Вірш At The Birth Of An Age, поет Robinson Jeffers

Robinson Jeffers

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At The Birth Of An Age

The story is derived from the closing chapters of the Volsung

Saga, the action of which refers itself to a date fairly correspondent

with the end of the Greco-Roman age and the beginning of this one.

The theme of self-contradiction and self-frustration, in Gudrun's

nature, intends to express a characteristic quality of this

culture-age, which I think should be called the Christian age, for

it is conditioned by Christianity, and except a few centuries'

lag concurrent with it. Its civilization is the greatest, but also

the most bewildered and self-contradictory, the least integrated,

in some phases the most ignoble, that has ever existed. All these

qualities, together with the characteristic restlessness of the age,

its energy, its extremes of hope and fear, its passion for discovery,

I think are bred from the tension between its two poles, of

Western blood and superimposed Oriental religion. This is the

tension that drew taut the frail arches of Gothic cathedrals, as

now it spins the frail cosmogonies of recent science and the

brittle Utopias of economic theory. This tension is really the

soul of the age, which will begin to die when it ceases. In modern

times the direction of the tension has shifted a little; the Christian

faith is becoming extinct as an influence, compensatorily the

Christian ethic becomes more powerful and conscious, manifesting

itself as generalized philanthropy, liberalism, socialism, communism,

and so forth. But the tension is relaxed, the age prepares

for its long decline. The racial pole is weakened by the physical

and especially the spiritual hybridization that civilized life always

brings with it; the Christian pole is undergoing constant attrition!

steadily losing a little more than it gains.

I believe that we live about the summit of the wave of this age,

and hence can see it more objectively, looking down toward the

troughs on both sides, than our ancestors could or our more remote

descendants will. . . . Is it necessary to add that I am not

speaking as one of the prophets? These are only ideas that came

to me while I was writing what follows, when I wondered "Why

does Gudrun act this way?" Thence they added themselves to

the thought of the poem, and are noted here to explain one

tendency of its thought. The others seem clear enough.

When the north and the east crawled with armed tribes toward

mindless wars,

Barbarians like a shieldful of knives flung random, clashing together,

stabbing, gashing or missing

Through the north darkness, Goth, Hun and Vandal, Saxon and

Frank, and down the hopeless frontiers of Rome:

Three men leading three hundred came to the edge of the forest

to a murdered farm. Hoegni said laughing,

"Hey for the owner!" And Gunnar: "Ay. He hangs there." For a

haltered man

Hung in the oak above the fire-crumbled walls. "This is the

place she named to us: the dead man's farm,

A hill over a plain, a hanged man, a choked well, a stream at the

hill-foot. Let them drop the gear."

But Hoegni: "I say go on," jutting his chin to the south, the sharp

yellow beard,

"We'll meet the sooner. Aah, camp here waiting

While they loot Gaul?" "Wolf-eagerness is a treasure in warriors,

caution in kings," answered Gunnar,

Called king for being the head of a little clan between the Saxons

and Franks; his eyes were royal

Over the thick brown beard, deep and ice-blue, dark-browed,

"If Gudrun comes, and gives bonds and promises,

Yet I shall probably turn you back and lead home. I am not in

love with letting my naked face

Into the bear's mouth." His brother Hoegni groaned and laughed

but not spoke. Then Carling his youngest brother,

A boy still, beardless, brave face, wide eyes, bright hair: "I shall

not turn. Look, brother, how it is clouded

With herds of horses like a summer heaven, clouds beyond

clouds, I never saw anything nor heard a poem

So beautiful as this plain.

Yonder must be the Horde's encampment: like a hundred cities:

and the horses, the horses, the many-colored,

At pasture around it like a vast wheel. There, there, and there,

are the towers of smoke from the burnt towns.

Yonder a band of war-men far off goes galloping on some great

raid. Sigurd had a horse;

He called him Grayfell." Gunnar said: "Listen, boy. You shall

have horses to ride if we go down there.

But Sigurd is not to be named. Sigurd is not to be named. Remember

we are making peace with Gudrun,

Who is our sister, and has grown powerful too." Hoegni laughed,

Carling said, "I know. It is a pity.

Oh Gunnar it seems to me that my spirit,

After the close fields and forest at home, flies towering up to

the sun like a noon eagle

Above this plain, the space the distance, the immense green freedom

glimmering to blue: as if I could almost

See Rome from here." Hoegni said, "Live and we'll see it; if those

Goths have left anything. Meanwhile we'll feed.

They'll have to hack firewood from the owner's oak, it's all that's

left him. He will not care." "Oh Hoegni!" Carling

Answered, "Oh Gunnar! When Gudrun comes and we've dearly

greeted her, then let us

Not seek the Hun's camp nor friendship with him, but suddenly

help ourselves to keen horses and alone together

Go and see Italy.

Oh Gunnar! that would be the high path for heroes, no talk, no

alliances. I know Sigurd would do it

If he were living. Ride southward like a pointed storm of wild

swans, like a flying lance-head, an axe-head,

Carve our own valley through the Huns and Romans." "What

a pity," Hoegni said,

"To be a fool at sixteen. I warned you Gunnar,

Leave Fool at home." "A flight of horsemen," the youth said

gladly, "this way. Oh look, Oh the lovely fellowship,

Like a long arrow burning with dust for smoke." "You have

young eyes. Ay.

That will be Gudrun. How many?" He answered, "They ride by

fours, less or more. Some ten ranks: forty perhaps."

"Hardskin and Swayn," Gunnar said. "Ay," they answered,

"Patrol the wood-path until I call you.

You east and he west.

Not to be embraced from behind as well. She left us in white

anger, I will not trust her yet."

Gudrun dismounted and came to her brothers; tall, blonde and

pale, clad in a wine-dark gold-threaded

Wide cloak, snatch of some Byzantine altar, sweetly smiling

came Gudrun; a black-haired slave-woman,

A face like white wax, walked at her side; on the other a

swarthy sword-wearing Hun, who scowled and spoke.

Two more behind him watched hard under slant brows. Then

Gudrun: "Dear brothers! Gunnar: will you bid your men

Go ten steps back? Timor here . . . this dark-browed battle-rememberer

Is Timor, he is lofty in my lord's attendance. My three brothers,

Timor. He is full of safeguards, being as he says

Accountable for the priceless treasure of my person.

GUNNAR (waving his men back) Well, sister. Twenty.

GUDRUN My Timor is very faithful,

And fears . . . never death . . . torture. Can that be Carling?

Oh my dear, Carling, how beautiful you have grown!

I always loved you.

GUNNAR We were most happy, Gudrun,

In your dear message. Jealousies die but love is immortal. We

have come at great pains through the wet woods

Only to see your face. I say only,

Because it is certain that we are wealthy enough

Without Hunnish alliances. Our thought in coming is toward

you only; to see the loved face, salute

The dear lips, and return.

HOEGNI And ask you how it feels to be married

to a toad, for every man told us

Huns look like toads: and by God it's true. Pop eyes, no noses,

toad color . . .

GUDRUN Hoegni!

Be wary of your words a little.

HOEGNI Not I.

GUNNAR As to the precious gatherings

of Gaul and Italy: what's gold?

We came for love's sake.

GUDRUN (to Hoegni) He understands it well enough,

Though for scorn he won't speak it.

HOEGNI Tim Timy you mean?

For scorn you say? I am telling you . . .

GUDRUN Understand me,

Hoegni. My lord and his race are not mocked. The emperor of

northern and middle Europe, all from the Caspian

To the North Sea.

HOEGNI Not a toad? Nose-holes

Where a nose ought to be ...

GUDRUN And soon I believe to conquer

and rule the whole nation-written

War-weary tablet, all the king-scarred earth.

HOEGNI Not me. . . . That

is a marvelous piece of a victory

Worn on your shoulders, Gudrun. Well, you look young still.

GUDRUN And for gold: look at these

Bracelets that bruise my arms; and this neck-chain.

HOEGNI Oh, he loads

you. Save up, save up,

Lest winter come.

GUDRUN The chain's for King Gunnar. No: I pray

you, brother, take it with my love. Though I was bitter,

That was quite long ago. And now I live among foreigners . . .

GUNNAR How your lips writhe!

Don't cry, my dear,

I'll not refuse it nor the love either, but joyfully. . . . Let me

kiss you Gudrun, why do you cover your face?

I'll kiss the tears.

GUDRUN It was caught in my hair. There. You've a

tress with it. Ah, Gunnar,

Little you know!

GUNNAR Dear sister. I am far more glad that our love

is born again

Than for all these great links of gold.

GUDRUN And for my . . . brother

Hoegni, these . . .

HOEGNI Don't do it

If it hurts you so. You're white as death,

Snow-girl.

GUDRUN I remember you used to call me that. We were near

the same age.

HOEGNI But now those blue eyes of yours

Have wolves in 'em.

GUDRUN The better to see you with, dear! Well,

I've been through . . . and seen stark battles: but if

These eyes grow hard: not toward my brothers, Hoegni. Bygones

are by-gones, that wound's hid . . . healed I mean.

You never knew me to lie I believe? So take the bracelets. I guess

them nearly the weight in gold

Of Gunnar's chain.

HOEGNI Thank you, Gudrun. I wish to do you sometime

a worthy service. Why, men

Have fought to death for less than a hundredth fraction

Of this heavy glitter.

GUDRUN It's nothing: we swim in it. Carling dear:

I've something ... I find myself

Wet-eyed to look at you.

Because you were much younger than me and Hoegni. . . . I'm

not false, I'll hide no thought, if you'd been tall

At that time, I believe you'd have helped me. Who knows?

Hush, dear, let me dream. This is very vain talk

About an old woe. The snows of that year are melted and so is

my heart, and I am Attila's wife.

You look like ghosts, ah? All but Carling. Oh, it's wiped out.

I thought you, Carling, too noble-minded . . . young I should

say ... to care about gold, and so have chosen you

A steel jewel, only a sword, yet a rare one. Give it to me, Jukka.

(She takes it from one of the dark 'warriors behind her.) It

is said there were great enamel-workers

And godlike smiths in Gaul before the back-and-forth grovellings

and wash of war

Wiped out all.

CARLING Oh Gudrun! What are these gems? Why, the

hawk-head hilt

Is like a firebrand.

GUDRUN The blade, the blade. The hilt's nothing, a

gem-crust. Nor the scabbard either. See

How cunningly they let the delicate-colored threads of enamel

Into the fierce blank steel.

CARLING Oh Gudrun.

GUDRUN Hawk or eagle the pretty

tracery, who cares? It's pretty, ah?

I begged it of my lord when he was merry.

CARLING I cannot tell you.

. . . Oh Gudrun.

GUNNAR By God, what a smith. I think

You've the best, brother, (to Hoegni, quietly , nodding toward

the oak) I don't like those two, the ravens.

HOEGNI Mm? Those?

Children of nature, attracted by meat like you and me. They

take the eyes first.

GUNNAR Caw caw, damn them!

Though they're God's birds. Is she true?

HOEGNI It's true gold.

