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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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