LITMIR.BIZ

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gold we bear upon our shoulders thus,

      Has endless pity even for lost souls

      In her good heart. At moments, now and then,

      When plunged in horror, brooding each alone,

      A memory of her face floats in on us.

      It brings a crowned misery, half repose,

      And we wail one to other; we obey,

      For heaven’s many-angled star reversed,

      Now sign of evil, burns into our hearts.

      FIRST MERCHANT.

      When these pale sapphires and these diadems

      And these small bags of money are in our house,

      The burning shall give over—now begone.

      SECOND MERCHANT.

       [Lifting the diadem to put it upon his head.]

      No—no—no. I will carry the diadem.

      FIRST MERCHANT.

      No, brother, not yet.

      For none can carry her treasures wholly away

      But spirits that are too light for good and evil,

      Or, being evil, can remember good.

      Begone! [The spirits vanish.] I bade them go, for they are lonely,

      And when they see aught living love to sigh.

      [Pointing to the oratory.] Brother, I heard a sound in there—a sound

      That troubles me.

      SECOND MERCHANT.

       [Going to the door of the oratory and peering through it.]

      Upon the altar steps

      The Countess tosses, murmuring in her sleep

      A broken Paternoster.

      [The FIRST MERCHANT goes to the door and stands beside him.]

      She is grown still.

      FIRST MERCHANT.

      A great plan floats into my mind—no wonder,

      For I come from the ninth and mightiest Hell,

      Where all are kings. I will wake her from her sleep,

      And mix with all her thoughts a thought to serve.

      [He calls through the door.

      May we be well remembered in your prayers!

      [The COUNTESS CATHLEEN wakes, and comes to the door of the oratory. The MERCHANTS descend into the room again. She stands at the top of the stone steps.

      CATHLEEN.

      What would you, sirs?

      FIRST MERCHANT.

      We are two merchant men,

      New come from foreign lands. We bring you news.

      Forgive our sudden entry: the great door

      Was open, we came in to seek a face.

      CATHLEEN.

      The door stands always open to receive,

      With kindly welcome, starved and sickly folk,

      Or any who would fly the woful times.

      Merchants, you bring me news?

      FIRST MERCHANT.

      We saw a man

      Heavy with sickness in the Bog of Allan,

      Whom you had bid buy cattle. Near Fair Head

      We saw your grain ships lying all becalmed

      In the dark night, and not less still than they

      Burned all their mirrored lanthorns in the sea.

      CATHLEEN.

      My thanks to God, to Mary, and the angels,

      I still have bags of money, and can buy

      Meal from the merchants who have stored it up,

      To prosper on the hunger of the poor.

      You have been far, and know the signs of things:

      When will this yellow vapour no more hang

      And creep about the fields, and this great heat

      Vanish away—and grass show its green shoots?

      FIRST MERCHANT.

      There is no sign of change—day copies day,

      Green things are dead—the cattle too are dead,

      Or dying—and on all the vapour hangs

      And fattens with disease and glows with heat.

      In you is all the hope of all the land.

      CATHLEEN.

      And heard you of the demons who buy souls?

      FIRST MERCHANT.

      There are some men who hold they have wolves’ heads,

      And say their limbs, dried by the infinite flame,

      Have all the speed of storms; others again

      Say they are gross and little; while a few

      Will have it they seem much as mortals are,

      But tall and brown and travelled, like us, lady.

      Yet all agree a power is in their looks

      That makes men bow, and flings a casting-net

      About their souls, and that all men would go

      And barter those poor flames—their spirits—only

      You bribe them with the safety of your gold.

      CATHLEEN.

      Praise be to God, to Mary, and the angels,

      That I am wealthy. Wherefore do they sell?

      FIRST MERCHANT.

      The demons give a hundred crowns and more

      For a poor soul like his who lies asleep

      By your great door under the porter’s niche;

      A little soul not worth a hundred pence.

      But, for a soul like yours, I heard them say,

      They would give five hundred thousand crowns and more.

      CATHLEEN.

      How can a heap of crowns pay for a soul?

      Is the green grave so terrible a thing?

      FIRST MERCHANT.

      Some sell because the money gleams, and some

      Because they are in terror of the grave,

      And some because their neighbours sold before,

      And some because there is a kind of joy

      In casting hope away, in losing joy,

      In ceasing all resistance, in at last

      Opening one’s arms to the eternal flames,

      In casting all sails out upon the wind:

      To this—full of the gaiety of the lost—

      Would all folk hurry if your gold were gone.

      CATHLEEN.

      There is a something, merchant, in your voice

      That makes me fear. When you were telling how

      A

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