CARLING (admiring the sword) Oh Gudrun,

the beauty, the power, the balance! And as for the edge:

Look at my thumb: I barely touched it to feel it.

GUDRUN Oh, Oh, my gift!

CARLING ButI love the slight cut.

I think it's magical: see, I streak my own blood on the silky

blade, that makes it mine for my life-days

Faithfully. Oh sister, I'll do such deeds with it ... some deed

for the poets to remember in all the fire-lit music-filled

Evenings of rime. Sigurd's great beautiful bone-biter, the sword

That he called Anger, never did such a deed . . . Oh! . . .

I didn't mean, I didn't want . . .

I adore his memory.

HOEGNI Fool.

GUDRUN I know, dear. Hush, Hoegni, let

him alone. We may love Sigurd and yet

Not hate his ... killers. He was too great to need any memory

but thoughts of love ... to need any

Reprisal. His fame's not slain. . . . What'll you call the sword,

Carling?

CARLING I thought of calling him

Sea-eagle. Ah Sea-eagle you'll fly in Rome,

You'll dazzle the south.

ONE OF GUNNAR'S MEN (shouting from a distance)

Troop of horse, a long one.

ANOTHER From the west by the wood's edge.

HARDSKIN (farther off) A thousand horse.

HOEGNI Bitten, by God. (Gunnar and Hoegni draw sword, so

do the Huns.)

GUNNAR I will never believe, Gudrun, no never.

. . . Timor: we are here

As friends, probable allies . . .

HOEGNI Baited and trapped,

with a yellow glitter

And milky talk, (shouting) Stand to it. Ham-string'em, that

stops'em. (to Timor) . . . Well?

Toad? Let's begin.

GUDRUN (cuffing her slave-woman, who was about to scream)

You are too excitable, you shame me red,

brothers, before

These quiet dark lords of the East. Those are the horses to mount

you. Each man of that troop leads a spare horse.

And thus you trust me! I could not allow you to walk, you and

your people,

To die Emperor's camp.

GUNNAR Ay? why do they come from behind

and cut us off from the wood?

GUDRUN They come from the pasture.

GUNNAR So it takes five hundred men

To bring us mounts?

GUDRUN For your escort also. There's rough work

On the plain.

GUNNAR There'd be rougher

If my poor woodsmen forked themselves over horses.

No, Gudrun.

GUDRUN The Huns despise you if you come walking.

GUNNAR Are we your prisoners?

GUDRUN Why, brother!

GUNNAR No? Then

farewell, Gudrun.

We carry back to the great fir-woods, the lonely tarns

And little clearings, magnificent memories

Of wealth and kingly splendor and kindness, and a sister's great

Forgiving heart.

HOEGNI And toads. . . . Come home with us,

We'll make you queen of the North.

CARLING Oh. I want to ride with her.

GUDRUN But since I ... love you, my brothers: how could

I let you go? I'd even keep you

By force. You see: by force . . .

Of loving persuasion. I could hardly persuade my Huns

To let such warriors as you . . . not join the Horde.

Gunnar: he will conquer the whole world, there's not a doubt:

All the wealth, all rings of gold, all tribes of men, all the meat

and drink:

It rolls to his feet like a ball. . . . Hoegni:

Do you love battles?

HOEGNI In moderation, in moderation.

GUDRUN This would be out of scale for you, then.

Now the great crowning battle of the world is making, to

dazzle all war

Before and after, will be fought on this plain within three days.

For Rome has bandaged all her sick legions

Into one sword, ransacked her waning moon for man-power,

and bought peace with the West Goths

(Whose king Theodoric is eight feet tall) to try odds against

us. They have joined the two armies like axe and helve

For one huge stroke. Their last one.

HOEGNI Is Caesar a tall man too?

GUDRUN Which Caesar?

None fights. They've an active general,

What's his name? I can't think. They are hundreds of thousands

together, and ours are three hundred thousand, with the

East Goths,

Vandals, Gepidae, Franks . . .

HOEGNI Boo, said the goose

Counting duckweed.

GUDRUN What?

HOEGNI Tell it to the Swedes, not to us.

GUNNAR No, no, we don't doubt

Your good faith, sister: yet there's a dreamy quality

About these numberings of multitude. How could such hordes

be fed?

GUDRUN Ours, are experienced.

They tap their horses' neck-veins and suck the blood, then stop

the wound and ride on. Or a man's at a pinch,

Ah, Timor? The Goths and Romans I imagine starve. . . . Oh, this

Meeting will exceed all measure, enormous, a sword-mountain:

you'll stay and see it? And, Carling, after we force them

For the sun will fall out of heaven before Attila

Fails of a victory the whole fragrant south will lie open, unlocked

and helpless, all the sun, all the honey,

Rich gardens, rare fruits, all kinds of artist-work. We'll ride on

the golden strands of blue seas and drink nothing

But purple wine, hear nothing but little Greek slaves

That sing like nightingales.

GUNNAR Will you swear by the holiest,

By Woden hanged on tree; and by all the Gods of the Huns too,

and all other Gods,

That you mean well by us?

GUDRUN cannot imagine why you mistrust me.

GUNNAR Will you swear?

GUDRUN Why should I? You have no choice.

And you mistrust me vilely. And what are the Gods, who sees

them? My Huns have travelled the whole world and now

Laugh at the Gods. Yes, I will swear.

GUNNAR By Woden hanged on the tree?

GUDRUN Oh, clearly. And by all the Huns' Gods,

And the Roman Christ.

GUNNAR You will be sick and die

If you break oath. Well, Hoegni?

HOEGNI I want to see old Hardskin

straddling a horse, that's what I want.

CARLING They'll go. Oh Gudrun

how beautiful you look. One to stand shining

And sworded for the Decider of Battles in the eagle sky

In the poem that I've been making.

GUDRUN Do you make poems, Carling?

CARLING Things are so beautiful. Your face, like a white sword

Lifting against the blue. I'll make better ones.

GUDRUN Sing me a poem

While we ride down. I need it. Life narrows on me,

All its events are vicious, whichever I choose.

III

In front of the curtains. Sentinels post themselves in the midst.

Men enter and stand conversing at the extreme right. Gudrun and

her brothers, her slave Chrysothemis, and the Hun Jukka, come

in from the left.

GUNNAR . . . The pastures are wide and rich, yet all the grass

is bitten to the roots. What was that river we forded?

GUDRUN I told you. The Marne. We have to wait here until

the trumpet is blown; no one may enter before Attila.

HOEGNI I wish him joy of it.

GUNNAR Marne; the Marne. What a language. Hoegni: did you

notice the herd of thick-flanked brood-mares? I believe there

were at least two thousand. These things are out of our scale

of thought.

HOEGNI Bah!

GUDRUN This building is an old broken place, curtained for the

feast. The broken country-house of some dead Roman. The

curtains look richly purple in the evening sun, don't they,

Carling? If blood would keep its color, what a dye. And

cheap.

CARLING Does he not come to bring you in? As I remember

Sig . . . I remember Sigurd used to?

GUDRUN No.

GUNNAR Tell me, sister: what do they do when their mares

foal on the march?

GUDRUN (impatient) Ah! Another time. Ask Jukka.

GUNNAR I have asked him a number of questions, he only

gabbles. It is essential for a ruler to understand . . .

GUDRUN Will you ... I am trying to make a quietness in my

mind.

HOEGNI Yes. I have watched you, Gudrun. You are mad with

pride.

You think you have married the mountain of the world. Sigurd

was not enough . . .

GUNNAR By the honor of God, brother!

Keep the peace, will you?

HOEGNI Aahh . . .

GUDRUN I'll tell you plainly then.

I am ill in my mind.

Pride? No: hardly. I was proud while Sigurd lived, before you

killed him, but as things are

I've won back a little . . . power . . . not pride. Perhaps you

will be able to tell me, being wise, Gunnar,

Why it is that I. For it seems that I still love you, for all your.

I am not able. We're the one blood,

And were gay when we were little together,

Yet, when the warmth wins, I remember that yours was the

cold contemptible mind that planned his death

Because your woman wound you up to be envious. And the

cynical hand

Was my brother Hoegni's. And how cowardly it was done.

HOEGNI (handling his sword-hilt)

I guessed you. Bring on your niggers.

GUNNAR You are bound by the highest and most dangerous of

oaths, Gudrun.

GUDRUN (impassively) So that my heart is in heavy trouble between

love and hatred.

Two snakes in one coil. Which can neither endure nor destroy

each other, but each is swollen to bursting with venom

From the other's jaws, it spurts on my heart. Ah? Well? . . .

Well, that's how it is wi' me.

I was saying, to do you a harm would never make Sigurd live,

nor be any comfort to myself, so breathe easily. Carling's

a poet: do you think killed men want justice, Carling? Don't

answer. I think they're nothing, they're lucky. I believe

nothing.

After you've travelled and seen ten thousand corpses

You'll keep your poems in the way of nature.

GUNNAR Indeed, sister, these questions about death are mysteries

to all of us; it is wisest perhaps . . .

GUDRUN The men with the red straps wound to the knees are

East-Goth nobles. That tall man, who is talking to the Hun,

is Alberic the Frank. Yonder are two lords of the Gepidae.

I love to see kings cooling their heels at my husband's pleasure.

GUNNAR And those to the left, Gudrun?

GUDRUN Huns. Don't question me! I am not patient.

A TRUMPETER appears between the parting curtains. He sounds

the trumpet, and announces in Htmnish and in Gothic:

The Lord of Lords has taken his seat. The Masters of War have

taken their seats.

HOEGNI The Toads have squatted.

The curtains draw aside, and they enter.

It is the atrium of a ruined Roman country-house. The walls at

this end are broken down; the wall seen slant on the left is arcaded

with freestone columns, the near ones broken, the farther

entire. Strange guests have stopped here since the owner fled.

The wall at the back has no colonnade but is adorned with wallpaintings;

the panels to left and right indistinguishable, the great

central painting scarred but clear. It represents Prometheus bound

on Mt. Elboros, the snow-veined rocks, the wound and the

vultures.

Planks on trestles range parallel to the walks, making an L-shaped

table. On the far limb of the (inverted) L, below the colossal

Prometheus, Attila is seated among his generals. He is swarthy,

thick, gray-haired, with a flat Mongolian face, and robed in barbarian

magnificence. He is already feeding and drinking.

Gudrun will take a place near the angle of the L, keeping Carling

on her right, allowing Gunnar to sit on her left, toward Attila

and beside Timor. Gudrwts slave stands behind her. Hoegni sits

between Carting and Jukka. The other guests, Huns, Ostrogoths

and so forth, are coming in and finding places, and servants

are busy.

GUDRUN (standing at her place) My lord. . . . My lord.

ATTILA (at length turning his face toward her) All right?

GUDRUN This is King Gunnar, my brother, of whom I spoke.

And my other brothers.

ATTILA Mm. Welcome, (turning back to one of the Huns)

I say if Arval fails taking Troyes as he slacked at Orleans,

that is the end for him.

GUNNAR Noble Attila:

Our sister having by message invited us

We come with clear good will and kingly confidence

To behold her face, and yours, and the glory of the Horde.

