Poems (Shore)/Olga
PART III
UNFINISHED DRAMAS AND OTHER PIECES
UNFINISHED DRAMAS AND OTHER PIECES
The following fragments, consisting chiefly of scenes of dramas, were, for the most part, the work, very irregularly pursued, of some fifteen years, up to the last seven before her end. Interested as she was in the occupation, she wanted perseverance, self-appreciation, and latterly health and strength, to complete her designs.
The sister had always been aware of the planning of these dramas, about which Louisa freely conversed with her as long as they were only plans. But when they had been put to paper, nothing more was heard of them. If she sometimes prayed to be shown some of this work, the writer only carelessly answered, "I will, some day." She never gave her sister an idea that there was anything but a few scraps and mere failures, of which nothing could be made.
The latter was consequently astonished when, during her sister's last illness and after her death, she discovered these various compositions in different places and in the least promising forms, carelessly left unnoticed on bedroom shelves, or buried deep in long unopened cabinet drawers. The verses were scrawled with pen or pencil in most irregular fashion, often on blank leaves of tradesmen's account-books, on scraps of old letters and memoranda, the pencil notes sometimes almost effaced, and the handwriting not rarely all but illegible. They were covered, moreover, with hundreds of female fancy heads, sometimes very beautiful; which she had through life an irresistible propensity to draw whenever she had pen or pencil in her hand. And in this state were found pages on pages of fine and finished verse, continually corrected and re-copied and showing great care in the composition, though in other parts lines were often unfinished and the final touches obviously not given.
These fragments are, nevertheless, if one may say so, as poems mostly complete in themselves, and may be read without a sense of imperfection. This is especially the case with the one which we have called "Olga," which has a commencement and a conclusion, with an unbroken interest, and which we give first, on that account. In point of fact, it was nearly the last written and quite the last discovered; her sister had supposed that all had been found and had no notion of the existence of the MS. till she came upon it at the bottom of a drawer turned out merely to clear it of rubbish. It was mixed and crossed with verses on other subjects, and overlaid, as usual, with a crowd of delicate, mysterious girl-faces.
The date is fixed by the subject as 1881.[1] She had been deeply impressed with the state of Russia, the terrible moral results of unlimited power to the ruler, the tragic struggles of the Nihilists, and the murder of the Czar. But she laid the work aside, because the imaginary situation, to which no precise period was assigned, obviously suggested a contemporary event too tragical for use as mere literary capital, and thus hurt alike her artistic and her human sensibilities. OLGA
SCENE I
Dimitri and Olga his pupil
Dim. Now, Olga, I have led thee round the world,From North to South, from East to West, and thenBack through the ages, past th' extremest boundOf history—step by step have tracked the raceOf man to his mysterious gradual birthOut of the ruder life—aye, further still,Through the half-made wild world of desolate flood,And forest and perpetual dream-change upTo the dumb, formless matter wherein firstUnconscious life lay cradled. We have stoodTogether and surveyed as from a heightThe gathering swarms stream o'er the waste of earth,Scatter and spread, re-form, hunt, fight, hew downThe forests, build, found cities (clustered lightsStarring the darkness of the Asian plain, Some vanishing to shine again no more);Then, tending downwards, we have passed togetherFrom throne to throne, temple to temple, downTo this strange, restless, miserable time.Thou hast heard the endless chorus of men's sighsRoll by us like the murmur of the sea,Then, as the present age loomed into sight,Nearer and nearer swelling into groans,And shrieks, and curses, whilst above them allTriumphant music soared into the skies,From modern Neros singing to the flamesOf human hearths—and hearts.Thou hast seen how Kings,Like Mammoths of the past, survivals grimOf the world's childhood, prey upon it still;Hast seen the priests still offering at the shrineOf God framed in the tyrant's image, not(What once was savoury to their Deity)The sacrifice of human flesh and blood,But man's more sacred soul; thou hast seen the strongStamping the weak to dust, hast seen the wiseFrame laws to snare the simple, wealth rob the poor,Bribe innocence to sin; and thou hast heardThe grave voice of devout hypocrisyIn Bible phrase inform us "It is good." Thou hast seen the poor man, blindly, desperately,Feeling for God, a God of peace and love,And seen the rich and mighty grudge him this,His one possession, his one dream of hope,And smother in dark sayings his new faith;Enthrone another God in vulgar pomp,And bribe Him with base homage . . . .To fix His seal on deeds of blood and crime,To set His foot on knowledge and denounceWith curses that faint dawning of the light.Thou hast learnt much, but knowledge