King Lear's Wife; The Crier by Night; The Riding to Lithend; Midsummer-Eve Part 10

_She returns from the outhouse._

THORGERD.

Come here; give me your shoes; quickly, I say.

Why must you go shod softly? Give me your shoes.

_She takes them and puts them on the fire._

Is there some joy so deep within you still That I have missed it though 'tis bright for singing?

It shall not be so long; sing while you can.

BLANID.

No joy ever sank deep enough for singing; Trouble and all the sorrowful ways of men Must stir the sad unrest that ends in song.

Joy seeks but peace and silence and still thought; But those who cannot weep must sing for ease, And in the sound forget the thought that smote it.

THORGERD.

I am made glad, hearing your misery; Yet all the shapeless, creeping, shivering sounds You wail about the house will make me share it.

Your songs of faery and nameless kings And things that never happened long ago And an unknown, impossible, shadowy land Are useless as the starlight after moonset That will not light men homeward from the fair-- Nay, useless as its melting down thin water: If you must sing, sing truth to gut-strong tunes Of Gunnar or of Freya or Andvari, Vineland the Good and the old Western sea.

BLANID.

Things need not happen that they may be true; Although impossible, they may be true-- The things that matter happen in the heart.

All earthly truth is true but for a time, Whilst ages may be altered by one dream-- The things that matter happen in the heart ...

THORGERD.

Useless as starlight or the aimless wind.

BLANID.

The wind is all the souls of those sad dead Who will not stay in Heaven for love of earth; Hither and thither they surge to find the gate They see and know not on its new, strange side, For they have learned too much to be let back.

Ah, some have learned too much before they die.

_As she crosses the house at the back HIALTI turns and, catching her hands in his, draws her toward him._

HIALTI.

Is it too hard, the thought of that lost vale?

BLANID.

It is too hard, because I must so love it That were I free I should go there no more, Lest I should hate it. I must always suffer, I only suffer this way rather than that-- 'Tis the eternal suffering of love Must search me somehow with love's pitilessness To make me know all souls; what matter how?

O, I am but a troubled dream of G.o.d's, And even His will can alter not His dreams; Yea, He is dreaming me a little while-- I must be dreamed out to the hardest end, Returning then to be unknown in Him; I shall be Him again when He awakes.

Ah, G.o.d, awake, and so forget me soon.

_THORGERD, swinging her aside by the collar on her neck._

Set on the water for the porridge; go.

_BLANID goes into the outhouse; THORGERD continues to HIALTI._

Why must you hold her hands and hold her eyes?

HIALTI.

Under each dark grey lash a long tear slid, Like rain in a wild rose's shadowy curve Bowed in the wind about the morning twilight.

THORGERD.

Have done; I know; you left the fair at noon To reach the copse just at the young moon's setting-- I could not find her till i' the night-hid copse A woman's voice sobbed "If he would but come..."

HIALTI.

It is not true; you know it is not true.

Let her alone; you know that I must love you, And if she loves me she will know it too And hurt herself far more than you can hurt her.

THORGERD.

I hear you say it: and afterward?... Perhaps My little shears are sharp as any knife.

HIALTI.

You would not kill her?

THORGERD. When have I grown kind-hearted?

_She lays her hand on his shoulder and, leaning her mouth to his ear, speaks in a low, distinct voice._

Slit nose and lip and where's her beauty then?

_He starts from his stool._

Nay, are my kinsfolk as far off as hers?

_He turns away as BLANID enters with an iron pot which she hangs from a hook over the fire, and a pitcher of milk which she sets on the table._

_THORGERD takes the pot from the fire._

Here's too much water; it will never boil, And if it did the mess would be too thin.

_She pours water from the pot upon the floor, then hangs the pot over the fire again._

Set out the bowls, and finger not their lips.

_BLANID goes again to the outhouse, and, returning, sets three bowls with spoons on the table, and a jar of meal by the hearth._

Though porridge needs meal you shall not think for me; Do nought until I bid you--once. The grain.

_BLANID goes yet again to the outhouse and returns with a bag of grain._

You know what grain is for; why do you stand?

Your feet are mine. Down to the quern. Get down.

BLANID.

There's meal in plenty for to-morrow.

THORGERD, _laying down her distaff to make porridge._ Ay, But is there meal in plenty for next month?

You may be dead then; therefore you must toil, That I may need to do no aching tasks Until my man can buy another drudge From the next herd; for so we shall forget you.

BLANID, _kneeling by the quern between the window and the door, and commencing to grind grain._ You hate me far too subtly to forget me; There is not enough kindness in your heart To let you thus forego your joy of hate.