She has flown high, she was nourished in a high nest.

We have strong places northward and power of warriors,

Though fewer . . . horses, I believe . . .

And not as a guest from wandering, but as the king

Your brother-in-law, retinued with quiet swords . . .

ATTILA (turning and staring) Hm?

GUNNAR We acknowledge your hospitality.

ATTILA Well, well.

Sit down. I remember she spoke of you.

HEOGNI (aloud) Toad of toads.

GUNNAR But as

for alliance,

And to ride with your host . . .

ATTILA Jukka! Converse with him for

me. (turning to Blada, who sits next him) So you'll sweep

the banners around their loose end, curl it up and cut for the

center: the plain is wide.

BLADA Ay, Master. They'll have reserve, I must have more

weight than can be delayed . . .

JUKKA (to Gunnar) He say he ver' glad you here.

GUNNAR He seems a laconic man. Between kings, courtesy

should be religion.

HOEGNI Whisper, Gudrun. How does it feel? They say the

Black Forest women have to do wi' wolves, but a toad, my

God! Have you got warts?

GUDRUN Do not tempt me . . .

JUKKA (to Gurmar) He make plan 'bout . . . big fighting.

Soon he drink more, then make speech to you maybe.

GUDRUN . . . toward a black duty. I have what I sought in

marriage, that's power. I am not hardened yet

To its uses. . . . Oh Oh, Carling, I wish I had died with him.

There were blue campions around him beside the spring,

All changed in color, his blood had filled all their cups.

I wish the wet red earth sweet with young flowers

Had swallowed my life with Sigurd's, for I am not strong enough

to be his avenger. (Nothing, Jukka,

Oh nothing: an old feud of our tribe.) Gunnar:

Look down the table, you see the three boys beyond Blada and Bela-Nor?

They are sons of Attila. He has no other male relatives, for he

killed his brothers, it is their custom. These fresh boys will

cut each other's throats when the time comes.

You'll leave early to-morrow, I shall arrange it.

Tell Hoegni . . . tell Hoegni his hand . . . was crueller than

mine. Carling:

Stay with me?

CARLING I long to. You are good and beautiful, and here

is the main door of the world. ... I am Gunnar's man.

GUDRUN Because I am lonely and hate myself. And though this

camp-life is always dangerous, and has no root

In nature, nothing but wars, rapine and wandering; this people

would need ennobling to pass for wolves:

But Gunnar too and Hoegni are murderers. If you should ever

do anything glorious they'd knife you for it.

In the back.

GUNNAR I am glad you are not an oath-breaker. You cannot

have him.

GUDRUN Can I not?

GUNNAR You'll go home with us, Carling.

GUDRUN You make him unhappy and nothing is decided. Drink,

brother.

The trumpeter comes in, on the serving-side of the table, drops

on one knee before Attila, and whispers to Blada.

BLADA The bishop of Troyes, Master. One of those Roman

holy-men. He came through the lines at Troyes saying he

had gifts for you, so they brought him here. What was his

name? What?

THE TRUMPETER Lupus, my lord. Bishop Lupus.

ATTILA We lack entertainment since the juggler was brained.

Ah? Bring him in.

HOEGNI (to Gudrun) Are you done raging? What's a juggler?

GUDRUN (to Carling) The poor man was doing tricks for them.

At first they threw pennies, but when they were drunk they

threw bones.

Bishop Lupus and his followers are led in, and set to stand facing

Attila. The bishop is a tired white-bearded old man, noble in

distress. His robe is torn and soiled; he carries a crozier.

ATTILA Well, old beard? Talk.

BISHOP LUPUS I come to plead for a Roman town

Your troops are troubling; that your majesty may deign to spare

it for a fit ransom. I am the unhappy shepherd

That has to kneel to the wolf.

ATTILA Your name?

LUPUS I thought they had

told you. I am the unhappy Bishop of Troyes,

Which lies like an egg in your hand to spare or crush.

ATTILA (like a play-actor', pretending vast anger)

Spy! Do you hide your name?

LUPUS Lupus, my lord.

ATTILA Lupus. I thought so. Unmasked, ah? This seeming-reverend

benign old man, that styles himself

A shepherd: what kind of shepherd? A stealthy ravening and

murderous wolf. I'll pluck that mock-saintly beard,

See the great fangs grin in the jaws.

LUPUS It is only my name, my lord,

I cannot help it. Your majesty

Delights in mockery.

GUNNAR (to Gudruri) What is this ah-ah-ah talk, so smooth and

soft? Do you understand it?

GUDRUN (who has drawn a straight bright dagger from a hidden

sheath, and plays with it on the table before her, regarding

it gravely, as if she were reading it like a sad poem, in silence

but with moving lips)

Roman. No.

GUNNAR I wish I could understand it. (seeing the dagger) That

is a nice brave thing, do you cut your meat with it?

GUDRUN I keep it clean, (turning to her slave-woman) Chrysothemis:

What are they saying? (Chrysothemis interprets in her ear from

time to time, Gudrun does not listen, but reads her knife.)

ATTILA (continuing, to the bishop) Well, then: what ransom?

LUPUS All that we have in the city, except a few loaves of mercy

Against starvation. For if you destroy the hive you'll have the

honey, my lord, but burnt and damaged.

Much rather take the honey and let the hive live, and season

after season returning take

New tribute.

ATTILA You have a great store of wealth then.

Oh, little,

my lord. The Goths have stripped us yearly, and the Alans

Before them: we can only give all that we have.

ATTILA All, hm? That's

to say, all. Including your virgins,

Young wives, all other livestock.

LUPUS My lord, I have stood humbly

before you bearing your mockeries.

ATTILA Very well.

Open your gates to-morrow in the morning, my officers will examine

your houses.

LUPUS You are right, Attila,

To judge me both fool and coward, that I have prayed mercy

Where no mercy is.

ATTILA You guess badly again. I am as full of mercy as the

comb is of honey. But unfortunately I have not enough wine

for all my people, nor beer either. We must drink the rivers.

LUPUS I doubt your meaning, my lord. We will roll out all we

have, every keg, every jug.

ATTILA It is not enough. Your misfortune is that your city is on

the Seine and pollutes the water. My horses bloated when we

passed there. And now that we move west again: you understand?

For sanitation, for sanitation. Man, woman, and child:

every soul that drops excrement.

LUPUS You are great and cruel, and are pleased to mock at us.

I have borne it humbly. I have been deceiving you, Attila: you

are not the mighty one here. You range the dark world

From the Danube to the western sea; no man resists you, no

power confines you; your numbers like the shore sands,

And deadlier and crueller than the sea waves; so that the tall white

ignorant heathen that humble Rome

Horde upon horde fall helpless before you.

They fall and scream at your feet; you ride them like horses or

you drive them like deer. . . . Yet I say to you

That the King whom I serve sometimes weeps in his sleep, pitying

Attila.

ATTILA Ho! In the pillow?

Paternoster, ah? Paternoster. We know you. . . . What is that

hook?

LUPUS For though you are great on earth,

And seem to prosper invincibly: alas, there is only one little step

for a man between life and death,

Vast pride and bloody destruction.

ATTILA I step, but not down. What

is that hook in your hand? Answer.

LUPUS My crozier. The shepherd

staff, the sign of my office.

ATTILA Hm? . . . Dog!

Attila glares at him in silence, with a stagy look oj black

ferocity. Lupus begins to tremble', but returns the stare 'with

courage.

GUNNAR (to Gudruri) What now, what now? What did he say?

GUDRUN He is trying to scare the old man.

HOEGNI Eh: Gudrun. What d' y' keep reading your knife for?

Has it runes in it?

GUDRUN This? ... I will tell you.

It is clean and straight. It speaks to me. It says: "Justice.

Faithfulness. Honor. Courage. Duty." . . . But I am not able.

I am not just, but a woman with kindred.

Not honorable, not faithful to the eagle I loved.

But passive, corrupt, merciful.

HOEGNI Do you say so! Sheathe it then.

ATTILA Hear me, companions. I have wound this babbler in the

net of his own words, and he has confessed. He is the spy of

a great king (that soaks pillows), and he is sent to hook me

down with that hook: do you see that hook? See it jiggle

in his hand. Judge.

HUNS AND GOTHS (some in earnesty others shouting 'with laughter)

Death. Flaying.

The blood-eagle. By his beard hang him.

LUPUS Lord Christ, I entrust my spirit to thy wounded hands

Very cheerfully. Speak to thy Father, Lord,

For the poor people of my city; and that he have mercy

Even on Attila.

ATTILA You tremble, however. Wait! . . . Reprieved, old man.

I never offend a God on the eve of battle. My secretary

Gratiano will arrange a fair ransom with you before you go

home: he is a Christian too. Now . . . What's this picture

on the wall behind me? Is it your God? Gratiano thinks so.

The sun is setting, its level rays burn on the painting. Attilcfs

imposing shadow, at the feet of the Prometheus, moves as he

turns.

LUPUS No. (He wavers, as if to fall.)

1 have tasted death. I wish to remember that it holds no bitterness;

But lined with eternal life, solemn with joy.

As for that picture . . . The picture, my lord?

ATTILA Come, come.

LUPUS (wearily, passing his hand over his forehead)

A fable of the pagans; we read it in school. A wise giant that

loved mankind: the God of the pagans crucified ... I mean

hanged him for it.

ATTILA Bah. I took the ransom because I thought your God was

here.

Drink, friends, it's a sick world! , . . Why was yours hanged?

LUPUS What did you say, my lord?

ATTILA Yours too was hanged for loving mankind.

LUPUS Yes . . . yes. I am terribly tired. He gave himself

willingly.

ATTILA It is all the same thing. Keep your feet, old man! If you

fall your city falls. (The bishop sways and faints, but is held

up from falling by the priests with him) Ricimer: why was

yours hanged?

RICIMER, A GOTH Who? Me, master?

ATTILA When you swear by your hanged God, when you promise

me faithfulness.

Was he hanged for loving mankind?

RICIMER Ho! We love our friends, not mankind.

GUNNAR (to Gudrun reading her dagger) You have sworn,

Gudrun.

RICIMER We say that he hanged himself up as a sacrifice to himself.

They hang up heroes and white horses to him but that's

not enough; he wanted the greatest sacrifice. There is nothing

greater than himself, so he hanged himself up. Or another

story . . .

GUDRUN (suddenly standing) I, my lord! I, my lord!

ATTILA Eh? Go on.

GUDRUN I was brought up in it. We think there's a great wisdom

in pain that's hidden from the happy.

Woden's our God of Gods and no power could hurt him: then

he must hurt himself to learn it: how else,

Wisdom's higher half? It's false, though; I learn nothing. I ...

Oh tell me, my lord, do the dead care

What the living . . . what we do?

ATTILA Take care of your words; we

are feasting, not prophesying.

GUDRUN Or even a punishment

Is death? Quick pain and eternal quietness: that's a reward. Or do

they lie groaning? Ignorant, my lord?

But I can't act without knowing! Ask your companions, Attila,

ask your lords of war, Attila!

What: have you sent so many thousands to death, and not know

what death is?