for the sakeOf knowing merely is a luxuryToo delicately selfish for the soulTo thrive by. Thou has felt much too, hast burnedIn thy grave silence over this world's wrongs.But the heart wastes, not lives, in such slow fireAs thine keeps pent within it. What my wordsMean on this day, on other days have meant,I think you have in part divined.Olga.In part—I wait for more.Dim.Then listen to me now.The time is come for us who know, to teachThe weak who feel, to teach them how the weakFind strength in secret union, and must passLaws holier than the tyrant's and the priest's,The busy money-getter's and the rich Voluptuary's—that in this secret courtThese must be judged and sentenced, ere they know,By just inexorable judges—Yes—'Tis war, and we must strike. Olga.Strike? . . . whom? and how? Dim. Child, are the little daily innocent pleasuresThat flutter round thee like spring-butterflies,As thy youth blooms more fully from the bud,Enough for thee as (for) others? Morn by mornTo rise and meet thy beauty in the glassWhile thy deft handmaid smooths thy raiment out,To choose rich hangings for thy sumptuous nest,And pictures to salute thy waking eyes;To crown vase after vase with miraclesOf bloom—those nurslings of such warmth and lightAs never bless the cradles of the poor;Then to choose silks and laces for the ball,And wait the crowd of sauntering worshippers,Murmuring their brainless nothings round thy chair;And last accept some rich, luxurious lordTo be the life-long master of thine hours,With half a heart for thee, and scarce a thought—More gravely trifling in thy married chainThan in thy days of dancing vacancy—But trifling still, though crowned with motherhood,A harmless and a graceful happiness,Midst all the finer courtesies of home, (The rich have time for courtesy, if notFor love) will this content you?In my hearOlga.I have renounced all this, because to meAll joys seem stolen from the joyless.WellDim.I knew your answer. You would freely giveLife's pleasures—would you give your life itselfTo help the helpless?Yes.Olga.Dim.I knew that too.But more than that—could you give up this life,All this young blooming life and hope, amidstThe hisses and the howlings of the world—That which each calls the world—the neighbour- names,The long-known friends—the rival and the lover?Could you endure to see them stand aloofIn scorn, yes, e'en the kind with wondering horror,The men who once would reverently have kneltTo kiss your feet, hereafter to denyThe very knowledge of your face and name;And thus rejected, even by your kin,You should become upon the winged sheets'That light on every threshold in all lands,A name of portent to all curious eyesThat feed upon disasters—they themselves Safe sheltered from the storm—could you bear this,Content that humble thousands whom you knew not,Some future day, unheard by you, should riseAnd call you blessed?Olga.If I could believeThat i should merit this, I would—I think,I am sure—bear all the rest.Dim.But more, much more—Say, would you sacrifice your very soul,Its gracious womanliness, its limpid truth,Its tender pitifulness, its pure pride,Its sacred "Touch me not," that delicate shrineOf crystal which invisibly divides youFrom the coarse, common world? Could you be false?Flatter bad men? be cruel? fling asideThe selfish pedantry of cautious conscienceIn pity to the groans of humankind?Say, Olga, would you do this?Olga.Let me thinkWhat your words mean.Dim.Yous hall know all in time.Have trust in us, and when the hour shall strikeBe crowned the true Saint of a loftier FaithThan martyrs died for in the flames of old.They died to save their single souls; they boreTorments on earth to purchase endless Heaven. You shall obtain more glorious martyrdom—Give your own soul to serve the countless soulsWho in the days to come shall bless the Few—For we are few as yet—we are the First.Thousands will join us till the world is won.Will you be of the First?Olga.Were this to serveA holy cause unholily?Dim.Mere words.To answer them I will but bid you standOutside yourself. Look at the beautiful soulWithin you revelling so delicatelyIn its own perfectness, not seeking praise,But self-assured, in self-approval proud,—And useless to your fellows., Look on it,As I portray it—not as you, but yours.Then think you hear a voice inspired, the voiceOf all humanity that calls on youTo fling a stone at that bright rainbow-thingYou treasure—that fair vision of yourself—And shatter it to fragments.Olga.I am nothing,Unless I can do service to the cause;And what I can I will do. Only tell meWhat, what shall be that service?Dim.You shall know itWhen the time comes. Olga.So I may be assuredThat, using thus the weapons of the wicked,We shall not take their place—become as they are. Dim. No, by my soul! The enemy we fightIs false and cruel in his own behalf;For power, for lands, for wasteful luxury,For all the haughty privilege of the fewTo suck the life-blood of the many, enjoyWhile others weep, idle while others toil;To speak, to walk, like Agag, delicately,While humble Labour heavily plods by—To keep the key of knowledge and to closeIts doors on starving ignorance, then doze o'erThe page of genius in an easy-chair—For Self alone our masters sell their souls;And we—we give them for humanity.
