of the gongs. -</p> - -<p> -The bronze horses on the Hippodrome, harnessed -to the gilded <i>quadriga</i>, step forward slowly. They -proceed in a measured cadence. They advance without -moving. There are lights and agitation in the -city, but the air about the horses has the violet touch -of night. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Now, now, you crossbowmen and archers, you go -first. Stand along the gunwales and be ready to -jump. Keep those horses still there, don't let them -get out of order. Lucky we thought of the hides. -Their damnable Greek fire can't hurt us now. Up -to the bridge, knights. Three of you abreast, on a -level with the towers. What's a shower of arrows -against armour! An honourable dint blotting out -the head of a heron, half a plume sheared off a helmet -so that it leers cock-eyed through the press. Tut! -Tut! Little things, the way of war. Jar, jolt, -mud—the knights clash together like jumbled chess-men, -then leap over the bridges. -Confusion—contusion—raps—bangs—lurches—blows—battle-axes -thumping on tin shields; bolts bumping against -leathern bucklers. "A Boniface to the -Rescue!" "Baldwin forever!" "Viva San Marco!" Such a -pounding, pummelling, pitching, pointing, piercing, -pushing, pelting, poking, panting, punching, parrying, -pulling, prodding, puking, piling, passing, you -never did see. Stones pour out of the mangonels; -arrows fly thick as mist. Swords twist against -swords, bill-hooks batter bill-hooks, staves rattle -upon staves. One, two, five men up a scaling ladder. -Chop down on the first, and he rolls off the ladder -with his skull in two halves; rip up the bowels of -the second, he drips off the ladder like an overturned -pail. But the third catches his adversary between -the legs with a pike and pitches him over as one would -toss a truss of hay. Way for the three ladder men! -Their feet are on the tower, their plumes flower, -argent and gold, above the muck of slaughter. From -the main truck of the ships there is a constant -seeping of Venetians over the walls of Constantinople. -They flow into the city, they throw themselves -upon the beleaguered city. They smash her defenders, -and crash her soldiers to mere bits of broken -metal. -</p> - -<p> -Byzantines, Copts, Russians, Persians, Armenians, -Moslems, the great army of the Franks is knocking -at the gates of your towers. Open the gates. Open, -open, or we will tear down your doors, and breach -the triple thickness of your walls. Seventeen -burning boats indeed, and have the Venetians no -boat-hooks? They make pretty fireworks to pleasure -our knights of an evening when they come to sup -with Doge Dandolo. At night we will sleep, but in -the morning we will kill again. Under your tents, -helmeted knights; into your cabin, old Doge. The -stars glitter in the Sea of Marmora, and above the -city, black in the brilliance of the stars, the great -horses of Constantine advance, pausing, blotting -their shadows against the sprinkled sky. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -From June until September, the fracas goes on. -The chanting of masses, the shouting of battle -songs, sweep antiphonally over Constantinople. They -blend and blur, but what is that light tinkling? -Tambourines? What is that snapping? Castanets? -What is that yellow light in the direction of the -Saracen mosque? My God! Fire! Gold of metals, -you have met your king. Ringed and crowned, he -takes his place in the jewelled city. Gold of fire -mounted upon all the lesser golds. The twin tongues -of flame flaunt above the housetops. Banners of -scarlet, spears of saffron, spikes of rose and melted -orange. What are the little flags of the Crusaders -to these! They clamoured for pay and won the -elements. Over the Peninsula of Marmora it -comes. The whips of its fire-thongs lash the golden city. -A conflagration half a league wide. Magnificent -churches, splendid palaces, great commercial streets, -are burning. Golden domes melt and liquefy, and -people flee from the dripping of them. Lakes of -gold lie upon the pavements; pillars crack and -tumble, making dams and bridges over the hot gold. -Two days, two nights, the fire rages, and through -the roar of it the little cries of frightened birds come -thin and pitiful. Earth pleading with fire. Earth -begging quarter of the awful majesty of fire. The -birds wheel over Constantinople; they perch upon -the cool bronze horses standing above the -Hippodrome. The quiet horses who wait and advance. -This is not their fire, they trample on the luminousness -of flames, their strong hind legs plant them -firmly on the marble coping. They watch the falling -of the fire, they gaze upon the ruins spread about -them, and the pungence of charred wood brushes -along their tarnished sides like wind. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The Franks have made an Emperor and now the -Greeks have murdered him. The Doge asks for -fifty <i>centenaria</i> in gold to pay his sailors. Who will -pay, now that the Emperor is dead? Declare a -siege and pay yourselves, Count, and Marquis, and -Doge. Set your ships bow to stern, a half a league -of them. Sail up the Golden Horn, and attack the -walls in a hundred places. You fail to-day, but you -will win to-morrow. Bring up your battering-rams -and ballistæ; hurl stones from your mangonels; -run up your scaling ladders and across your skin -bridges. Winter is over and Spring is in your veins. -Your blood mounts like sap, mount up the ladder -after it. Two ships to a tower, and four towers -taken. Three gates battered in. The city falls. -Cruel saints, you have betrayed your votaries. Even -the relic of the Virgin's dress in the Panhagia of -Blachernæ has been useless. The knights enter -Byzantium, and their flickering pennants are the -flamelets of a new conflagration. Fire of flesh -burning in the blood of the populace. They would make -the sign of the cross, would they, so that the Franks -may spare them? But the sap is up in the Frankish -veins, the fire calls for fuel. Blood burns to who -will ignite it. The swords itch for the taste of -entrails, the lances twitch at sight of a Byzantine. -Feed, Fire! Here are men, and women, and children, -full of blood for the relish of your weapons. -Spring sap, how many women! Good Frankish seed -for the women of Byzantium. Blood and lust, you -shall empty yourselves upon the city. Your swords -shall exhaust themselves upon these Greeks. Your -hands shall satisfy themselves with gold. Spit at -the priests. This is the Greek church, not ours. -Grab the sacred furniture of the churches, fornicate -upon the high altar of Saint Sophia, and load the -jewels upon the donkeys you have driven into the -church to receive them. Old pagan Crusaders, this -is the Orgy of Spring! Lust and blood, the -birthright of the world. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The bright, shining horses tread upon the clean -coping of the Hippodrome, and the Sea of Marmora -lies before them like a lupin field run over by a -breeze. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -What are you now, Constantinople? A sacked -city; and the tale of your plundering shall outdo -the tale of your splendours for wonder. Three days -they pillage you. Burmese rubies rattle in the -pockets of common soldiers. The golden tree is -hacked to bits and carried off by crossbowmen. An -infantry sergeant hiccoughs over the wine he drinks -from an altar cup. The knights live in palaces and -dip their plumes under the arch of the Emperor's -bed-chamber. -</p> - -<p> -In the Sea of Marmora, the good ships <i>Aquila</i>, -<i>Paradiso</i>, <i>Pellegrina</i> swing at anchor. The <i>dromi</i> -and <i>hippogogi</i> ride free and empty. They bob to -the horses high above them on the Hippodrome. -They dance to the rhythmic beat of hammers floating -out to them from the city of Constantinople. -</p> - -<p> -Throb—throb—a dying pulse counts its vibrations. -Throb—throb—and each stroke means a -gobbet of gold. They tear it down from the walls -and doors, they rip it from ceilings and pry it up -from floors. They chip it off altars, they rip it out -of panels, they hew it from obelisks, they gouge it -from enamels. This is a death dance, a whirligig, -a skeleton city footing a jig, a tarantella quirked -to hammer-stroke time; a corpse in motley ogling -a crime. Tap—tap—tap—goes the pantomime. -</p> - -<p> -Grinning devils watch church cutting the throat -of church. Chuckling gargoyles in France, in Britain, -rub their stomachs and squeeze themselves together -in an ecstasy of delight. Ho! Ho! Marquis -Boniface, Count Hugh, Sieur Louis. What plunder do -you carry home? What relics do you bring to your -Gothic cathedrals? The head of Saint Clement? -The arm of John the Baptist? A bit of the wood of -the True Cross? Statues are only so much metal, -but these are treasures worth fighting for. Fighting, -quotha! Murdering, stealing. The Pope will -absolve you, only bring him home a tear of Christ, -and you will see. A tear of Christ! <i>Eli, Eli, lama -sabachthani!