Never frown at me, my lord, I am not drunk,

Or only on the bitterness. Because my spirit's been rushing back

and forth all day and dashing itself

On both sides of decision like a fish in a doubled net. I can neither

do it nor not do it ...

I'll speak quietly.

ATTILA (scowling) Do what?

GUDRUN I will tell you. ... I pray you

to let the old man lie down, my lord. We are cruel

In needs and nature, but not to use it for amusement. That old sick

innocence.

HOEGNI (to Carling) Boy: slip away before it explodes. Gunnar

and I are hanging on a widow's hair: never fear, we'll take

some with us: but you . . . survive, survive. Do as if you

were drunk and must find a place to relieve yourself.

CARLING You mistake her terribly.

ATTILA Gudrun: we never allow women to drink with us: I honored

you because you seemed white and still and well-bred.

I was wrong to make an exception. You do for the bed but

not the board.

Keep standing, old man; on your feet! or all's lost.

When it grows dark I'll set a torch-bearer by you

To light you all night: if you fall we sack Troyes. I am not to be

moved by women. You old white weariness,

Can you not watch with me for one night?

I too am aging, the snows of time in my hair like winter on the

black pinewoods that wind that Grecian

Fire-mountain Aetna: the frightful heart never cools, and when

the fire bursts forth where is the snow?

But still I am aging, and carry the enormous burden of the world.

Night after hollow night my friends here

Eat flesh, drink and wax merry, my armies that cover all the plain

feed by straw fires and sleep, my companions

Rest in their tents; but for me no slumber, no rest, no relief. My

herds of horses

Lie down under the stars before dawn, the herders forget to herd

them, all the mounted sentinels

Nod lower, their heads droop over to the horses' manes. The

last drunkard sleeps in his song; the inveterate

Gamblers dicing for bits of conquest, by a candle hooded with

double leather, let fall their yellow

Eyelids, their fingers relax. Even the little flowers of the fields

have closed their faces and sleep . . .

Who watches then? Who takes care? Who upholds

The troublesome and groaning earth, revolving it like a vast iron

ball in the torrent of his mind, devising

Its better courses? Which one of your Caesars? Or does a Goth

Uphold the whole earth, night and day, never sleeping? Is it

Attila? And yet your thankless Romans and brutal

West Goths conspire. Whom I shall crush with one mangling

battle, in streams of blood exterminate rebellion

And settle the world; no man again to make war, no man to be

masterless, but laboring in orderly peace

Under my lordship, the peace and happiness of the whole earth.

. . . Hold up your face, man.

If you fall, or fail to attend me, remember: every roof burnt,

every man slain, each woman and child

For a sport to the horse-herders. Eh, old man? . . . Tell me:

I, watching all the nights through, toiling all day, sustaining the

earth: am I not like your God

That gave himself up to torture to save humanity, because he

loved them? . . . Take off your hands from him!

Let him stand alone. . . . Eh? Answer.

LUPUS Have mercy . . .

ATTILA And

who, except my own people stuffed with incessant spoils,

Has any gratitude? You in Troyes, shutting your gates? The

Romans, that opened their mouths to swallow the earth

And have choked on it? Or Theodoric the Goth, bought with

Rome's gold? I shall not leave one alive.

HOEGNI (to Carling, as Gudrun rises again) Make off, will you.

Warn our folk if you can.

CARLING She is good. You are dreaming.

GUDRUN My lord, you are great and men are ungrateful. You

have told your sufferings, our pity is moved. May I mention

mine?

I shall make no disturbance; I have found decision and can speak

quietly. My prayer is for simple justice,

And you only in the world have power. I have stood in your

favor.

ATTILA Promotion for your brothers, I suppose. Let them earn

it in the near battle, it will taste the sweeter.

GUDRUN (sighing sharply) Ah. A kind of promotion. Yes, my

lord.

My youngest brother is perfectly without guilt in the matter: he

must be saved. And my brother's men

Are guiltless: I pray you let them go home.

ATTILA Hm? Stop there.

Twilight's a bad counsellor. Bring in the torches.

HOEGNI (gently) Snow-girl:

Snow-girl: do you expect to outlive us?

We are not disarmed.

GUNNAR (out of the corner of his mouth, to Hoegni)

Hold your hand, brother. That would

finish it.

Patience and cunning may find the ford yet. . . . Gudrun . . .

sister . . .

Torch-bearers have come in. Some take their places behind

the top of the table, so that the Prometheus is illuminated, but

Attila a thick overbearing bulk against the light; others, at

Attiltfs gesture, stand opposite Gudrun and her brothers, and

one by Lupus; much of the company is in shadow, but these

brightly lighted.

GUDRUN Carling dear, can't you quiet them

Until I have finished speaking? . . . You remember, my lord,

how curiously I inquired (and never an answer!)

On the subject of death? But now I think that if it is good I will

do them good, for I love them.

If evil, evil: for I hate them too. The thing they did to Sigurd

I will do to them. (And quite ready

To tempt it myself, Hoegni. Jukka: watch him. He threatens my life.)

Ah but this is a miserable story, my lord, of spites and jealousies

In a back-woods corner between the swamp and the trees. In

winter we have no sun and bleach white, in the spring

We kill each other; blue campions blossom. You can hardly

imagine our heavy narrowness, one thought a year

And there it sticks. You plains-riders pass over and look at new things.

I knew an eagle in my youth, but the warrior-woman

Brynhild had enjoyed him when he was a boy.

She married my brother Gunnar here, still loving Sigurd,

Who was mine. . . . Wave the torch-man, my lord, nearer my face

While I speak of him, because I must praise him

For Brynhild's reasons. Myself being wedded to the Hun-king,

the captain of the earth,

Would hardly . . . care ... to remember

How beautiful (to that bison-boned woman I mean) Sigurd appeared.

Oh, he was tall, and rather

Pale than ruddy, with golden brown hair and eyes like the ...

He was like a lonely eagle in the van of attack and like an iron

tower (Brynhild

Believed) in the closed battle when it bled at his base. Yet gayer

at the feast and gender than any girl . . .

At least of such as we breed northward . . . She preferred him

to Gunnar and wooed him secretly and he disdained her.

I too was a little scornful, because the woman was built too big

and masculine to go about sighing

With eyes like a sick wood-pigeon's,

Then Brynhild in a cold and patient fury wrought on her husband,

my brother here, saying daily

That Sigurd outbraved him, Sigurd was the better man, Sigurd

plotted to wrench his kingdom away,

And so forth, and we in ignorance. The more noble are the more

helpless in these whispering wars. So they killed Sigurd.

Gunnar my brother and my brother Hoegni knifed him from

behind, while he was kneeling to drink

At a spring in the forest and you observe, my lord,

That my face has not twitched nor my tongue faltered; the wrong

I suffered led me up to the sun

Of your countenance and burns to a benefit.

ATTILA Gives you that icicle

look: Hm?

GUDRUN The whole world is injured

If wickedness flowers unpunished.

ATTILA What do you want?

GUDRUN The woman, my lord, killed herself.

Here are the men. I told the story to amuse you.

ATTILA You have a crooked mind. If you know what you want

I will do it.

GUDRUN That my brother Carling be spared, because he had no

part in the matter, he was then a young child.

CARLING Oh ... Gudruri*

GUNNAR (standing) My lord she has not shown you the half of

this business.

We are here as your guests and hers . . .

HOEGNI (laying his sword on the table in front of Jukka) Take

it, toad, (rising 'while Jukka reaches for it) I have its little twin.

He leans across Carling, striking at Gudrun with his dagger;

but Carling, his right arm engaged under Hoegnfs weight,

catches the blade of the dagger in his left hand.

Chrysothemis screams. Jukka and others overpower Hoegm

from behind. Gunnar, leaping back and half drawing his

sword, is overpowered by Timor and others.

ATTILA (roaring with angry laughter) Ho! . . . Are you hurt?

GUDRUN (to Carling) Your hand, your hand!

CARLING (his hand raining blood on the table)

What have you done, Gudrun!

ATTILA (angrily shouting) I say are you hurt?

GUDRUN My . . . No, my lord. My little brother . . . Oh,

Chrysothemis, tear your linen and tie it up. Here, here.

(Gudrun gives her the dagger that she had been playing

with) Cut strips. . . . Not hurt, my master. My brother

took in his hand the blade . . .

ATTILA What kind of death will you choose for them? . . .

Drink, friends, it's no harm.

GUDRUN I ... (moaning over Carling's

hand) Does it hurt? Oo, Ooh ... I am so awakened

From such a dream . . . I was not the one

That wanted them, that wanted ... Oh no, my lord; and I do

pray you . . .

ATTILA By God, again?

GUDRUN As in a nightmare

We do what day would damn us for,

I have been wanting . . . What have I done!

My brothers, my lord: I grew up wi* them. . . .

As if I had walked in the narrow cave of a dream and could never turn,

But now have wakened. No, no, no. If he struck at me,

He knew that I was mad and trying for his life. . . . Oh, truly my lord

It was only a play of mine to amuse you. I have sisterly grudges,

I sought to frighten them.

ATTILA Ay? We've drunk too much

For you to jest with.

GUDRUN It went too far. Yes, my lord.

ATTILA Well, Timor?

Ah? Whatever she wants,

They have brawled at our table. Take them out, do what my law

requires. Leave the pale boy.

HOEGNI Damn you, Carling, that saved the toad's slut! But there,

boy. Take heart. Live merrily.

JUKKA (to Hoegni) Come on, you. Your last walk.

TIMOR (to Gunnar) Come.

GUDRUN (who has been standing death-white and passive, with

eyes staring at no mark) I am in such a hell . . .

GUNNAR Nobles of the Goths: is this justly done? You princely

East Goths and Franks . . .

It was sworn to me by Woden hanged on the tree, by the agony

of God . . . (A hand is clapped on his mouth.)

ATTILA (sharply, to Lupus) Keep on your feet, Bishop the

beard.

GUDRUN (to Chrysothemis) Give me that! (She takes the dagger

and sets the point against her breast) Attila, my master! If

anyone comes near me before I speak ... or if they are

taken off before you have heard me ... I know not that

you care, but I'll do this.

ATTILA Fool.

GUDRUN Perfectly, my lord. That is my name. One who swore

vengeance by the great self-tortured God

I then believed in; and consecrated my helpless life to it, went

spying through the world for power to accomplish it ...

(Her eyes rove continually, watching against interference)

Tell your servants to stand away from me, my lord,

Or in goes the needle-point. ... I heard that the power in the

world was Attila: I knew not then that I was to love you,

But solely playing my life to kill Sigurd's murderers . . . That

was my constant passion, whether we rode

In Greece or pleasured in Persia, or on the mirage-

Glimmering Hungarian plain. At length we campaign in Gaul;

I laid the trap when we crossed the Rhine,

And sprung it by the Marne, and I cannot bear it.

I seem contemptible to Sigurd but let him lie. Let them go!

Oh, Oh, quietly. I promise.

For two reasons, my lord: for if I have accomplished my brothers'

destruction it will seem to all men that I love Sigurd dead

more than you living. And also I shall kill myself.