Enter Countess Anastasia, Olga's mother
Countess. Pardon for breaking in upon your studies.I need my daughter for a pressing business. Dim. Countess, her task is finished.Count.And I hopeWell learned. I trust you have a docile pupil. Dim. None more responsive to a word, or swifterTo follow out my thought. Count.I am glad you say so.Yet now a time draws near that scarce will leave herLeisure for these slow tranquil hours with you,Which I rejoice to know employed so well.Come then, my child, 'tis your new dress awaits you.Wise as you are, Dimitri, you'll not grudge herThe coming triumph of her youth to-night,When she will dawn in beauty on a worldThat yet scarce knows her face. . . . .
SCENE II
OLGA'S FIRST BALL
The Countess, &c. A knot of Young Men Students in a corner. Dimitri, Ivan, &c.
Ivan, What will you make, then, of this pretty toy?What secret have you puzzled out beneathThat low, mysterious brow, and those twin curvesOf faintly gleaming hair? What see you thereSave purple-born young beauty, in sereneExpectance of her crown to come? Aye, tell meWhat see you in this child that you should castOur life, hope, cause into her baby hands? Dim. I see the virgin-saint of the new faithAnd all the miracle of the new time—Young awful justice in a lovelier maskThan Folly ever wore. What more? [ seeThe dagger glittering at the tyrant's heart. Ivan. If you see true, so be it; and in Heaven's nameSnatch up this delicate flower from its gay vaseAnd let it scorch and blacken in the flames.We are sworn to sacrifice not ourselves only,But, if need be, the best and fairest too.But what you see I see not. I see loveAnd idle marriage, serious folly—allThe little countless treasons of vain youthTo the best and highest; all a nation's hope,A world's hope it may be, cast lightly byFor a night's triumph in a new-made dress,For a fool's whisper, homage of a flower,Or say—a smile from the August himself.. . . . And truly we may boast that Cherub lipsShall pipe our march to the Infernal gods.For where else are we bound when we recruitOur sacred band in ball-rooms and entrustOur secret to the ears of waxen dolls?
SCENE III
A SLEDGING PARTY
The Countess, Olga, &c., and the same Young Men who were at the ball, and other Students and Conspirators
Countess. [To Ilma, a lady companion.]Where is she gone on those wild wings of hers?Couldst thou not stay her?Ilma.Lady, no; my bird,When I would catch her, flits beyond my reach,And sings defiance.Count.Oh these daughters! WhereIs she now, Ilma?Ilma.Where her laughter ringsAgainst the jingle of the sleighing bells,Driving her frantic steeds beneath the stars,Chased by a crowd of lovers wild as she. Count. As reckless and as heartless—is she mine,This strange young daughter? such a soft sweet roseOf love and goodness till this fatal time.
[Olga is introduced on this occasion to the body of Conspirators by Dimitri, to whom she has given her final assent
Olga. I trust you, and will follow you for ever. Dim. Then I will bring you to the brother- hood,Whose watchword is—while tyrants live and reign—"Death to the tyrant and his tyranny."Ivan.Fair Olga,Believe him not, he makes a jest of you.We are not here for such grave purposes—Dimitri never makes a jest of me. Olga. For what, then, are you met?Ivan.To try the speedAnd courage of our horses—'tis for usAs grave a matter as for you, fair dames,Your rivalry in dress. These jangling bellsAre our dance music, and this frozen floodOur ball-room.Dim.Cease, you will not cheat her so.*****
A brave and devoted young conspirator has been condemned to death. The brotherhood has had an anonymous letter conveyed to the Czar's hands setting forth the advantage of showing mercy to the youth, but in vain. A second time they write, threatening vengeance. This step is answered by his immediate execution. The next scene is a masked ball. To this Olga, still under the fascination of the new fellowship, and in the indignation excited by the Czar's last act, goes masked.