</i> Oh, pitiful world! Pitiful knights -in your inlaid armour! Pitiful Doge, preening -himself in the Palace of Blachernæ! -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Above the despoiled city, the Corinthian horses -trot calmly forward, without moving, and the -<i>quadriga</i> behind them glitters in the sun. -</p> - -<p> -People have blood, but statues have gold, and -silver, and bronze. Melt them! Melt them! "Gee! -Haw!" Guide the oxen carefully. Four oxen to -drag the head of Juno to the furnace. White oxen -to transport Minerva; fawn-coloured oxen for the -colossal Hercules of Lysippus. Pour them into the -furnaces so that they run out mere soft metal ripe -for coining. Two foot-sergeants get as much as a -horse-sergeant, and two horse-sergeants as much -as a knight. Flatten out Constantinople. Raze her -many standing statues, shave the Augustaion to a -stark stretch of paving-stones. Melt the bones of -beauty, indomitable Crusaders, and pay the Venetians -fifty thousand silver marks as befits an honest -company of dedicated gentlemen. -</p> - -<p> -"The Doge wants those horses, does he? Just as -they are, unmelted? Holy Saint Christopher, what -for? Pity he didn't speak sooner, I sent Walter the -Smith to cut the gold off them this morning, but it -sticks like the very devil and he hasn't done much. -Well, well, the Doge can have them. A man with a -whim must be given way to, particularly when he -owns all the ships. How about that gilded chariot?" "Oh, -he can't manage that. Just the horses. You -were in a mighty hurry with that cutting, it seems -to me. You've made them look like zebras, and -he'll not like that. He's a bit of a connoisseur in -horse-flesh, even if he does live in the water. Wants -to mate them to the dolphins probably, and go -a-campaigning astride of fishes. Ha! Ha! Ha!" -</p> - -<p> -"Steady there, lower the horses carefully, they are -for the Doge." One—one—one—one—down from -the top of the Hippodrome. One—one—one—one—on -ox-carts rumbling toward the water's edge, -in boats rowing over the lupin-coloured sea. Great -horses, trot calmly on your sides, roll quietly to the -heaving of the bright sea. Above you, sails go up, -anchors are weighed. The gonfalon of Saint Mark -flings its extended lion to the freshening wind. To -Venice, <i>Aquila</i>, <i>Paradiso</i>, <i>Pellegrina</i>, with your -attendant <i>dromi</i>! To Venice! Over the running waves -of the Spring-blue sea. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -<i>BENEATH A CROOKED RAINBOW</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>As the seasons of Earth are Fire, so are the seasons -of men. The departure of Fire is a change, and the -coming of Fire is a greater change. Demand not that -which is over, but acclaim what is still to come. So the -Earth builds up her cities, and falls upon them with -weeds and nettles; and Water flows over the orchards -of past centuries. On the sand-hills shall apple trees -flourish, and in the water-courses shall be gathered a -harvest of plums. Earth, Air, and Water abide in -fluctuation. But man, in the days between his birth -and dying, fashions metals to himself, and they are -without heat or cold. In the Winter solstice, they are -not altered like the Air, nor hardened like the Water, -nor shrivelled like the Earth, and the heats of Summer -bring them no burgeoning. Therefore are metals -outside the elements. Between melting and melting they -are beyond the Water, and apart from the Earth, and -severed from the Air. Fire alone is of them, and -master. Withdrawn from Fire, they dwell in isolation.</i> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -VENICE -</p> - -<p> -Venice anadyomene! City of reflections! A cloud -of rose and violet poised upon a changing sea. City -of soft waters washing marble stairways, of feet -moving over stones with the continuous sound of -slipping water. Floating, wavering city, shot -through with the silver threads of water, woven -with the green-gold of flowing water, your marble -Rivas block the tides as they sweep in over the -Lagoons, your towers fling golden figures of Fortune -into the carnation sky at sunset, the polished marble -of the walls of old palaces burns red to the flaring -torches set in cressets before your doors. Strange -city, belonging neither to earth nor water, where the -slender spandrels of vines melt into the carvings of -arched windows, and crabs ferry themselves through -the moon-green water rippling over the steps of a -decaying church. -</p> - -<p> -Beautiful, faded city. The sea wind has dimmed -your Oriental extravagance to an iris of rose, and -amber, and lilac. You are dim and reminiscent -like the frayed hangings of your State Chambers, -and the stucco of your house-fronts crumbles into -the canals with a gentle dripping which no one -notices. -</p> - -<p> -A tabernacle set in glass, an ivory ornament resting -upon a table of polished steel. It is the surface -of the sea, spangled, crinkled, engine-turned to -whorls of blue and silver, ridged in waves of -flower-green and gold. Sequins of gold skip upon the -water, crocus-yellow flames dart against white -smoothness and disappear, wafers of many colours -float and intermingle. The Lagoons are a white -fire burning to the blue band of the Lido, restlessly -shifting under the cool, still, faint peaks of the -Euganean Hills. -</p> - -<p> -Where is there such another city? She has taken -all the Orient to herself. She has treated with -Barbarossa, with Palæologus, with the Pope, the -Tzar, the Caliph, the Sultan, and the Grand Khan. -Her returning vessels have discharged upon the mole -metals and jewels, pearls from the Gulf of Oman, -silks from Damascus, camel's-hair fabrics from -Erzeroum. The columns of Saint John of Acre -have been landed on her jetties, and the great lions -from the Piræus. Now she rests and glitters, holding -her treasures lightly, taking them for granted, chatting -among the fringes, and tinkling sherbet spoons -of an evening in the dark shadow of the Campanile. -</p> - -<p> -Up from the flickering water, beyond the laced -colonnades of the Ducal Palace—golden bubbles, -lung out upon a sky of ripe blue. Arches of white -and scarlet flowers, pillars of porphyry, columns of -jasper, open loggias of deep-green serpentine flaked -with snow. In the architraves, stones chipped and -patterned, the blues studded with greens, the greens -circling round yellows, reds of every depth, clear -purples, heliotropes clouded into a vague white. -Above them, all about them, the restless movement -of carven stone; it is involuted and grotesque, it is -acanthus leaves and roses, it is palm branches and -vine tendrils, it is feathers and the tails of birds, all -blowing on a day of <i>scirocco</i>. Angels rise among the -swirling acanthus leaves, angels and leaves weaving -an upstarting line, ending in the great star of Christ -struck upon the edge of a golden dome. Saint -Mark's Church, gazing down the length of the -chequered Piazza, thrusting itself upon the black and -white pavement, rising out of the flat tiles in a rattle -of colours, soaring toward the full sky like a broken -prism whirling at last into the gold bubbles of its -five wide domes. The Campanile mounts above it, -but the Campanile is only brick, even if it has a -pointed top which you cannot see without lying on -your back. The pigeons can fly up to it, but the -pigeons prefer the angles and hollows of the -sculptured church. -</p> - -<p> -Saint Mark's Church—and over the chief arch, -among the capitals of foaming leaves and bent -grasses, trample four great horses. They are of gold, -of gilding so fine that it has not faded. They are -tarnished here and there, but their fair colour -overcomes the green corroding and is a blinding to the -eyes in sunshine. Four magnificent, muscular horses, -lightly stepping upon traceried columns, one forefoot -raised to launch them forward. They stand over the -high door, caught back a moment before springing, -held an instant to the perfection of a movement about -to begin, and the pigeons circle round them brushing -against their sides like wind. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -But, dear me, Saint Mark's is the only thing in the -Piazza that is not talking, and walking to and fro, -and cheapening shoe buckles at a stall, and playing -panfil and bassetta at little round tables by the wall, -and singing to guitars, and whistling to poodles, and -shouting to acquaintances, and giving orders to -servants, and whispering a scandal behind fans, and -carrying tomatoes in copper pans, and flying on -messages, and lying to creditors, and spying on -suspects, and colliding with masked loungers, and crying -out the merits of fried fish, caught when the tide -comes leaping through the Tre Porti. A dish of tea -at a coffee-house, and then cross one leg over the -other and wait. She will be here by seven o'clock, -and a faithful <i>cicisbeo</i> has her charms to muse upon -until then. Ah, Venice, chattering, flattering, -occupied Venice, what are the sculptured angels and -golden horses to you. You are far too busy to -glance at them. They are chiefly remarkable as -curiosities, for whoever saw a real angel, and as to -a real horse—"I saw a stuffed one for a <i>soldo</i>, -the other day, in the Campo San Polo. <i>Un -elephanto</i>, Gastone, taller than my shoulder and the -eyes were made of glass, they would pass for perfect -any day." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Ah, the beautiful palaces, with their gateways of -gilded iron frilled into arms and coronets, quilled into -shooting leaves and tendrils, filled with rosettes, -fretted by heraldic emblems! Ah, the beautiful -taste, which wastes no time on heavy stone, but cuts -flowers, and foliage, and flourishes, and ribbons out -of—stucco! Bows of stucco glued about a ceiling -by Tiepolo, and ranged underneath, frail white-and-gold, -rose-and-gold, green-and-gold chairs, fair consoles -of polished lacquer supporting great mirrors of -Murano. Hangings of blue silk with silver fringes, -behind your folds, la Signora Benzona accords a -favour to the Cavalier Giuseppe Trevis. Upon a -salmon-coloured sofa striped with pistachio-green, -the Cavaliera Contarini flirts with both her <i>cicisbei</i> -at once, in a charming impartiality. Kisses? -Ah, indeed, certainly kisses. Hands tickling against -hands? But assuredly, one for each of you. The -heel of a left slipper caught against a buckled shoe, -the toe of a right foot pressed beneath a broader -sole; but the toll is finished. "Tut! Tut! -Gentlemen! With the other present! Have you no -delicacy? To-night perhaps, after the Ridotto, we will -take a giro in my gondola as far as Malamocco, Signor -Bianchi. And to-morrow, Carlo Pin, will you go to -church with me? There is something in the tones of -an organ, I know not what exactly, but it has its -effect." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"You rang, <i>Illustrissima</i>?" "Of course I rang, -Stupid, did you think it was the cat?" "Your -nobility desires?" "The time, Blockhead, what is -the time?" "Past seven, <i>Illustrissima</i>." "Ye Gods, -how time passes when one sleeps! Bring my chocolate -at once, and call Giannina." With a yawn, the lady -rises, just as the sun fades away from the flying figure -of Fortune on the top of the Dogana. "Candles, -Moracchio." And the misty mirrors prick and pulsate -with reflections of blurred flame. Flame-points, -and behind them the puce-coloured curtains of a bed; -an escritoire with feathered pens and Spanish wax; a -table with rouge-pots and powder-boxes; a lady, naked -as a Venus, slipping into a silk shift. In the misty -mirrors, she is all curves and colour, all slenderness -and tapering, all languor and vivacity. Even -Giannina murmurs, "<i>Che bella Madonna mia!</i>" as -she pulls the shift into place. But the door is ajar, -a mere harmless crack to make a fuss about. "Only -one eye, <i>Cara Mia</i>, I assure you the other saw nothing -but the panel. I ask for so much, and I have only -taken the pleasure of one little eye. I must kiss -them, <i>Signora Bellissima</i>, two little red berries, like -the fruit of the <i>potentillas</i> in the grass at Sant' Elena. -<i>Musica! Musica!</i> The barque of music is coming -down the canal. Sit on my knee a moment, the -Casino can wait; and after you have won a thousand -zecchini, will you be a second Danae and go with me -to the early morning market? Then you shall come -home and sleep all day in the great bed among the -roses I shall buy for you. With your gold? -Perhaps, my dearest tease, the luck has deserted me -lately. But there are ways of paying, are there not, -and I am an honourable man." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The great horses of Saint Mark's trot softly -forward on their sculptured pedestals, without moving. -Behind them, the glass of the arched window is dark, -but the Piazza is a bowl of lights, a tambourine of -little bell-stroke laughter. The golden horses step -forward, dimly shimmering in the light of the lamps -below, and the pigeons sleep quietly on the stands at -their feet. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Green Lion of Saint Mark upon your high pedestal! -Winged Lion of Saint Mark, your head turned over -the blinding Lagoons to the blue Lido, your tail -pointing down the sweeping flow of the Grand Canal! -What do you see, Green Lion of the Patron Saint? -Boats? Masts? Quaint paintings on the broad -bows of bragozzi, orange sails contra-crossing one -another over tossing ripples. Gondolas tipping to -the oars of the <i>barcajuoli</i>, slipping under the Ponte -della Paglia, dipping between sardine <i>topi</i>, skipping -past the Piazzetta, curving away to the Giudecca, -where it lies beyond the crystal pinnacles of Santa -Maria della Salute and San Giorgio Maggiore which -has the lustre of roses. -</p> - -<p> -What do you smell, Lion? Boiling hot chestnuts, -fried cuttles, fried puffs of pastry; the pungent odour -of salt water and of dead fish; the nostalgic aroma of -sandal-wood and myrrh, of musk, of leopard skins -and the twin tusks of elephants. -</p> - -<p> -And you, great Lion of the Ducal Palace, what -goes on at your feet? People knotted together or -scattering, pattering over the old stones in impertinent -satin slippers, flippantly tapping the pavement -with red heels. Whirls of people circle like the -pigeons, knots of people spot the greyness of the -stones, ribbons of people file along the colonnades, -rayed lines of people between the Procuratie stripe -the pavement sideways, criss-cross, at oblique angles. -Spangles snap and fade; gems glitter. A gentleman -in a buttercup-coloured coat goes by with a bouquet. -A sea-green gown brocaded with cherry and violet -stays an instant before a stall to buy a packet of -ambergris. Pilgrims with staffs and cockles knock -the stones as they shuffle along, a water-carrier shouts -out a song. A scarlet sacristan jingles his keys; -purple robes of justices saunter at ease. Messer -Goldoni hustles by to a rehearsal, and three famous -<i>castrati</i>, i Signori Pacchierotti, Aprili, Rubenelli, -rustle their mantles and adjust their masks, ogling -the ladies with gold lorgnons. Blind men sniffle into -flageolets, marionette men hurry on to a distant -Campo in a flurry of cotton streamers. If Venice is -a flowing of water, it is also a flowing of people. All -Europe runs into this wide square. There is Monsieur -Montesquieu, just from France, taking notes on -the sly; there is Mrs. Piozzi, from England, with an -eye to everything, even chicken-coops; Herr Goethe, -from the Court at Weimar, trying to overcome a fit -of mental indigestion; Madame Vigée le Brun, -questioning the merit of her work and that of Rosalba -Carriera. You have much to watch, Lion, the whole -earth cannot match the pageant of this great square, -in the limpid sun-shot air, between the towering -Campanile and the blaze of Saint Mark's angels. -Star-fish patterns, jelly-fish rounds of colour, if the -sea quivers with variety so does the Piazza. But -above, on the façade of the jewelled church, the -horses do not change. They stand vigorous and -immovable, stepping lightly as though poised upon glass. -Metal horses set upon shifting shards of glass, and -the soft diphthongs of the Venetian dialect float over -them like wind. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -There are two Venices, the one we walk upon, and -the one which wavers up to us inverted from the -water of the canals. The silver prow of a gondola -winds round a wall, and in the moss-brown water -another gondola joins it, bottom to bottom, with the -teeth of the prow infinitely repeated. A cypress -closes the end of a <i>rio</i>, and driven into the thick water -another cypress spindles beneath us, and the wake of -our boat leaves its foliage cut to tatters as it passes -on. We plough through the veined pinks and subdued -scarlets of the façades of palaces; we sheer a -path through a spotted sky and blunt the tip of a -soaring campanile. Are we swimming in the heavens, -turned legend and constellation? Truly it seems so. -"How you go on, Cavalier, certainly you are a -foreigner to notice such things. The Lido, Giuseppe. -I have a nostalgia for flowers to-day, and besides, -abroad so early in the afternoon—what shocking -style! The custom of the country, my dear Sir, -here we go to bed by sunlight as you will see." -</p> - -<p> -Sweep out of the broad canal, turn to the hanging -snow summits. Oh, the beautiful silver light, the -blue light shimmering with silver. The clear -sunlight on rose brick and amber marble. The sky so -pale it is white, so bright it is yellow, so cloudless it is -blue. Oh, the shafts of sapphire striping the wide -water, the specks of gold dancing along it, the -diamond roses opening and shutting upon its surface! -Some one is singing in a distant boat: -</p> - -<p class="poem"> - "<i>Amanti, ci vuole costanza in amor'<br /> - Amando,<br /> - Penando,<br /> - Si speri, si, si.