ATTILA These are dreams from the wine-cup bottoms. You have

drunk yourself mad.

GUDRUN Forgive me, Carling. . . . Hands off!

RICIMER THE GOTH Master. . . . For undoubtedly they are

guests; and it seems a crooked occasion. Might it be well to

wait judgment until the morning?

Two messengers have come in. They are dressed for the field,

capped 'with iron and stained 'with riding. The gaudily dressed

trumpeter is with them, trying to prevent them.

THE TRUMPETER No, no, no, let me announce you.

ONE OF THE MESSENGERS It is haste.

GUDRUN Oh noble Ricimer! Pray to my master!

The messengers stand beside Bishop Lupus and his companions.

ATTILA What. You're well splashed. You, Haiga?

HAIGA Master. They have made forced marches and have forded

the Seine at five miles from Troyes. Your servants there are

vigilant.

ATTILA It is time.

HAIGA I have ordered raids, we shall have a few captives for

questioning. The horses are being brought in.

ATTILA This is not courage. These wretches rush on their fate

like trembling culprits

That pray the executioner to hurry the stroke. Dear hearts! it's

ready. I shall so hug you, Theodoric,

And you, Roman Aetius . . . (to Haiga) You will tell me the

rest after we clear the hall. . . . Out, you unneeded. For the

forest-men: take them and tie them up and set a guard: your

business, Jukka. Except that pale boy: treat him with honor.

Set a strong watch on their people. . . . For this old whitemuzzled

sheep-dog ... go pray, totter-knees. Give him a

tent. Out with you. (As they go out) Close the curtains, we

take counsel.

GUDRUN (standing this side of the closing curtains; 'with Chrysothemis.