SCENE
THE PALACE AND THE BALL
Czar, Olga, Others
Olga. Sweet Czar, I fain would have a word with thee.Give me thy hand.Czar.Tis thine. Thou tremblest.Olga.Oh!For five long years I have sighed for such a moment.And yet I knew, I knew, through all those years,That I should stand, as now, thy hand in mine. Czar. Speakst thou of years? And yet I know thee youngBy the clear thrill of that fresh voice, and fairI guess thee by thy grace,Olga.When first thine imageBegan to haunt me, Mighty Czar, I hadBut fifteen years.Czar.And hast thou loved me, then,From fifteen years? OlgaLove! that's a feeble word,One that means nothing. I have watched thy footsteps;In dreams, in waking, I have lived for thee,In every book have only read thy name,In music heard thee only—at the altarHave worshipped for thy sake.Czar.Thy words are fire.They may be true. Yet many a word of LoveFrom my youth up has echoed in my car,And never aught but false ones. They were sweet,E'en when I knew them flatteries—our follySo craves for shows of love—until I knewThat they were treachery too. That pained me once;But now they pass me like the idle breeze.I heed them not.Olga.What, none?Czar.Yes, when a voiceLike thine breathes such sweet, passionate utterance,It is to me as music.Olga.Are you happy? Czar. Happy? that is a word sovereigns like meHave naught to do with. There is happiness,Sometimes—I am told—in simple, humble lives—No pride, no power—but that is not for me. Olga. Yours is a height where flowers perchance bloom not;But there are grander things, austerer joys.To hold the lives of millions in your hands,To choose them out as God does; with a scratchOf yonder pen-point, doom whome'er you willTo death or dungeon—or exalt to honour—That's to be like a god.Czar.Yes, if a godCould live for ever on the crater's brink,Expecting the infernal blaze of doom,The crash, the thunder, and the sea of fire.But that were naught. Say rather if a godKnew never friend from foe, distrusted oftThe truest, blindly in the false believed—What say I? truest? are there any true?The fond, the innocently smiling eyesThat melt at a hard word to a sad dewThey fain would hide, the lips that shyly kiss,The rose-blush of the half-averted cheek,Love's timid murmur—and again the brave,Blunt speech, too honest for the courtier's trade.—Do not they both betray? Have I not lostThe common instinct to judge friend from foe?An angel's voice from heaven that warrantedThe faith of nearest and of dearest, stillWould leave me doubting. E'en thyself, sweet mask, Whose voice has the fresh, birdlike song of youth,The very ring of perfect innocence,How know I thou'rt not plotting for my death?Nay, tremble not—I did but speak in jest. Olga. Czar! if the good thus suffer who but liveTo make their people happy, what must beThe torments of the tyrant?Czar.If I wereThe tyrant that they think me, I could scarceLive lonelier.Olga. Ah, were death then preferable? Czar. No, for I live to play my royal part.Were I a coward, I might choose to die;But I am chained by honour to my post. Olga. There have been tyrants, surely, have there not,Hated by all mankind and damned by God?In old times, if not now?Czar.God knows their hearts.We'll speak not of them. Rather let us speakOf thee, whose voice so moves me, yet whose faceI see not, thee whose hand I hold in mine,Yet do not know thy name. Unmask, my child;Tell thy Czar who thou art.Olga.Stay. I am one,Rash Czar, in whom the world believes and trembles. Czar. Strange words! once more, who art thou? Olga. [unmasking.]I am Death. Czar. Oh take another name! Is Death so beautiful? [A hand is stretched over Olga's shoulder and stabs the Czar to the heart
LAST SCENE
Another apartment—Ivan (the assassin) and Olga, guarded. Ivan, fettered. Olga, on a couch insensible
Ivan. [Watching Olga.] She fell thus in a swoon and lay as dead,Soon as the blow was dealt.Guard.She's coming to. Olga. [Reviving.] Where am I? what am I? and who are you? Ivan. You are in the palace where your task was. done,You are a martyr-saint, the crown of women—I your poor comrade—but that name of honourIs as a halo, in whose light I goRight proudly to the scaffold.Olga.I go too? Ivan. Perchance they'll pardon all that loveliness. Olga. I am perplexed—I know myself no more. Am I a girl or devil? Have I doneA glorious deed, or an accursed one? Ivan. I have told you—you were just a pretty girl,Till our cause turned you to a heroine.And, if your youthful graces save you not,You go all dressed in splendid innocenceTo that last scene that fixes you, a star,To shine through all the ages. Though you struck notTh' immortal stroke, the glory is your own. Olga. But I must tell you something that you know not,That I myself knew not until that moment.I loved him.Ivan.All the nobler was your deed. Olga. I love him still, and I shall die of it. Ivan. Nay, die for something better—keep your lastHeart-beat for that brave brotherhood who dared,And did, and suffer with us. We are togetherIn one same skiff, bound to the shores of Styx.Think too of poor Dimitri—he's no tyrant. Olga. For five long years the Czar was my girl's dream,My fancy's idol, till Dimitri kindledAnother flame—not love but hatred—ob,What have you all done to me, you, so strangely Hardening my heart? But when he spoke to meSo sadly, nobly, all my brain was turningWith the intense love that sprang up in me.And still I lured him—still I played my part;And when I gave the signal, I believedI was the God-appointed Priestess, heGod's chosen sacrifice, a noble victimSlain at the altar of Humanity.And I fell prostrate, giving up myselfIn the same sacred holocaust—ah me!The flames are raging—raging, and I burn.And he is there, so sad and beautiful,And now—oh God! he dooms me!Guard.She is raving.She must be moved hence.Ivan.She is dying—look. Olga. Alexis! hold my hand again in thine.[Dies.
- ↑ The assassination of Alexander II. of Russia took place March 13, 1881.