</i>"<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The lady shrugs her shoulders. "These fishermen -are very droll. What do the <i>canaglia</i> know about -love. Breeding, yes, that is certainly their affair, but -love! <i>Più presto</i>, Giuseppe. How the sun burns!" Rock -over the streaked Lagoon, gondola, pock the -blue strips with white, shock purple shadows through -the silver strata, set blocks of iris cannoning against -gold. This is the rainbow over which we are -floating, and the heart-shaped city behind us is a -reliquary of old ivory laid upon azure silk. Your hand, -Signor the Foreigner, be careful lest she wet those -fine French stockings, they cost I do not know how -much a pair. Now run away across the Lido, gathering -violets and periwinkles. The lady has a whim for -a <i>villeggiatura</i>, and why not? Those scarlet pomegranate -blossoms will look well in her hair to-night at -the opera. But one cannot linger long, already the -Dolomites are turning pink, and there is a whole -night ahead of us to be cajoled somehow. A mile -away from Venice and it is too far. "<i>Felicissima -notte!</i>" Wax candles shine in the windows. The -little stars of the gondola lanterns glide between dark -walls. Broken moonlight shivers in the canals. And -the masks come out, thronging the streets and squares -with a chequer-work of black cloaks and white faces. -Little white faces floating like pond-lilies above -the water. Floating faces adrift over unfathomable -depths. Have you ever heard the words, <i>Libertà, -Independenza, e Eguaglianza</i>? "What stuff and nonsense! -Of course I have read your great writer, Rousseau; I -cried my heart out over '<i>La Nouvelle Héloise</i>,' but in -practice! Wake my servants, the lazy fellows are -always asleep, you will find them curled up on the -stairs most likely. It is time we went to the -<i>Mendicanti</i> to hear the oratorio. Ah, but those poor -orphans sing with a charm! It makes one weep to -hear them, only the old <i>Maestro di Capella</i> will beat -time with his music on the grill. It is quite -ridiculous, they could go through it perfectly without him. -<i>Misericordia!</i> The red light! That is the gondola -of the Supreme Tribunal taking some poor soul to -the Piombi; God protect him! But it does not -concern us, my friend. <i>Ridiamo a duetto!</i>" Little -tinkling drops from the oars of the boatmen, little tinkling -laughter wafted across the moonlight. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Four horses parading in front of a splendid church. -Four ancient horses with ears pointed forward, listening. -One foot is raised, they advance without moving. -To what do they listen? To the serenades they have -heard so often? <i>Cavatine, canzonette</i>, dance songs, -hymns, for six hundred years the songs of Venice have -drifted past them, lightly, as the wings of pigeons. -And month by month the old moon has sailed over -them, as she did in Constantinople, as she did in -Rome. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Saint Stephen's Day, and the Carnival! For weeks -now Venice will be amused. Folly to think of -anything but fun. Toot the fifes! Bang the drums! -Did you ever see anything so jolly in all your life -before? Keep your elbows to your sides, there isn't -room to square them. "My! What a flare! -Rockets in broad daylight! I declare they make -the old horses of Saint Mark's blush pink when they -burst. Thirsty? So am I, what will you have? -Wine or oranges? Don't jostle so, old fellow, we -can look in the window as well as you. See that -apothecary's stall, isn't that a gay festoon? Curse -me, if it isn't made of leeches; what will these -shopkeepers do next! That mask has a well-turned ankle. -Good evening, my charmer. You are as beautiful as -a parrot, as white as linen, as light as a rabbit. Ay! -O-o-h! The she-camel! She aimed her <i>confetti</i> right -at my eye. Come on, Tito, let's go and see them -behead the bull. Hold on a minute though, somebody's -pulling my cloak. Just one little squeeze, Beauty, -you shouldn't tweak a man's cloak if you don't want -to be squeezed. You plump little pudding, you little -pecking pigeon, I'll get more next time. Wow! Here -comes Arlecchino. Push back, push back, the comedians -are coming. Stow in your fat belly, <i>'lustrissimo</i>, -you take up room enough for two." -</p> - -<p> -Somebody beats a gong, and three drummers -cleave a path through the crowd. Bang! -<i>Bang!</i> BANG! So loud it splits the hearing. Mattachino -leaps down the path. He is in white, with red lacings -and red shoes. On his arm is a basket of eggs. -Right, left, into the crowd, skim the eggs. -Duck—jump—it is no use. Plump, on some one's front; -pat, against some one's hat. The eggs crack, and -scented waters run out of them, filling the air with -the sweet smells of musk and bergamot. But here -is a wheel of colours rolling down the path. Clown! -Clown! It is Arlecchino, in his patched coat. It -was green and he has botched it with red, or is it -yellow, or possibly blue. It is hard to tell, he turns -so fast. Three somersaults, and he comes up -standing, and makes a long nose, and sweeps off his hat -with the hare's fud, and glares solemnly into the eyes -of a gentleman in spectacles. "Sir," says Arlecchino, -"have you by chance a toothache? I can tell you -how to cure it. Take an apple, cut it into four equal -parts, put one of these into your mouth, and thrust -your head into an oven until the apple is baked. I -swear on my honour you will never have the toothache -again." Zip! Sizz! No use in the cane. A -pirouette and he is away again. A hand-spring, a -double cut-under, and the parti-coloured rags are -only a tag bouncing up out of surging black mantles. -But there is something more wonderful yet. Set -your faces to the Piazzetta, people; push, slam, jam, -to keep your places. "A balloon is going up from -the Dogana del Mare, a balloon like a moon or something -else starry. A meteor, a comet, I don't really -know what; it looks, so they say, like a huge apricot, -or a pear—yes, that's surely the thing—blushing -red, mellow yellow, a fruit on the wing, garlanded -with streamers and tails, all a-whirl and a-flutter. -Cut the string and she sails, till she lands in the -gutter." "How do you know she lands in the gutter, -Booby?" "Where else should she land, unless in -the sea?" "You're a fool, I suppose you sat up all -night writing that doggerel." "Not at all, it is an -improvisation." "Here, keep back, you can't push -past me with your talk. Oh! Look! Look!" -</p> - -<p> -That is a balloon. It rises slowly—slowly—above -the Dogana. It wavers, dips, and poises; it -mounts in the silver air, it floats without direction; -suspended in movement, it hangs, a clear pear of red -and yellow, opposite the melting, opal-tinted city. -And the reflection of it also floats, perfect in colour -but cooler, perfect in outline but more vague, in the -glassy water of the Grand Canal. The blue sky -sustains it; the blue water encloses it. Then balloon -and reflection swing gently seaward. One ascends, -the other descends. Each dwindles to a speck. Ah, -the semblance is gone, the water has nothing; but -the sky focusses about a point of fire, a formless -iridescence sailing higher, become a mere burning, -until that too is absorbed in the brilliance of the -clouds. -</p> - -<p> -You cheer, people, but you do not know for what. -A beautiful toy? Undoubtedly you think so. Shout -yourselves hoarse, you who have conquered the sea, -do you underestimate the air? Joke, laugh, purblind -populace. You have been vouchsafed an awful -vision, and you do nothing but clap your hands. -</p> - -<p> -That is over, and here is Pantalone calling to you. -"Going—going—I am selling my furniture. Two -dozen chairs of fine holland; fourteen tables of almond -paste; six majolica mattresses full of scrapings of -haycocks; a semolina bedcover; six truffled cushions; -two pavilions of spider-web trimmed with tassels -made from the moustaches of Swiss door-keepers. -Oh! The Moon! The Moon! The good little yellow -moon, no bigger than an omelet of eight eggs. Come, -I will throw in the moon. A quarter-ducat for the -moon, good people. Take your opportunity." -</p> - -<p> -Great gold horses, quietly stepping above the little -mandarin figures, strong horses above the whirling -porcelain figures, are the pigeons the only birds in -Venice? Have the swallows told you nothing, flying -from the West? -</p> - -<p> -The bells of Saint Mark's Church ring midnight. -The carnival is over. -</p> - -<p> -In the deserted square, the pavement is littered -with feathers, <i>confetti</i>, orange-peel, and -pumpkin-seeds. But the golden horses on the balcony over -the high door trot forward, without moving, and the -shadow of the arch above them is thrown farther -and farther forward as the moon drops toward the -Lagoon. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Bronze armies marching on a sea-shell city. -Slanted muskets filing over the passes of tall Alps. -Who is this man who leads you, carven in new bronze, -supple as metal still cooling, firm as metal from a -fresh-broken mold? A bright bronze general heading -armies. The tread of his grenadiers is awful, -continuous. How will it be in the streets of the -glass city? These men are the flying letters of a -new gospel. They are the tablets of another law. -Twenty-eight, this general! Ah, but the metal is -well compounded. He has been victorious in -fourteen pitched battles and seventy fights; he has -taken five hundred field pieces, and two thousand -of heavy calibre; he has sent thirty millions back to -the treasury of France. The Kings of Naples and -Sardinia write him friendly letters; the Pope and -the Duke of Parma weary themselves with -compliments. The English have retired from Genoa, -Leghorn, and Corsica. -</p> - -<p> -Little glass masks, have you heard nothing of -this man? What of the new French ambassador, -Citizen Lallemont? You have seen his gondoliers -and the <i>tricolore</i> cockade in their caps? It is a -puzzling business, but you can hardly expect us to -be alarmed, we have been a republic for centuries. -Still, these new ideas are intriguing, they say several -gentlemen have adopted them. "Alvise Pisani, my -Dear, and Abbate Colalto, also Bragadin, and -Soranza, and Labbia. Oh, there was much talk about -it last night. Such strange notions! But the -cockade is very pretty. I have the ribbon, and I am -going to make a few. Signora Fontana gave me the -pattern." -</p> - -<p> -Columbus discovered America. Ah, it was then -you should have made your cockades. Is it Bonaparte -or the Cape of Good Hope which has compassed -your destiny? Little porcelain figures, can you stand -the shock of bronze? -</p> - -<p> -No, evidently. The quills of the Senate secretaries -are worn blunt, writing note after note to the -General of the Armies. But still he marches -forward, and his soldiers, dressed as peasants, have -invaded Breschia and Bergamo. And what a man! -Never satisfied. He must have this—that—and -other things as well. He must have guns, cannon, -horses, mules, food, forage. What is all this talk of a -Cisalpine Republic? The Senate wavers like so many -sea anemones in an advancing tide. Ascension Day -is approaching. Shall the Doge go in the <i>Bucentoro</i> -to wed the sea "in token of real and perpetual -dominion"? The Senate dictates, the secretaries write, -and the <i>Arsenalotti</i> polish the brasses of the <i>Bucentoro</i> -and wait. Brightly shine the overpolished brasses -of the <i>Bucentoro</i>, but the ships in the Arsenal are in -bad repair and the crews wanting. -</p> - -<p> -It is Holy Saturday in Venice, and solemn processions -march to the churches. The slow chanting -of choirs rises above the floating city, but in the -Citizen Lallemont's apartments is a jangling of -spurred heels, a clanking of cavalry sabres. General -Junot arrived in the small hours of the night. Holy -Saturday is nothing to a reformed Frenchman; the -General's business will not wait, he must see the -Signory at once. Desert your churches, convene the -College in haste. A bronze man cannot be opposed -by a Senate of glass. Is it for fantasy that so many -people are wearing the <i>tricolore</i>, or is it politeness to -the visiting general? But what does he say? French -soldiers murdered! Nonsense, a mere street row -between Bergamese. But Junot thunders and clanks -his sabre. A sword is a terrible thing in a cabinet -of biscuit figurines. Let that pass. He has gone. -But Venice is shaken. The stately palaces totter on -their rotting piles, the <i>campi</i> buzz with voices, the -Piazza undulates to a gesticulating multitude. Only -the pigeons wheel unconcernedly about the Campanile, -and the great horses stand, poised and majestic, -beneath the mounting angels of Saint Mark's -Church. -</p> - -<p> -Ascension Day draws nearer. The brasses of the -<i>Bucentoro</i> shine like gold. Surely the Doge will not -desert his bride; or has the jilt tired of her long -subjection? False water, upon your breast rock -many navies, how should you remain true to a ship -which fears to wet its keel. The <i>Bucentoro</i> glitters in -the Arsenal, she blazes with glass and gilding drawn -up safely on a runway of dry planks, while over the -sea, beyond the Lido, rises the spark of sails. The -vessel is hull down, but the tiers of canvas lift up, -one after the other: skysails, royals, topgallantsails, -topsails, mainsails, and at last, the woodwork. Then -gleaming ports, then streaming water flashed from a -curved bow. A good ship, but she flys the <i>tricolore</i>. -This is no wedding barge, there is no winged lion on -that flag. There is no music, no choir singing hymns. -Men run to and fro in San Nicolo Fort, peering -through spy-glasses. Ah, she will observe the rules, -the skysails come down, then the royals—but why -in thunder do not the topgallantsails follow? The -fellow is coming right under the fort. Guns. He -salutes. Answer from the fort. Citizen Lallemont -has agreed that no French vessel shall enter the port, -even the English do not attempt it. But the son of a -dog comes on. Send out boats, Comandatore -Pizzamano. <i>Per Dio</i>, he is passing them! Touch off -the cannon as a warning. One shot. Two. Some -one is on the poop with a speaking-trumpet. "What -ship is that?" "<i>Le Libérateur d'Italie. Le Capitaine -Laugier. Marine de la République Française.</i>" "It -is forbidden to enter the port, <i>Signor Capitano -Laugier</i>." "We intend to anchor outside." Do you! -Then why not clew up those damned topgallantsails. -My God! She is past the fort. She has slipped -through the entrance; she is in the Lagoon. Her -forefoot cuts the diamond water, she sheers her way -through the calm colour reflections, her bow points -straight at the rose and violet city swimming under -the light clouds of early afternoon. Shock! Shiver! -Foul of a Venetian galley, by all that's holy. What -beastly seamanship! The Venetians will not stand -it, I tell you. Pop! Pop! Those are muskets, -drop on them with cutlasses, <i>mes enfants</i>. Chop -into the cursed foreigners. "<i>Non vogliamo forestieri -qui.</i>" Boom! The cannon of Fort Sant' Andrea. -Good guns, well pointed, the smoke from them draws -a shade over the water. Down come the topgallantsails. -You have paid a price for your entrance, Captain -Laugier, but it is not enough. "<i>Viva San -Marco!</i>" Detestable voices, these Venetians. That -cry is confusing. Puff! The smoke goes by. Three -marines have fallen. The cannon fire at intervals of -two minutes. Hot work under a burning sky. Hot -work on a burning deck. The smoothness of the -water is flecked with bits of wood. A dead body rolls -overboard, and bobs up and down beside the ships. -A sailor slips from a yard, and is spiked on an -upturned bayonet. Over the water comes the pealing -of many bells. Captain Laugier is dead, and the -city tolls his requiem. Strike your colours, beaten -Frenchmen. Bronze cannot walk upon the sea. You -have failed and succeeded, for upon your Captain's -fallen body the bronze feet have found their -bridge. Do you rejoice, old Arsenal? A captive -ship towed up to you again! Ah, the cannon firing -has brought the rain. Yes, and thunder too, and in -the thunder a voice of bronze. The <i>Bucentoro</i> will -not take the water this year. Cover up the brasses, -<i>Arsenalotti</i>. Ascension Day is nothing to Venice -now. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Yesterday this was matter for rejoicing, but to-day... -Get the best rowers, order relays of horses on -the mainland, post hot foot to the Commissioners at -Gratz. One ship is nothing, but if they send twenty! -What has the bronze General already said to the -Commissioners. The Senate wonders, and wears itself -out in speculation. They will give money, they will -plunder the pockets of the populace to save Venice. -Can a child save his toys when manhood is upon him? -The century is old, already another lies in its arms. -Month by month a new moon rises over Venice, -but century by century! They cannot see, these -Senators. They cannot hear the General cutting the -Commissioners short in a sort of fury. "I wish no -more Inquisition, no more Senate. I will be an -Attila for Venice. This government is old; it must -fall!" Pretty words from bronze to porcelain. A -stain on a brave, new gospel. "Save Venice," the -letter urges, and the Commissioners depart for -Trieste. But the doors are locked. The General -blocks his entrances. "I cannot receive you, -Gentlemen, you and your Senate are disgusting to the -French blood." A pantomime before a temple, with -a priest acting the part of chief comedian. Strange -burlesque, arabesquing the characters of a creed. -You think this man is a greedy conqueror. Go -home, thinking. Your moment flutters off the -calendar, your world dissolves and another takes its -place. This is the cock-crow of ghosts. Slowly pass -up the canal, slowly enter the Ducal Palace. Debate, -everlastingly debate. And while you quibble the -communication with the continent is cut. -</p> - -<p> -He has declared war, the bronze General. What -can be done? The little glass figures crack under the -strain. Condulmer will not fight. Pesaro flees to -Austria. So the measure awaits a vote. A grave -Senate consulting a ballot-box as to whether it shall -cut its throat. This is not suicide, but murder; this -is not murder, but the turned leaf of an almanac. -"Divide! Divide!" What is the writing on the -other side? "<i>Viva la Libertà</i>," shouts General -Salimbeni from a window. Stupid crowd, it will -not give a cheer. It is queer what an unconscionable -objection people have to dying. "<i>Viva San Marco!</i>" -shouts General Salimbeni. Ah, now you hear! Such -a racket, and the old lion flag hoisted everywhere. -But that was a rash thing to do. It brings the crash. -They fight, fight for old Saint Mark, they smash, -burn, demolish. Who wore the <i>tricolore</i>? Plunder -their houses. No you don't, no selling us to -foreigners. They cannot read, the people, they do not -see that the print has changed. By dint of cannon -you can stop them. Stop them suddenly like a -clock dropped from a wall. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Venice! Venice! The star-wakes gleam and -shatter in your still canals, and the great horses -pace forward, vigorous, unconcerned, beautiful, -treading your grief as they tread the passing -winds. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The riot is over, but another may break out. A -dead republic cannot control its citizens. General -Baraguey d'Hilliers is at Mestre. His dragoons will -keep order. Shame, nobles and abdicated Senate! -But can one blame the inactivity of the dead? -French dragoons in little boats. The 5th and 63rd -of the line proceeding to Venice in forty little boats. -Grenadiers embarked for a funeral. Soldiers cracking -jokes, and steady oar-strokes, warping them -over the water toward Venice. A dark city, scarcely -a lamp is lit. A match-spark slits the darkness, a -drummer is lighting his pipe. Ah, there are walls -ahead. The dull bones of the dead. Water swashes -against marble. They are in the canal, their voices -echo from doors and porches. Forty boats, and the -bobble of them washes the water step and step above -its usual height on the stairways. "<i>C'est une église -ça!</i>" "<i>Mais, oui, Bêta, tu pensais pourtant -pas que tu entrais en France. Nous sommes dans -une sale ville aristocratique, et je m'en fiche, -moi!</i>" Brave brigadier, spit into the canal, what else can a -man of the new order do to show his enlightenment. -Two regiments of seasoned soldiers, two regiments of -free citizens, forty boat-loads of thinking men to -goad a moribund nation into the millennium. The -new century arriving with a flower in its button-hole, -the <i>carmagnole</i> ousting the <i>furlana</i>. Perhaps—perhaps—but -years pile up and then collapse. Will gaps -start between one and another? Settle your -gun-straps, 63rd of the line, we land here by the dim -shine of a lantern held by a bombardier. Tier and -tier the soldiers march through Venice. Their steps -racket like the mallets of marble-cutters in the -narrow <i>calli</i>, and the sound of them over bridges is -the drum-beating of hard rain. -</p> - -<p> -There are soldiers everywhere, Venice is stuffed -with soldiers. They are at the Arsenal, on the -Rialto, at San Stefano, and four hundred stack -muskets, and hang their bearskins on the top of -them, in the middle of the Piazza. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Golden horses, the sound of violins is hushed, the -pigeons who brush past you in the red and rising -sunlight have just been perching on crossed bayonets. -Set your faces to this army, advance toward them, -paw the air over their heads. They do not observe -you—yet. You are confounded with jewels, and -leaves, and statues. You are a part of the great -church, even though you stand poised to leave it, -and already a sergeant has seen you. "<i>Tiens,</i>" says -he, "<i>voilà les quatre chevaux d'or. Ah, mais ils sont -magnifiques! Et quelle drôle d'idée de les avoir montés -sur la Cathédrale.</i>" -</p> - -<p> -The century wanes, the moon-century is gnawed -and eaten, but the feet of the great horses stand upon -its fragments, full-tilted to an arrested advance, and -the green corroding on their sides is hidden in the -glare of gold. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"For the honour and independence of the infant -Cisalpine Republic, the affectionate and loving -Republic of France orders and commands—" -</p> - -<p> -What does she command? Precisely, that the -new Government shall walk in solemn procession -round the Piazza, and that a mass of thanksgiving -shall be celebrated in Saint Mark's Church and the -image of the Virgin exposed to the rejoicing -congregation. Who would have supposed that Venetians -could be so dumb. The acclamations seem mostly in -the French tongue. Never mind, it takes more than -a day to translate a creed into a new language. -Liberty is a great prize, good Venetians, although it -must be admitted that she appears in disguise for -the moment. She wears a mask, that is all, and you -should be accustomed to masks. The soldiers bask -in the warm sunshine, and doubtless the inhabitants -bask in the sight of the soldiers, but they conceal -their satisfaction very adroitly. Still, General -Baraguey d'Hilliers has no doubt that it is there. This -liberation of a free people is a famous exploit. He is -a bit nettled at their apathy, for he has always heard -that they were of a gay temperament. "<i>Sacré -Bleu!</i> And we are giving them so much!" -</p> - -<p> -Indeed, this giving is done with a magnificent -generosity. It is exactly on Ascension Day that -Bonaparte writes from Montebello: "Conformably -to your desire, Citizens, I have ordered the -municipalities of Padua and Treviso to allow the passage -of the foodstuffs necessary to the provisionment of -the town of Venice." -</p> - -<p> -"Real and perpetual dominion," and now a boat-load -of food is a condescension! Pink and purple -water, your little ripples jest at these emblazoned -palaces, your waves chuckle down the long Rivas, -you reflect the new flag of Venice which even the -Dey of Algiers refuses to respect, and patter your -light heels upon it as on a dancing-floor. There will -be no more use for the <i>Bucentoro</i>, of course. So rip -off the gilding, pack up the mirrors, chop the timbers -into firewood. This is good work for soldiers with -nothing to do. There are other ships to be -dismantled too, and some few seaworthy enough to send -to the army at Corfu. But if they have taken away -Ascension Day, the French will give Venice a new -fête. Ah! and one so beautiful! Beat the drums, -ring the church-bells, set up a Tree of Liberty in the -Great Square, this fête is past telling. So writes the -Citizen Arnault, from his room in the <i>Queen of -England</i> inn. He bites his pen, he looks out on the -little canal with its narrow bridge, he fusses with his -watch-chain. It is not easy to write to the bronze -General. He dips in the ink and starts again. "The -people take no active part in what goes on here. -They have seen the lions fall without making any -sign of joy." That certainly is queer. Perhaps -Citizen Arnault did not hear that gondolier, who when -they chiselled out "<i>Pax tibi, Marce, evangelista -meus</i>" on the lion's book, and chiselled in -"<i>Diritti dell' uomo e del cittadino</i>," exclaimed: "The -lion has turned over a new leaf." Does that sound -like grief? Certainly not, think the French soldiers, -and yet the Doge's robes, the Golden Book, burn in -silence, until a corporal strikes up the "<i>Marseillaise</i>." They -make a grand blaze too; why, the boatmen far -off in the hazy Lagoon can hear the crackle of it -snapping over the water. Then the columns! The -columns produce a lovely effect, one all wound with -<i>tricolore</i> flags and with this inscription: "To the -French, regenerators of Italy, Venice grateful," on -its front, and on the back, "Bonaparte." The other -is not so gay, but most proper and desirable. It is -hung with crêpe, and the letters read: "To the shade -of the victim of oligarchy, Venice sorrowful," and, -"Laugier." To be sure there has been considerable -excitement, and the great green lion has been thrown -down and shattered in at least eighty fragments, but -the soldiers did it. The populace were simply stolid -and staring. Citizen Arnault fidgets in his chair. -But other affairs march better. He has found the -only copy of Anacharsis which is known to be in -Venice; he is going to hunt for Homer, for he wants -to put it with the Ossian of Cesarotti which he has -already taken from the Library. Here his pen runs -rapidly, he has an inspiration. "There are four -superb horses which the Venetians took when, in -company with the French, they sacked Constantinople. -These horses are placed over the portal of the -Ducal Church. Have not the French some right to -claim them, or at least to accept them of Venetian -gratitude?" The bronze General has an eye to a -man, witness this really excellent plan. Fold your -letter, Citizen. Press your fob down upon the seal. -You may feel proud as you ring for candles, no one -will have hurt Venice more than you. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The blue night softens the broken top of the -column in the Piazzetta where it juts against the -sky. The violet night sifts shadows over the white, -mounting angels of Saint Mark's Church; it throws -an aureole of lilac over the star of Christ and melts -it into the glimmering dome behind. But upon the -horses it clashes with the glitter of steel. Blue -striking gold, and together producing a white-heart -fire. Cold, as in great fire, hard as in new-kindled -fire, outlined as behind a flame which folds back -upon itself in lack of fuel, the great horses stand. -They strain forward, they recoil even when starting, -they raise one foot and hold it lifted, and -all about them the stones of the jewelled church -writhe, and convolute, and glisten, and dash the -foam of their tendrils against the clear curve of the -moulded flanks. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The Treaty of Campo Formio! A mask stripped -off a Carnival figure, and behold, the sneering face -of death! What of the creed the French were bringing -the Venetians! Was it greed after all, or has a -seed been sown? If so, the flowering will be long -delayed. The French are leaving us, and almost we -wish they would remain. For Austria! What does -it matter that the <i>Bucentoro</i> is broken up; the lions -from the Piræus loaded into a vessel; books, -parchments, pictures, packed in travelling cases! What -does anything matter! A gondolier snaps his fingers: -"<i>Francese non tutti ladri, ma Buona-parte!</i>" Hush, -my friend, that is a dangerous remark, for Madame -Bonaparte has descended upon Venice in a whirlwind -of laughter, might have made friends had she not been -received in an overturned storehouse. But she stays -only three days, and the song of the gondoliers who -row her away can scarcely be heard for the hammering -they make, putting up an immense scaffolding -in front of Saint Mark's Church. They have -erected poles too, and tackle. It is an awful -nuisance, for soldiers are not skilled in carpenter -work, and no Venetian will lend a hand. A -grand ship sails for Toulon as soon as the horses -are on board. -</p> - -<p> -Golden horses, at last you leave your pedestals, -you swing in the blue-and-silver air, you paw the -reflections flung by rippled water, and the starved -pigeons whirl about you chattering. One—one—one—one! -The tackle creaks, the little squeaks of -the pigeons are sharp and pitiful. A gash in the -front of the great Church. A blank window framing -nothing. The leaves of the sculptures curl, the -swirling angels mount steadily, the star of Christ is -the pointed jet of a flame, but the horses -drop—drop— They descend slowly, they jerk, and stop, -and start again, and one—one—one—one—they -touch the pavement. Women throw shawls over -their heads and weep; men pull off their caps and -mutter prayers and imprecations. Then silently they -form into a procession and march after the hand-carts, -down to the quay, down to the waiting vessel. Slow -feet following to a grave. Here is a sign, but hardly -of joy. This is a march of mourning. Depart, vessel, -draw out over the bright Lagoon, grow faint, vague, -blur and disappear. The murder is accomplished. -To-morrow come the Austrians. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -<i>BONFIRES BURN PURPLE</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>Then the energy which peoples the Earth crystallized -into a single man. And this man was Water, and -Fire, and Flesh. His core had the strength of metal, -and the hardness of metal was in his actions, and upon -him the sun struck as upon polished metal. So he -went to and fro among the nations, gleaming as with -jewels. Of himself were the monuments he erected, and -his laws were engraved tablets of fairest bronze. But -there grew a great terror among the lesser peoples of the -Earth, and they ran hither and yon like the ants, they -swarmed like beetles, and they saw themselves impotent, -merely making tracks in sand. Now as speed is heat, -so did this man soften with the haste of his going. For -Fire is supreme even over metal, and the Fire in him -overcame the strong metal, so that his limbs failed, and -his brain was hot and molten. Then was he consumed, -but those of his monuments which harboured not Fire, -and were without spirit, and cold, these endured. In -the midst of leaping flame, they kept their semblances, -and turning many colours in heat, still they cooled as -the Fire cooled. For metal is unassailable from -without, only a spark in the mid-most circle can force a -double action which pours it into Water, and volatilizes -it into Air, and sifts it to ashes which are Earth. For -man can fashion effigies, but the spark of Life he can -neither infuse nor control.</i> -</p> - -<p> -<i>As a sharp sun this man passed across his century, -and of the cenotaphs of his burning, some remain as a -shadow of splendour in the streets of his city, but others -have returned whence he gathered them, for the years -of these are many and the touch of kings upon them is -as the dropping of particles of dust.</i> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -VENICE AGAIN -</p> - -<p> -Sunday evening, May 23, 1915. A beautiful -Sunday evening with the Lagoon just going purple, -and the angel on the tip of the new Campanile dissolved -to a spurt of crocus-coloured flame. Up into -the plum-green sky mount the angels of the Basilica -of Saint Mark, their wings, curved up and feathered -to the fragility of a blowing leaf, making incisive -stabs of whiteness against the sky. -</p> - -<p> -An organ moans in the great nave, and the high -voices of choristers float out through the open door -and surge down the long Piazza. The chugging of a -motor-boat breaks into the chant, swirls it, churns -upon it, and fades to a distant pulsing down the Grand -Canal. The Campanile angel goes suddenly crimson, -pales to rose, dies out in lilac, and remains dark, -almost invisible, until the starting of stars behind it -gives it a new solidity in hiding them. -</p> - -<p> -In the warm twilight, the little white tables of the -Café Florian are like petals dropped from the rose of -the moon. For a moment they are weird and magical, -but the abrupt glare of electric lights touches them -back into mere tables: mere tables, flecked with -coffee-cups and liqueur-glasses; mere tables, -crumpling the lower halves of newspapers with their hard -edges; mere tables, where gesticulating arms rest -their elbows, and ice-cream plates nearly meet disaster -in the excitement of a heated discussion. Venice -discusses. What will the Government do? Austria -has asked that her troops might cross over Italian -territory, South of Switzerland, in order to attack -the French frontier. Austria! "I tell you, Luigi, -that alliance the Government made with the Central -Powers was a ghastly blunder. You could never -have got Italians to fight on the side of Austrians. -Blood is thicker than ink, fortunately. But we are -ready, thanks to Commandante Cadorna. It was a -foregone conclusion, ever since we refused passage -to their troops." "I saw Signor Colsanto, yesterday. -He told me that the order had come from the General -Board of Antiquities and Fine Arts to remove -everything possible to Rome, and protect what can't be -moved. He begins the work to-morrow." "He -does! Well, that tells us. Here, Boy, Boy, give -me a paper. Listen to that roar! There you are, -<i>cinque centesimi</i>. Well, we're off, Luigi. It's -declared. Italy at war with Austria again. Thank -God, we've wiped off the stain of that abominable -treaty." With heads bared, the crowd stands, and -shouts, and cheers, and the pigeons fleer away in -frightened circles to the sculptured porticoes of the -Basilica. The crowd bursts into a sweeping song. A -great patriotic chorus. It echoes from side to side of -the Piazza, it runs down the colonnades of the Procuratie -like a splashing tide, it dashes upon the arched -portals of Saint Mark's and flicks upward in jets of -broken music. Wild, shooting, rolling music; -vibrant, solemn, dedicated music; throbbing music -flung out of loud-pounding hearts. The Piazza holds -the sound of it and lifts it up as one raises an -offering before an altar. Higher—higher—the song is -lifted, it engulfs the four golden horses over the -centre door of the church. The horses are as brazen -cymbals crashing back the great song in a cadence of -struck metal, the carven capitals are fluted reeds to -this mighty anthem, the architraves bandy it to and -fro in revolving canons of harmony. Up, up, spires -the song, and the mounting angels call it to one -another in an ascending scale even to the star of fire -on the topmost pinnacle which is the Christ, even -into the distant sky where it curves up and over -falling down to the four horizons, to the highest -point of the aconite-blue sky, the sky of the -Kingdom of Italy. -</p> - -<p> -Garibaldi's Hymn! For war is declared and Italy -has joined the Allies! -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Soft night falling upon Venice. Summer night -over the moon-city, the flower-city. <i>Fiore di -Mare!</i> Garden of lights in the midst of dark waters, your -star-blossoms will be quenched, the strings of your -guitars will snap and slacken. Nights, you will gird -on strange armour, and grow loud and strident. But -now— The gilded horses shimmer above the portico -of Saint Mark's! How still they are, and powerful. -Pride, motion, activity set in a frozen patience. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly—Boom! A signal gun. Then immediately -the shrill shriek of a steam whistle, and -another, and whistles and whistles, from factories and -boats, yawling, snarling, mewling, screeching, a -cracked cacophony of horror. -</p> - -<p> -Minutes—one—two—three—and the batteries -of the Aerial-Guard Station begin to fire. Shells—red -and black, white and grey—bellow, snap, and -crash into the blue-black sky. A whirr—the -Italian planes are rising. Their white centre lights -throw a halo about them, and, tip and tip, a red -light and a green, spark out to a great spread, closing -together as the planes gain in altitude. Up they go, -the red, white, and green circles underneath their -wings and on either side of the fan-tails bright in the -glow of the white centre light. Up, up, slanting in -mounting circles. "Holy Mother of God! What is -it?" Taubes over the city, flying at a great height, -flying in a wedge like a flight of wild geese. Boom! -The anti-aircraft guns are flinging up strings of -luminous balls. Range 10,000 feet, try 10,500. Loud -detonations, echoing far over the Lagoon. The navigation -lights of the Italian planes are a faint triangle -of bright dots. They climb in deliberate spirals, -up and up, up and up. They seem to hang. They -hover without direction. Ah, there are the Taubes, -specks dotting the beam of a search-light. One of -them is banking. Two Italian machines dart up -over him. He spins, round—round—top-whirling, -sleeping in speed, to us below he seems stationary. -Pup-pup-pup-pup-pup—machine-guns, clicking like -distant typewriters, firing with indescribable rapidity. -The Italian planes drop signal balloons, they hang in -the air like suspended sky-rockets, they float down, -amber balls, steadily burning. The ground guns -answer, and white buds of smoke appear in the sky. -They seem to blossom out of darkness, silver roses -beyond the silver shaft of the search-light. The air -is broken with noise: thunder-drumming of cannon, -sharp pocking of machine-guns, snap and crack of -rifles. Above, the specks loop, and glide, and -zig-zag. The spinning Taube nose-dives, recovers, and -zums upward, topping its adversary. Another Taube -swoops in over a Nieuport and wags its tail, spraying -lead bullets into the Italian in a wide, wing-and-wing -arc. The sky is bitten red with stinging -shrapnel. Two machines charge head on, the Taube -swerves and rams the right wing of the Nieuport. -Flame! Flame leaping and dropping. A smear -from zenith to—following it, the eye hits the -shadow of a roof. Blackness. One poor devil gone, -and the attacking plane is still airworthy though -damaged. It wobbles out of the search-light and -disappears, rocking. Two Taubes shake themselves -free of the tangle, they glide down—down—all -round them are ribbons of "flaming onions," they -avoid them and pass on down, close over the city, -unscathed, so close you can see the black crosses on -their wings with a glass. Rifles crack at them from -roofs. Pooh! You might as well try to stop them -with pea-shooters. They curve, turn, and hang -up-wind. Small shells beat about them with a report -like twanged harp-strings. "<i>Klar sum -Werfen?</i>" "<i>Jawohl.</i>" "<i>Gut dock, werfen.</i>" Words cannot carry -down thousands of feet, but the ominous hovering is -a sort of speech. People wring their hands and clutch -their throats, some cover their ears. Z-z-z-z-z! -That whine would pierce any covering. The bomb -has passed below the roofs. Nothing. A pause. -Then a report, breaking the hearing, leaving only the -apprehension of a great light and no sound. They -have hit us! <i>Misericordia</i>! They have hit Venice! -One—two—four—ten bombs. People sob and -pray, the water lashes the Rivas as though there were -a storm. Another machine falls, shooting down in -silence. It is not on fire, it merely falls. Then -slowly the Taubes draw off. The search-light shifts, -seeking them. The gun-fire is spaced more widely. -Field-glasses fail to show even a speck. There is -silence. The silence of a pulse which has stopped. -But the people walk in the brightness of fire. Fire -from the Rio della Tanna, from the Rio del Carmine, -from the quarter of Santa Lucia. Bells peal in a -fury, fire-boats hurry with forced engines along the -canals. Water streams jet upon the fire; and, in the -golden light, the glittering horses of Saint Mark's -pace forward, silent, calm, determined in their -advance, above the portal of the untouched church. -</p> - -<p> -The night turns grey, and silver, and opens into a -blue morning. Diamond roses sparkle on the Lagoon, -but the people passing quickly through the Piazza -are grim, and workmen sniff the smoky air as they fix -ladders and arrange tools. Venice has tasted war. -"<i>Evviva Italia!</i>" -</p> - -<p> -City of soft colours, of amber and violet, you are -turning grey-green, and grey-green are the uniforms -of the troops who defend you. The Bersaglieri still -wear their cocks' feathers, but they are green too, -and black. Black as the guns mounted on pontoons -among the Lagoons before Venice, green as the -bundles of reeds camouflaging them from Austrian -observation balloons. Drag up metre after metre -of grey-green cloth, stretch it over the five golden -domes of Saint Mark's Basilica. Hood their splendour -in umbrella bags of cloth, so that not one glint -shall answer the mocking shimmer of the moon. -Barrows and barrows of nails for the wooden bastion -of the Basilica, hods and hods of mortar and narrow -bricks to cover the old mosaics of the lunettes. -Cart-loads of tar and planking, and heaps, heaps, -hills and mountains of sand—the Lido protecting -Venice, as it has done for hundreds of years. They -shovel sand, scoop sand, pour sand, into bags and -bags and bags. Thousands of bags piled against -the bases of columns, rising in front of carved -corners, blotting out altars, throttling the open points -of arches. Porphyries, malachites, and jades are -squarely boarded, pulpits and fonts disappear in -swaddling bands. Why? The battle front is forty -miles away in Friuli, and Venice is not a fortified -town. Why? Answer, Reims! Bear witness, -Ypres! Do they cover Venice without reason? -Nietzsche was a German, still I believe they read him -in Vienna. Blood and Iron! And is there not also -Blood and Stone, Blood and Bronze, Blood and -Canvas? "Kultur," Venetians, in the Rio del Carmine; -there is no time to lose. Take down the great -ceiling pictures in the Ducal Palace and wrap them on -cylinders. Build a high trestle, and fashion little -go-carts which draw with string. -</p> - -<p> -Hush! They are coming—the four beautiful -horses. They rise in a whirl of disturbed pigeons. -They float and descend. The people watch in -silence as, one after another, they reach the ground. -Across the tiles they step at last, each pulled in -a go-cart; merry-go-round horses, detached and -solitary, one foot raised, tramp over chequered -stones, over chequered centuries. The merry-go-round -of years has brought them full circle, for are -they not returning to Rome? -</p> - -<p> -For how long? Ask the guns embedded in the snow -of glaciers; ask the rivers pierced from their beds, -overflowing marshes and meadows, forming a new -sea. Seek the answer in the faces of the Grenatieri -Brigade, dying to a man, but halting the invaders. -Demand it of the women and children fleeing the -approach of a bitter army. Provoke the reply in -the dryness of those eyes which gaze upon the wreck -of Tiepolo's ceiling in the Church of the Scalzi. Yet -not in Italy alone shall you find it. The ring -of searching must be widened, and France, England, -Japan, and America, caught within its edge. Moons -and moons, and seas seamed with vessels. Needles -stitching the cloth of peace to choke the cannon of -war. -</p> - -<p> -The boat draws away from the Riva. The great -bronze horses mingle their outlines with the distant -mountains. Dim gold, subdued green-gold, flashing -faintly to the faint, bright peaks above them. -Granite and metal, earth over water. Down the -canal, old, beautiful horses, pride of Venice, of -Constantinople, of Rome. Wars bite you with their -little flames and pass away, but roses and oleanders -strew their petals before your going, and you move -like a constellation in a space of crimson stars. -</p> - -<p> -So the horses float along the canal, between barred -and shuttered palaces, splendid against marble walls -in the fire of the sun. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="t4"> -Printed in the United States of America. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> - -<p class="t3"> -Books by AMY LOWELL -<br /> -PUBLISHED BY -<br /> -HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -<i>Poetry</i> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - WHAT'S O'CLOCK<br /> - LEGENDS<br /> - PICTURES OF THE FLOATING WORLD<br /> - CAN GRANDE'S CASTLE<br /> - MEN, WOMEN AND GHOSTS<br /> - SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED<br /> - A DOME OF MANY-COLOURED GLASS<br /> - A CRITICAL FABLE<br /> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - (IN COLLABORATION WITH FLORENCE ATSCOUGH)<br /> - FIR-FLOWER TABLETS: POEMS TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p class="t3"> -<i>Prose</i> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> - TENDENCIES IN MODERN AMERICAN POETRY<br /> - SIX FRENCH POETS: STUDIES IN CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE<br /> - JOHN KEATS<br /> -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAN GRANDE'S CASTLE ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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