Carling has left her, going

Do you see him forget me, that pale bright thankless boy? Yethis blood'sWhat washed my courage away and made me a merciful . . .piece for contempt. We are all fourThat bright foul blood. That foul bright . . .Am I insane or what? Look how Attila lights for action like ajoy-fire, how Hoegni flamed up for it ... (tearing at herself)Oh! Wet punk. You were born a Roman.CHRYSOTHEMIS I? Yes, my lady, a Greek.GUDRUN Men stole from your parents when you were ten years old.CHRYSOTHEMIS Yes.GUDRUN You were beaten without mercy, raped and starved andsold to a trader, and so began your pilgrimage. If your robbe?s were laid at your feet, what would you do?CHRYSOTHEMIS Alas, my lady. Nothing.GUDRUN How, nothing?CHRYSOTHEMIS I would let them go. We were taught to forgiveevil and love our enemies. But also I have known too muchsuffering ever to wish to inflict it, even on the wickedest . . .GUDRUN (striking her) Coward. Slave. A slave by nature.(They go out.)VIThe scene is empty and darkened. Again and again horses areheard galloping from a sudden start: Attila's messengers to thefour quarters of the field. The curtains are darkened out of sight,so that the person 'who comes in seems to walk abstract and aloneyon a great plain at night. He sleeps the plain 'with a broom.THE SWEEPERI am sweeping the Catalaunian plain,Seine to Marne, Marne to Seine.Back and forth, south and north,For another battle this old earth.North and south,Blood of your sons will fill your mouth.West and east,Warrior's fall is worm's feast.East and west,Who can say but death's best?Here a track for the Hun stallions,Here a stand for Goth battalions,I must make all smooth and plainAlong the Catalaunian plain.Here the legions, here for a king . . .To fall . . . here for a king . . .I forget the rhyme, I cannot help it. At every new era we have tolearn a new set of verses, but damn this tinkle-tankle.God curse all rhymesI have to learn because of changing times.Fair, ah? I made it out of my head. Times change and we have totag along,Learn a new song.I am the wind, I am the rainOver Chalons and along the plain,The tortured grass to grow again . . .Wi' poppies in it too. The stars shine weakly . . . Stop. Whatare you? (Two heroic shadows pass in the air.)ONE OF THE SHADOWSWeep for the living, Brynhild, not for us dead.We cannot be betrayed nor betray ourselves;We have power, though unwilled; and only shadows of pain.(They fade and pass.)THE SWEEPER (shivering) Booh!I am the wind, I am the rain,Sweep the Catalaunian plain,The dead they flit, the living remain,Lives like grass and blood like water,The women will breed and it's no matter.(He goes out, sweeping.)VIIStarlight. A few distant red campfires.CARLING (entering alone) What was that? . . . Nothing. Buttheir guards never sleep. Gunnar and Hoegni are held in apit under a wall, bound hand and foot, and I am not allowedto come near them. I will glide through the army and rouseour people. We'll show these brown men whether the westernaxe has an edge, whether Gunnar is a king or a servile Goth.We are few, but the many sleep. What does it say in the poem?Let only a few but resolute arise,The tyrannies of darkness are not invincible. The soul of man isgreater than the winter giants. Ah sweet sword,Sea-eagle how you vibrate against my thigh. We never guessedthat so soon . . . Ah? We are going to actA nobler poem than any sung one: if I shake it's with eagerness.That red torch AntaresStands high in the south of summer midnight and we shall hewout of here before dawn. Now. Quietly. (He goes out.)VIIIInterior of a tent, lighted by a small lamp. Darkness outside.Chrysothemis lies asleep in a corner of the tent.GUDRUN A slave's dream, but a sweet one,That love is her law and God. She has slept on it, with a littlebreath of a Roman prayer, her handUnder her cheek."Snow-girl," he called me, the pet-name, evenin his hissing anger. And poor Gunnar'sPitiful bewildered kingliness. . . . Yes? Was not SigurdPitiable too? No, never, in his life or death. Betrayed, then? Betrayedand stabbed, cowardly and shamefully.I have given my life and lived with a loathed husband, mademyself the Hun's flattering harlot, to avenge it.Lived in the filth of the camp, lain in the sweat of his bed, mycold white body accepting entrancesIt ought to have died not to endure. No wonder my mind'sdivided in two: how can I tellWhich half's the real one? . . . It's because I've lost religion;travel and the Christians corrupt me. I see the armiesLike worms crawling, and the Gods a cloudy growth of deception,and laws and justice only habitualFear and imposed violence.I'll kill the half of my mind and notchange again: how they'll laugh at meWhen safe at home. But Oh, the futile proceedings of life henceforward,its purpose gone, disgracedAnd beggared, sold for nothing, empty and vile. Empty and vile.Yes, butLordly Sigurd is nothing either; Sigurd is ashes. What value inashes? that desire nothing,And are not desired; no courage in ashes, no joy, no loveliness, noeyes, no song. Am I to have killedMy brothers for the sake of a cup of ashes? . . . Yes, but ifSigurd and the wish to serve him die out of me,Then Sigurd is dead indeed. Oh . . . (staring) I am in such ahell of emptiness . . .I will not change. I have forgiven them. Wake up, will you.(shaking Chrysothemis by the shoulder) Up!CHRYSOTHEMIS Ah, no, mylady, I am sureIt can't be lost. I laid it in the cinnamon-wood casketWith the other silver.GUDRUN You must get up.CHRYSOTHEMIS Yes, my lady.GUDRUN They took my brothers to that cellar-holeUnder the broken wall by the linden tree, near Blada's encampment.You'll bear them a message for me.Tell them I pledge my life for theirs and will see them safe. Tellthem that, as you say so grandly,"Love has conquered." I have the will and the power. . . . Butafter that. After that, woe to me harborless,Without direction or virtue. Well. Go.CHRYSOTHEMIS How long I have prayedto die. Oh not at night, my lady,Through the fierce camp!GUDRUN Poor doll, what do you fear, you were defloweredtwenty years ago. No one will touch you, you are knownfor mine. And you are old, you are old.CHRYSOTHEMIS (kneeling) I dare not. I cannot, though you killme. They are horrible.GUDRUN You are not wise, my dear. There is a worse wolf herethan in the hundred thousand. I have tied up his jaws as wellas I can, but speak softly.Chrysothemis goes, but stops outside the tent, in the lightfrom the tent-flap, wringing her hands.GUDRUN Assure them they're safe, and will soon be free.. . . Little Christ-God of hers: apparently you are the last ofthe Gods for Gudrun, who has sloughed them all. You'llnever go far in the world: I wish you could. A few women,a few slaves; but the nature of things is a wolf and your throatin his.A woman and the Roman slaves. I was a little more than a woman,and not a slave, though put to itTo do craftily, when I made the plan and brought it perfect. Ihave played the slave's part until it fits;Ah? Slaved myself to the Hun and sold away my body's andspirit's nobility for an exactPayment of nothing, what a bargain.I have been bewildered. This is the curse of having been childless;the unspent milk swims in my blood,Honor, action, fierce faithfulness cannot live in me; but female,female mercy, female compunctions,And be inferior forever. You! Chryso!CHRYSOTHEMIS ('wringing her hands) I stand between death anddeath.GUDRUN She's gone: I forgot. No matter.This other message is mine to carry, on my knife's point.She goes through the tent-flap and comes on Chrysothemis,'who drops to her knees.GUDRUN (coldly) Baby. Get up and follow. (Noise of horsesgalloping) Wait while the horsemen pass: Attila's messagebirdsThat fly all night when killing's in the air. He is filthy to touchor smell but a man of war. ICould respect him. Come . . . Ah? Thafs something.(Distant shoutings and anger in the darkness. Clash of arms, as ofan enemy raid driven into the encampment.) Have theypulled open the iron flower of battleUntimely under weak stars? Listen (A stampede of horses is heard.Men calling from all directions. The central anger seems movingdistantly, from left to right) it's pretty. Shine, killers.What! Will your ChristiansFight? It makes Tyr and Woden itch in my blood, all the unbelievedabsurdities like thirsty fleas.Wonderful, to feel one's mind for a moment unfixed from misery.Baby, come. I want to see it.(draining Chrysothemis by the wrist) Come I say.Gudruris tent-sentinel has been standing motionless in thedarkness. He comes into the light that shines from the tentdoor.SENTINEL Regret, my lady, it is not fitting that our lord's lady . . .GUDRUN Quiet, you. Guard my gear, (shuddering) What was that?SENTINEL . . . wander through the night camp . . . My lady?GUDRUN Blind I have been. I never thought of it, mixed in mymisery. My own folk's death-shout. My own blood spillingMade me merry just now. I drove 'em to it: Carling has calledtheir troop and I am the fool.SENTINEL My lady . . .GUDRUN Follow down then. (They go into the darkness.)Men are heard roundabout, moving in the darkness, calling toeach other.Which way? I said the bridle. Is it you, Katta?A VOICE (farther bouck) Nothing: some riotous captives. Theyare being dealt with.A VOICE Go back to your places and lie down.A VOICE Help me turn the horses if you are mounted, Katta. Thisis no storm.IXA length of broken wall. There are many dead at the wall-foot. Acampfire flickers to one side; toward the center, warriors of theHuns, and men with torches. Others are investigating the fallen.Blada enters.A HUNNISH CAPTAIN My lord Blada! They brought it on themselves,we only quelled them. . . . The Chief will understand.BLADA I hope so. You are responsible. You must understand thatthis was the clan of the Lady Gudrun.THE CAPTAIN They started up suddenly and attacked.BLADA Have you questioned your prisoners? And there are livemen in the heap, I can hear them gasping.THE CAPTAIN I have sent for a Prankish man who can gathertheir language. Here he comes I think. Merovech? Comehere.A HUN SOLDIER (lifting up Corling from among the slain)Here is one living, an arrow right through him. And still grips abroken sword-hilt.ANOTHER SOLDIER Oh! That youth was their leader.BLADA Question him, Frank. What were they attempting?MEROVECH Were you their leader, young man? What is your name?CARLING (painfully) A free . . . fool. Whoever you are, youhad better be lying here . . . than serve the Hun.MEROVECH Come, come, your name.CARLING Nobler than yours.MEROVECH (to Blada) I cannot do well with him: his mindwanders.ANOTHER SOLDIER (turning over a wounded man)Ho! Here is one of the two that were bound in the cellar-pit,whom they set free.BLADA (to Merovech) Try that one. Quick: he is going out.MEROVECH (kneeling over the wounded) Were you a chief oftheirs? Your name, your name.HOEGNI (whispering) Go to hell.MEROVECH I wish to be your friend. You have death in yourbelly.HOEGNI (whispering) I will tell my name ... to your masterthe Hun but not to you.MEROVECH (to Blada) He says he will tell you his name, but notto me.Blada stoops close to hear him. Hoegni strikes a dagger intohis skull and shouts:Hoegni! Do you like it?MEROVECH God!THE CAPTAIN Ah ... rat ... (driving the lance he carriesthrough Hoegnfs body)MEROVECH You need not have troubled: both dead already, both dead.THE CAPTAIN Oh noble Blada. He can't have died thus: help me!MEROVECH He can't have lived very well, the long blade in hisbrain and the hilt his horn. My God, a one-horn, a unicorn.THE CAPTAIN Oh tent-pole of battles we shall miss you tomorrow.Oh star of the horses. . . . God, God, it's not possible. (To asoldier) Report this to Lord Timor . . . no, no, to Jukkafirst. Oh dreadful accident! Straighten his body, draw out the dagger.A SOLDIER How the dead forest-man grins in his yellow axe of a beard.Gudrun comes, 'with her tent-sentinel and Chrysothemis.GUDRUN I know what has happened. Are any living?THE CAPTAIN The noble Blada! Murdered, murdered.MEROVECH My lady!GUDRUN (quietly) I see.I have come to ask about my brothers: have you killed them all?I bear the blame: but for pity . . .I am slack and patient you know, I can bear anything and smileat it, so answer me. Two of them wereCaptive, one a brave boy. (She sees Hoegnfs body) Oh. ... Itwas cruel. ... Is anyone alive?THE CAPTAIN My lady: a dreadful accident.The noble Blada . . .GUDRUN I see. Where's Ca . . . King Gunnar?Were any taken Alive?MEROVECH I have come just now. There's a fair boy still breathing... If you look carefullyYou'll see twin flecks of light in the heap: he's down but his head'slifted: his eyes in the torchlight . . . strange, eh? . . .Fixed on us.CARLING Gudrun: come here. But do not touch me for thepain ... I never guessed: nobody speaksAbout the pain . . .GUDRUN (moaning above him) Oh, Oh.CARLING I roused our men, hopingto save my brothers. You and I between usHa' done it, we've done it. ... I dreamed of being a poet and awarrior and am a piece of skewered meat. The swordYou gave me snapped, it was rotten with enamellings. I hate you,but not for that. Look along by the wall-foot,Gunnar like a dead lion.GUDRUN Oh his mouth bleeds and fills: beasts! helpme will you . . .CARLING (painfully) Drown yourself, Gudrun. Save pain.GUDRUN Die, dear . . . dear . . . dear . . .Quietly; like sleeping. Poor wet forehead. Oh, never? Ohhow you shudder.Again? . . . Again? . . . The last, (rising) NowBlood-men be quiet. One beautiful and innocent, worth all your HordeAnd smoky victories, has died, (seeming to weep) Oh. Oh. . . I am false to the bones: I feel nothing: only wearinessAnd sticky fingers.MEROVECH My God! the Chief!A stir among the soldiers. Attila enters, with Jukka andothers.ATTILA Where? (seeing Blades body and Gudrun standing near,it) To your tent. A man has died.GUDRUN Many have, my lord: from time to time.ATTILA (to the captain) Are you of Blada's men?THE CAPTAIN Oh, master. Timor's.ATTILA (to a soldier) You?THE SOLDIER Truly.ATTILA Can you follow Bela-Nor as boldly? Your master wouldhave led the encircling charge to-morrow, the hook thatbrings home the battle: he was my right hand and is cut off:Bela-Nor must lead it. You and your comrades will knowthat he is in Blada's place, it is Blada's soul in him. You willknow. Your leader is not dead, his soul has gone into Bela-Nor. Do you hear, Blada's men?SOLDIER Ay! Master. Bela-Nor!ATTILA For these rioters: if any lives, kill, (to Gudruri) Andyou . . . T’ your tent!GUDRUN Well, I bear the whole blame. I have managed neitherjustice nor mercy; slacked and let happen.I am one of those cowards that let go the bridle and brutal chancerule all. I ought to be whipped to death.But who's to do it, Attila? You?ATTILA Are you mad?GUDRUN No. Slackingagain. Look, I pray you: this one'sThe best corpse of them all, his hand