Ay, do you consort with mine enemies?
Danaë, wailing.
Ah ... Ah ... I sickened with the secret thing,
The too faint sound that crept about my neck.
Laodice, slipping an arm about her.
Nay, Rose-Locks, calm thy heart; I did but tease
Thy mothering this lost child, kings' waif and surplus.
Rare nurses his: the next will be the last:
Some treachery will ever draw toward him.
Rest you again upon the Persian couch,
And I will sit with you and comfort you.
Leading her to the divan.
Do not forget the cherishing of a queen:
I could not catch your Sophron for you, child.
Danaë.
I did not want him: he is better gone.
Laodice.
Yet such delight to lead him to your arms:
You said you looked at him almost penitently.
Danaë.
Madam, you mock me; I have passed from him.
Laodice.
Yes, yes; but rapture, for your mind severe,
Lies in the nearness of wise and powerful men—
As once for famous high Leontion,
That philosophic courtesan your mother.
Let be; but tell me of his quietest scheme.
Danaë.
I know him not: I never knew his mind.
Several women appear dimly at the latticed windows and the gallery.
Laodice.
Ah, well ... I am tired, and it is your dear turn
To open your arms. Hold me and I will nestle,
Will murmur for you to hear along your neck.
What shall we do to-morrow, Danaë?
Danaë.
Fair mistress, I can dance for you to-morrow.
Laodice.
Yes, but my dainty cannot dance all day—
She must have long, long quiet for her thoughts.
Danaë.
Then shall I wing the bright and silken birds
About the border of your Persian mantle?
Laodice.
How should I do without you so many hours?
Danaë.
Your Parthian has a witch of snakes for you—
Laodice.
I can charm snakes and even pith their fangs.
Danaë.
This is a rare one and, if she is drunken,
Does uncouth things delicious to the senses.
Steep in her wine the herb that makes insane—
Laodice.
The herb....?
Danaë.
The viscous plant that grows i' your chamber:
Strange longer serpents shall be swiftly snared
And mixt untamed with hers, for you to read
Her gaping and ridiculous tragedy
As the cold perils sober her to pallor.
Laodice.
It is not novel: with a secret call
I have turned snakes upon such things before.
I am learned and I need some graver pang—
Something as unsuspected as to tell you
That I had poisoned you three hours ago,
And see you disbelieve—begin to believe.
Danaë.
But you did not.
Laodice. There is the disbelief.
A pause.
If I had done so I should here avouch
I could not do it—then await a sign.
Danaë.
Ah, I am yours.... You have not doomed me yet.
Queen with the wells of night for human eyes,
Let us descend upon the sea to-morrow,
Rule your own kingdom by your cedarn barge:
We will recline together, hushed as here—
Save for the waters' converse just beneath,
Permeant as my pulse veiled by your cheek.
Laodice.
I am uneasy now and should disturb you—
And thence your restlessness would chafe me more.
I must make sure that you will lie quite still:
May I so still you? Then you shall to sea.
We'll sail about the limit of the lands
Until you reach the river of Babylon.
Danaë.
So much in one rapt day?
The days of life can never compass that.
Laodice.
Not in a day, but in a day and night:
Conceive the night, my Danaë, the night—
It is the natural state of being and space,
Briefly interrupted by casual suns.
Much unknown empires are attained in night—
Perhaps not Babylon, yet far enough.
One night can be a very proper length.
Danaë.
You mean that I am poisoned after all.
Laodice.
Indeed, my Danaë, it is not so.
In this barbaric land, this bright harsh dye-pot,
Peopled by camels and cynocephali
And hairy men of soiled uncertain hue,
O, do you not remember nights of Athens
Built well about with marbles and clear skies,
Wherein your mother and such noble women
Conversed with poets and heroes in lit groves,
And life subtled? Have you not longed for them?
I am sending you to such a farther country,
Away from this shrunk mummy of live earth.
Danaë.
Madam, I know you not—when must I leave you?
Laodice, clapping her hands.
It is the hour, and you shall launch to-night.
Women, women, come hither every woman.
The faces disappear from the upper windows: eleven women appear on the colonnade, some from each side, and descend the stair rapidly.
Get to your knees about us—both knees.
Stand up, my Danaë, be overbearing.
Women, when any woman has a kingdom
And is a regnant being, does it not suit
That in the disposition of her state
Women should figure her and power afar?
This kingdom I control has thrones of cities,
So many that I, when I would sit therein,
Must cast my shadow there: and chief of these
Is Babylon the nest of bygone things.
'Tis to that Babylon I now appoint
My bosom's clasp, my Danaë, for satrap;
She shall oppress among dead queens and gods,
Keep house where sheer dominion walks, command
Enamelled palaces with copper roofs,
Pillars with gardens for their pediments—
Staircase for Anakim in Babylon:
And when ye are as dear to me as she
Ye shall advance upon such larger ways.
Danaë.
O, what is this you do? I am lost in it.
A Woman.
But how? The duplicate queen holds Babylon.
Laodice.
It shall be mine again ere Danaë's advent....
Danaë, sister of pearls, do I displease you?
Danaë.
Tell out your purpose, though I wreck by it.
Laodice.
Could higher estate persuade such disbelief?
Barsine, now disburden of its store
The old brass coffer in my inner house—
The gems, the flower-striped silks, the mousse-lines
Worn by such royal girls of Babylon;
So rare a satrap as we do devise
Must be as Babylonish as her earth.
Barsine goes out.