still bandaged from savingmy precious life, his brave sword snapped.A lovely boy but not formed for war. He had beautiful musicin his breast, and if he had lived might possibly . . .Ha' charmed cockroaches.And take care of my poor little slave-woman: be kind, be kind.I've lived wi' masterly killers,Taking instruction. (Her knife-blade winks in the torch-light.)ATTILA Catch her hand!GUDRUN Do this to the Romans tomorrow.She has carefully placed the point on her breast, and drives itin convulsively with both hands, a gesture of straining embrace,and falls. The bystanders cry out. Chrysotbentiskneels by her.CHRYSOTHEMIS Oh. Dearest - , ,JUKKA, (stooping by the body) Master.ATTILA It is deep?JUKKA To the bottom. It is finished.ATTILA (furiously) Stand away from her then! . . Ah thewhite beast.What ailed her in God's name? She wanted her brothers killed. . . wanted, not wanted, gets what she wanted,And drinks a knife. It makes me mad, Jukka: I liked her well.CHRYSOTHEMIS Dear Savior, care for her spirit.She was bewildered, and she was kind. She might have come to thee.ATTILA All these long white women have devils.Pah-the eve of battle-the same spiteful hourMy right-hand friend and my favorite too. A cursed omen.He stands, blackly brooding.Meanwhile a thin, fractional, insubstantial Gudrun disengagesherself from the body of Gudrun and stands beside it, amongthe living but neither seen by them nor seeing them, andstares with wide empty eyes.ATTILA (to Gudruris tent-sentinel') Why did you not catch herhand? Whose man are you?THE SOLDIER (in terror) My lord my lord. I was not nearenough. Timor's.ATTILA He can spare you. (to the Captain) Have him bound:and bind the slave-woman. Bury them living in the LadyGudrun's grave, not to lack attendance,CHRYSOTHEMIS (moaning) Oh. Oh. (But neither she nor thesoldier offers resistance.)ATTILA For high-born Blada whom I loved: bury him not untilafter the battle. There will be thousands of Goths for him,thousands of Romans.GUDRUN'S SHADOW (with vague monotonous voice delirious afterthe shock of death)I know not moon nor stars,How low you lie, lynx.You must 'a' bled in the wars.Edgyth to whom he drinks,Or Fredegond:Me to womb he thinks . . .JUKKA (to Attila) May I speak? . , . Shall we convey the bodiesto their tents, master?ATTILA Do it. Their tents? Yes, do it.JUKKA I'll have beds brought to carry them. (To a soldier) You,Elvi. And you. You. From Blada's quarters: hide stretched onspears, or what you can find, but hastily.GUDRUN'S SHADOW Tall sit the wolves aroundThe lynx in the snow,Hanging their tongues beyondTheir tails I know, (calling) Chrysothemis! (quietly) No, no.I know.In a row around the red poolIn the snow, (calling) Sigurd? (quietly) Snow, no.ATTILA (over Gudrurfs body) She looks less than tall now.Lying wantonly with what a craving mouth. I ought to have . . .what she asked for . . . whipped to death . . .GUDRUN'S SHADOW (which has already moved to some distancefrom the body)Oh when my (mother's) maiden lynxBled on the spear in the snow, (calling) Father? (quietly) No:snow.Folded close will my petals openWhen the tenth moon has brokenSilence? (calling) Mother? (quietly) No snow either.I am in the whom alone.ATTILA (touching with his fingers the face and throat of thebody) I ought to 'a' killed you when you came riding thatfirst time. You were damned from the first. Farewell,Harlot-gold hair.He withdraws from the body and turns his back on it, whilemen come in with stretchers.GUDRUN'S SHADOW My darkness begins to crawl. . . . Lynx areyou there? ... I begin to remember a loathsome thingThat the living call life. (She stands staring.)ATTILA (to Jukka) D' y' think it'll dawn clear?JUKKA Master? Oh, ay, I think so. There were low clouds butthe moon outsoars them. I think we shall have perfectweather, my lord.ATTILA We had better, (fiercely) Attend to that business: see itdone with dignity.GUDRUN'S SHADOW Am I to go down the darkness eternallyChewing such a filthy cud of memories between my eyelids?Poor youth-broken Carling whimperingIn the dead men's haycock . . . and Hoegni the poison-whitesidelong slayer . . . the plain careful foolGunnar making a speech. Or a horrible beater of drums likeAttila. Or myself, whored and treacherousPlotter too weak to see it through, (tearing at herself) Shadowcannot hurt shadow,No knife can save me.The bodies are being borne away, accompanied by torchbearers:and with Gudrun's, Chrysothemis and the tent-sentinelare led. Chrysothemis screams suddenly, and Attilaturns.JUKKA Stop that. Strike her mouth.She is silenced; the bodies are taken out. Attila shudders anddraws his cloak to his face.THE CAPTAIN (to Jukka, quietly) The Chief . . . look.JUKKA Oh master. If I dare: what is it ...ATTILA (making a noise like anger) There was none like Gudrun. . . Blada. . . . Things are not right here, do you feel that?There is no tension in the air. Always before a battle we've lainTwitching in the stored womb of thunder, where the hair startsfrom the skin, men ha' snapped at each otherLike famished hounds, horses neighed all night. Now: by God,listen. Not a fierce note in the camp.GUDRUN'S SHADOW Ah, butMy eagle. Conquering Sigurd, for whose dead sake ... I supposethere is no meeting among the dead;But each in his lonely darkness, after the drunken insanity andsweat of life, remembers disgust.ATTILA Nothing. Murmurs. Sleepy patience, walking horses,stinking omens.JUKKA Master, we have Attila.ATTILA Oh, ay, we'll cook them and eat them. Come. . . .Aetius and his Romans: Theodoric his West Goths and soforth: when I gather them in my mind, then they are undermy hand. I am still Attila. (Attila and Jukka go out 'with theirfollowing.)GUDRUN'S SHADOW ('while soldiers heap the fire, and hold torchesto strip the better-furnished of the slain)For my killed eagle. Love, the base instinct, the leader of captivities.How low you lie, lynx, I've sweated pleasureUnder Attila's brown bag of a body when I thought of his power.Love? ... I think my deformityWas only ambition: to fly at the highest.Therefore I valued Sigurd, famous for killing, but horrible Attila'sten thousand to him. Oh, vileVile heroic flesh. Brynhild have himIf any residue's to find, I know he hankered. Worthy of eachother, both heroes, dog-wolf and bitch-wolf.But I will give myself to the earth-hating wind, in hope to bewashed clean of the stains and scaldingAnd that crime of being born; and praying to find the blackhoney of annihilation in some comb of darknessBack of the stars. At worst I shall find no deeper defilements norno worse captivities. Fling me far, wind. (She goes out.)XThe Sweeper, as in VI, passes along the closed curtain, carryinghis broom. He seems inhumanly remote and tall, in spite of thebonhomie of his mask.THE SWEEPER A fair field, as they say, well swept.I’ve labored all night and seen the yellow lions of dayCreep on the Argonne hills peering for prey.Plenty: they're breaking each other's bones already. Go it, Goth.Sick 'em, Hun. Now I can take a few hours off and back towork in the afternoon, forHun brag and hound bay,This broom decides the day.Roman hold and Hun ride,My broom will decide.Strictly according to orders: I'll recite them for you. First: toblow Attila back to the Danube. Second: to clear the air ofthe cluttering ghosts of the slain. Third: to pat down thebattle-corpses and gloss over everything.So much anger, so much toil,All to make soil.So much fury to feed grassComes to pass.All the horror, all the pain . . .What's horror and pain? If I could understand the words I mightremember the rhyme, (scratching his head) . . . Well, butSome day cabbages and vineyardsWill spring out of the warriors' inwards.(He goes out, absent-mindedly sweeping.)XIGudrun, at first alone. The factors of the scene do not becomevisible until she perceives them.GUDRUN Thin storm, no farther? The air hisses and fails, dyinglike a sick snake. Far down below me the meteorsSpin green fire-threads; almost infinitely far down, the glaciersmake faint light at the mountain-foot.The peak is hidden in that cloud of stars. . . . Ah, it's not here,What I was hoping. My knife was a fool and could only threadthe meat of the breast, missed this unluckyPoint it was sent to find . . . spirit, soul . . . me apparently . . .the dead body's lost dog,Howls in the silence. Will it starve at last? Or is it perhaps . . .Immortal? . . . that would be a sick thing.I thought this heighthad no human stain: but someone . . . The star-vaporDrifts off and clears him. Another of death's white lies I suppose.(A figure becomes visible, standing on a rock a little higherthan Gudrun) Red stars in his hands and feet, a blood-cometCut in his side. He is berserk-naked, young and gray-haired, oneof the shieldless that burn young.He seems to be praying to the peak, as our childish priests used topray to oak trees . . . and other handless Gods . . .(addressingthe young man)And get the same answer. What are you praying for, annihilation?If you find it, tell me.THE YOUNG MAN Did you believe in me once, that you rub saltin my wound?GUDRUN What? No. If you are the Roman God that my slavedescribed to me: how bleak your heaven is.THE YOUNG MAN I was deceived; and love is a fire; I cannot enduntil my banked longing burns itself out.SINGERS (coming tip from below, and going about the rock theyoung man stands on)... No angel flewTo unwind us when the flesh died,No light no song for a guide,I cannot guess how we knewThe way up to you.I died in childbirth crying to you.I died of old age in your faith.I of a crueller death.All my life was my flying to you.We on the spear and sword,Fighting for Christian Rome.The running pestilence, Lord.Open the enchanted home,Open the glory of God.Savior, I on the roadRunning to your wars.Open the joy, break back the stars.Because my faithHaughtily trampled on death.The wings, the victory, the shrillSong on the height.The violent blossoming, the life the lightAfter the mortal strife.He will tell us the gate is open: be still.The star-gates. Endless life.THE YOUNG MAN When I could not bear it ... Betrayed children,I was deceived before I deceived you. I have stood here longAnd seen my betrayed come to my feet, and bitterly seen the soulmore mortal than flesh, and foundNo blood to weep for it. When the earlier dead came crying tome, my first martyrs, from jails and gibbets,Who had endured all evil for my sake, led by my words tomisery, my promises to death by torture:And even my own dear friends whom I had touched with myhands . . . when I could not bear it,I lied and said "Life is here. Wait but a little, my Father is preparingyour places behind the stars."They waited in hope, soon they were nothing. They faded andwasted and were gone away, but not into joy.I will not lie to you. You are dead; your lives are finished; thereis nothing more. The spirit is a distant echoFrom the other mountain, dying in a moment. Or a blown fadingsmoke of burnt grass. My dream was a fool.My promises were a love-drunken madness. Alas that you are tooweary shadows to cry out and curse meAnd drown my long self-torment in your seas of bitterness. IfJudas for a single betrayal hanged himself,What for me, that betrayed the world?SINGERS Our Saviour saysWait, for the star-gates move;While I gaze on his face,While I faint on his love.THE YOUNG MAN You have not understood me. I would not deceiveany soulAgain forever. While I lived I saw my people beaten and deprived,therefore I imagined a worldBeyond life, out of time, righteousness triumphing. I saw it soclearly, towers of light, domes of music,God's love the wings and the flame. But sometimes I thought myvision was only a symbol of much greater realities.Thus passionately I raised myself up to be mocked and pitied.. . . There is nothing good after death.As to God: I know not whether he is good. I know not whetherhe exists. I have stood and gazed at the star-Swarming cloud. . . . Out of huge delusionMy truth is born. It has nothing to do with the dead; I loved theliving and taught them to love each other.Even now on earth my love makes war upon death and misery,not like a sword, like a young seed,And not men's souls, but far down the terrible fertile future theirchildren, changed and saved by love,May build the beauty of an earthly heaven on all our dead anguishes,and living inherit it.SINGERS Do you hear? He says that we inheritHeaven on the instant and the roofs are tiledWith the flame-wings, the high-singing angels, the rose-colorwings, the wildFire-color wings, the violet-fire feathers and spirit over spiritFor tile over tile overlapping from the ridges downward . . .OTHER SINGERS (hoarse voices; a heavier tune)The arrow is like air but the held spear enters.The pike is a pearl, pushes its path.Ha! says the sword, ham-strings the horses.The hooking halberd, the Hun from the saddle-ridge,Ha! says the halberd . . . (more quietly) the fear, the pain.The knees that sag while the blood runs out, the dizzy sickness,The choking struggle, the horror of death . . .GUDRUN Another variety of dreamers. They pass like pulses froma cut artery. I saw Hoegni in the pressFuriously stabbing imaginary princes; and Blada leading hislonely fancy of ten thousand horse,His private death-dream.OTHER SINGERS Claw, green cat,Roll it home to Roua.Cat of the standard!You have felt the claws, Goth?The teeth excel them.(quietly) Oh, the terror.The darkness of wounds, the fallen riders, the red agonies.OTHER SINGERS Wolves for your hunger horse-meat and Hunmeat.Weary not, West-wolves, worry to the bone. (quietly) The horror, the hidden cowardice,The stifling agonies.GUDRUN What a wretched fisherman is death,That lets his catch lie kicking in the nets of delusion like livingmen. ... A sudden silence has covered them.THE YOUNG MAN The cloud that veiled it: Oh breaking, breaking.The stars like dust flee apart, perhaps for the face ofGod . . .The height clears. It is the great cliff under the mountain-peak,precipitous, with a shallow concavity and over-balance,like the face of a breaking wave. A vast form, in appearanceyouthful and human, beautiful and powerful, is boundagainst the rock, banging on heavy chains from the wrists,and bleeding from wounds. The figure resembles the Prometheuspainted on the wall of the ruined house where Attilafeasted; but this is more beautiful, and not a painting.THE YOUNG MAN I hoped. I am finally betrayed and perfectlyfooled to the end. It is only my dream of my own deathHanged on the sky. Blind stars, return.SINGERS Oh stars return, Oh mindRemember the earth or be suddenly blind.I see the pride of an eagle nailed up alive.A leopard pierced with spears that transfix the stone.Enormous helpless shoulder-storms of an eagle nailed there: yetstrive, wings, strive.Sharp strength come down, be free. Oh lonely virtue, Oh aloneBeauty and power. Bright snake nailed on the stone.GUDRUN Leopard, serpent, eagle? Wounded power? Oh, butlovelier. The hanged God that my childish blood loves.This is my barbarous blood from the north, from the sick swampsand the heavy forest, white fogs and frosts,My vicious blood . . . was it spilt? . . i my vicious love fliesto him like sighing fire like the tides of the sea*I know not moon nor stars, how low you lie, lynx, I have cometo my love, I have found him. Here is the dignityWe adored in rocks and waters, the reticent self-contained self-watchfulpassion of the gray rockThe greatness of high rivers going west; here is the comelinessI knew in heroes, the high beauty of the helmets,The praise of Sigurd; here is the pain in myself and all. Here isreality,All that my living eyes ever saw was phantomShadows of this. Myself too: I was nothing but only a sightoward him. For this I killed my brothers,For this I let Sigurd be killed: I never knew myselfBefore this moment: I know that I consented in Sigurd's death.Layer after layer I am strippedOf falsehood under falsehood and fear under fear, and know mynaked center in the flame of reality,The sun of this beauty, the song of burning. To this I am willinglysacrificed, I have come to my love, I have found him,I have aped him and shared his life, like the white horses theSwedes hang up to Odin, from the porch lintelsOf pillared Upsala.THE YOUNG MAN He is not a phantom. The stubborn violentrays and strain of realityGlow from those tortured limbs, I know them, I have foundwhat I was all my life seeking, and all my death,The power my life-delusion called Father, and never feared himand never . . . hated him . . . before this time.I wish the waters of Palestine had been white fire, devouring theflesh with the spirit before I sought to him.I wish my mother had been slain with a sword before she conceivedme, or shame had killed her when the unknown seedKnocked at the womb. He is terribly beautiful.He is like a great flower of fire on a mountain in the night ofvictory, he is like a great star that fills all the night,He is like the music and harmony of all the stars if all their shiningwere harp-music. He has no righteousness,No mercy, no love.SINGERS Peace, and the vastExpanse of the soaring storms, the peace of the eagleForever circlingPerfectly forever alone, no prey and no mate.What peace but pain?His eyes are put out, he has fountains of blood for eyes,He endures the anguish.But if he had eyes there is nothing for him to seeBut his own blood falling,He is all that exists. . . .GUDRUN It is bitter in meThat I fled out of life, while I see the beauty of power overcomingpain, and the earnest eyes.I think that Gunnar was born a fool, and now I know Carling.Hoegni had a glimmer of the beauty, he burnedA little pure, if pure killer. And Brynhild beautifully did eviland died. Sigurd ... a noiseFlung up by fortune. I have come to my love, if only in a partialvision: his greater partNo poet can know.THE YOUNG MAN The fire on the mountainLights all my depth: I see the ridiculous delusion that gave mepower and the ways that led up to Golgotha,The delusion dies, the power survives it. I am not conquered. Iset myself up against you, Oh mercilessGod not my father. On earth an old wave of time is fallen anda new one drawsFrom the trough to tower higher: my spirit is the light in it,I am remembered, this age is mine.I have bought it with the stubborn faith of my people, and my ownInsane idealism, the wine of my wounds, the tension of intolerablehope. Let me rememberedBe a new spirit of mercy in the new age, a new equality betweenmen, that eachUnblinded behold the beauty of all others: thence happiness andpeace . . . my longing chokes me. . . . When men arehappyLet them cut the crosses out of the churches, no man rememberme.GUDRUN He is beautiful, this easterner, but like a childDesiring what men despise. Happiness? For all the living? Howshamefacedly we should have to kill itAs if it were evil. Hoegni'd run white and stabbing through theworld, and well stabbed, Hoegni. I can't think why.SINGERS (Scattered multitude, seen moving among the rocks atthe Hanged God's feet, or like meteors across the sky at his knees)If once I could see the poplars again that ring the cisternWhiten their leavesI could bear to have died.They are fed with sun and the flashing water, from the highthunder-cloudFalls a stray windTo the mountain foot.What enemy has maimed you and nothing perfect?The cloud on the mountain is black, on the plain a small goldendust-cloudWhere men race horses;The cool round cistern'sBlue eye glitters, the pale poplars for eyelashes; darkRises the mountainTo the roaring cloud.Oh wounds of God, storm of stars, broken wings.At Cartagena on the broken sea-wall spikes of white grassUsed to be shuddering,You saw blue waterThrough the spikes of dry grass, Oh why must I weep for thosePale rays waveringIn sea-cloud wind?I would the enemy that wounded him had killed him.The Christinas fir-trees crack with burdens of snow, how lowLow you lie, lynx,The torn throat's flowIs red but the wolves glitter with frost and snow, their spearsRed in a rowAround the red pool.He is beautiful, I fear his wounds are not mortal.Ah Sigurd that I was mourning Adonis the mistletoe lance,Hoegni nail hardThe hero's handsTo the eagle wings, make him more than a man, die for me Christ,Thammuz to death,Dermot go down.What boar's tusk opened God's flank; what enemy has boundhis wrists,Nailed him on the eagleWave of the mountain?Die, dear . . . dear . . . quietly like sleeping, Carling, drink sleep.Oh how you shudder.Again? Again?The cool black water Oh red lips of fever, burning harsh lips,Dear, die. Oh dreadfulAgony of God can you never die?The mountain storm-cloud of stars, mounded and towering, multitude,thunder-cloudDark with the blinding arrogance of light: what a blackLightning from that!I say have you learned from the Roman Christ to be meek andhang there,For love of humanity perhaps!Hanged like a beast's hide?Bound captive who looks like power, like the eagle of battles,when you shudder in the agony huge bands of strengthMove in the arms to the groove of the breast as if you mightconquer many but an enemy has conquered you. By craft then?Or like the young JewFor you loved your enemy perhaps!Why do you call him impure, there is no impurity in fire there's pain,Me Attila and Christ defiled in vain.The grave slow sunset bleeding at the end of enormous lands,Always to bleed,Never go down,I would I had worn my life with a little valor while I livedAnd the earnest beauty of thingsWas always reproaching me.O sola beatitude,Lonely bleeding starSo high, so highOver the multitudes.I believe because it is unbelievable, there is my victory.What is that rushing in the air,That moaning on earth?Witches and Maries at the foot of the gallowsAnd over the post and the peak and the superscription in thefuriously pouringRage of the starsRiding Valkyries.Come up Grimalkin my long-nosed sister. Is it you, Birdalow?Naked and greasedSwim in the storm.I am old and have flapping breasts. Bind a birth-strangled man-child'sFebruary budIn the hollow between them.Oh hell's the horror. Hush! Hell's the horror. Shut yourmouth, woman!Lord Satan wishesThat hell hushes.Blood fire in the mouths of eternal furnaces, Oh Oh no hopeno help no end, save me Christ.No. You must be sacrificed.I'll hang with my lord then, my beautiful honey-love Satan.Snow no. It's God.Satan was burnt. Ah! but to nothing.Gone, destroyed, nothing.Loathing? Snow, nothing.Oh lucky prince.Do you hear the storm of the wind rattling the gibbetChains? The lynx has got out of chains, what reinsWill now bridle him? The wind's idle hymn,The girls on black horses, the chaste Valkyries.And who is to lead us in that day?The gnomes of the chaste machines? Not they.What, the scared rich?Snow: the sword.Into the ditch.Man has no nobler lord.Now the age points to the pit, all our vocationIs to teach babes to jump. Oh sterileProcess of Caesars, all the barren Caesars.Look at us, God, we are part of you: not defiled? not imbecileChildren sold for the seventhShare in a toy, a motor or a music-box, push-button comforts,a paper world?I would the enemy that wounded you had killed you.I would the shores and the valleys were sheeted with fire and themountain volcano'sVomit on the plains, when the feet were burnt off we shouldfall on our hands and fireLap at the wrists and cut them and the faces fall in it. We aremany, and strangelyPowerful, knowing metals, knowing drugs, we have countedthe stars, we have conquered the mastery of wings, andthere's not one of usWorthy to live, pure enough, proud enough. So they say.What, they think life is great?I have had my day:Life is too little to love, too little to hate.Temperately share the houseWith beetle and louse. At the head of the beautiful glenThe mountain is crowned with dawn and his purple shoulders. . .There are fox-gloves here, at the footHow the sea flames.The sun will come through it in a moment,Saying "I desire to die, let me die.I hate myself, I writhe from myself in fountains of fireAnd fall back frustrate, something escapes, wastes into light,waste is my want,I pour my body on the eyeless nightAnd a few planets the rainOf golden pain,But knowing that annihilation's no promise, but on and onNew flesh catches old bone . . ."INHUMAN VOICES I am the whale's way. What, for their woes?I am the oldDragon of blue water.Rock and the snow, Aconcagua, Gosainthan, Kinchinjunga, allHigh-builded cloud-knives,Heads of the earth, here is our sky-head.Blazing I gaze, I am the sun, never to findPurpose nor worth: why do I shine? Why shall I die? I am the sun.Fire-swarm of wheeling vultures of light, torch-multitudeTurning in the emptiness,Hungry for darkness, I am the galaxy. Darkness for all-heal?I am an oldOut-lier, a cloud ofCoal-black vultures, universe of slag, caught in the fork. I haveeaten darkness. I am the shorelessOcean of stars, crazy to shedMy desire from me. I am power,Pushing so close against the fountain that I can hardlyDistinguish myself from him; I am the doer, pale with desire,never to knowWhat is my want, where is the end; stone-eyed and lightning-Handed and sleepless.VOICES What horse will you ride, Katta? The crazy black.I was broken yesterday.Life was an idiot dreaming, death's his kept ape.Sir, we guessed that last August in Macedonia,The night we turned atheist by a dry-weed campfireDrinking bitterness and spitting vinegar. Hush it thunders.THE HANGED GOD Pain and their endless cries. How they cry tome: but they are I: let them ask themselves.I am they, and there is nothing beside. I am alone and time passes,time also is in me, the longBeat of this unquiet heart, the quick drip of this blood, the whirland returning waves of these stars,The course of this thought.My particles have companions and happy fulfilments, each starhas stars to answer him and hungry nightTo take his shining, and turn it again and make it a star; eachbeast has food to find and his mating,And the hostile and helpful world; each atom has related atoms,and hungry emptiness around him to takeHis little shining cry and cry it back; but I am all, the emptinessand all, the shining and the night.All alone, I alone.If I were quiet and emptied myself of pain,breaking these bonds,Healing these wounds: without strain there is nothing. Withoutpressure, without conditions, without pain,Is peace; that's nothing, not-being; the pure night, the perfectfreedom, the black crystal. I have chosenBeing; therefore wounds, bonds, limits and pain; the crowdedmind and the anguished nerves, experience and ecstasy.Whatever electron or atom or flesh or star or universe cries to me,Or endures in shut silence: it is my cry, my silence; I am thenerve, I am the agony,I am the endurance. I torture myselfTo discover myself; trying with a little or extreme experimenteach nerve and fibril, all formsOf being, of life, of cold substance; all motions and netted complicationsof event,All poisons of desire, love, hatred, joy, partial peace, partial vision.Discovery is deep and endless,Each moment of being is new: therefore I still refrain my burningthirst from the crystal-blackWater of an end.My lips crack with their longing for it,My wounds are fires, the white bones glitter in my iron-eatenwrists, blood slowly falls, blinding white bandsOf fire flow through the strained shoulder-blades, so that I groanfor an enemy to kill: there is none: I alone.Stars are condensed from cloud and flame as it were immortally,and faint and have ceased, and their slag findsAfter enormous ages the mother cloud; self-regenerating universesall but eternallyShine, tire, and die; new stars fling out new planets, strangegrowths appear on them, new-formed little lamps of flickeringFlesh for the same flame.... On earth rise and fall the agesof man, going higher for a time; this age will give themWings, their old dream, and unexampled extensions of mind; andslowly break itself bloodily; one laterWill give them to visit their neighbor planets and colonize theevening star; their colonies die there; the wavesOf human dominion dwindle down their long twilight; anothernature of life will dominate the earth,Feathered birds, drawing in their turn the planetaryConsciousness up to bright painful points, and accuse me of inflictingwhat I endure. These also pass,And new things are; and the shining pain. . . .Every discoveryis a broken shield, a new knife of consciousnessWhetted for its own hurt; pain rises like a red river: but alsothe heroic beauty of being,That all experience builds higher, the stones are the warringtorches, towers on the flood. I have not chosenTo endure eternally; I know not that I shall choose to cease; Ihave long strength and can bear much.I have also my peace; it is in this mountain. I am this mountainthat I am hanged on, and I am the fleshThat suffers on it, I am tortured against the summit of my ownpeace and hanged on the face of quietness.I am also the outer nothing and the wandering infinite night.These are my mercy and my goodness, theseMy peace. Without the pain, no knowledge of peace, nothing.Without the peace,No value in the pain. I have long strength.SINGERS The long riverDreams in the sunset fireShuddering and shining.All the drops of his blood are torches.I am one with him, I will share his being.Alas to me the deep wells of peace are a dearer water.GUDRUN I will enter the cloud of stars, I will eat the whole serpent again.SINGERS His beauty redeems his acts, it is good for GodNot to be quiet, but for men not to live long.Forever if I could: his intelligencerSpying the wild loveliness.But after I have rested as it were a momentAgainst the deep wells, and thenI am willing to eat the whole serpent again . . .The river down the long darknessShining writhes like a fire,The stars return.