The play is a living work despite its ancient theme, its rather cumbrous machinery, and its mixed elements. But apart from certain passages of great imaginative beauty, its chief interest lies in the fact that its motives—;love, self-sacrifice, enthusiasm—;were the ruling motives of the poets’ lives and a frequent theme of their art. Therein, of course, lies the significance of their modification of the old story. Love they always saw as the greatest good of life, self-sacrifice as the dearest end of life, and enthusiasm (here enters Dionysos) as the means to life’s noblest expression. In this last element the work remains Greek, though Englished in so much else. Michael was, in that sense, a Thracian born, and she had compelled a peace with Apollo. She infused the play with the spirit of Dionysiac worship because that spirit was her own. And when one remembers the spiritual truth that was implicit in the cult of Dionysos, its contribution to the world’s growing belief in immortality, and its connexion with the origins of tragedy, there is peculiar appropriateness in such a subject for Michael Field’s first essay in drama. Thus the key-pieces to the poet’s meaning are found where Coresus is pleading with Callirrhoë for his love and his religion. He has begged her to join the Maenads’ revel, and so set her spirit free; and he declares of his god:
He came to bring
Life, more abundant life, into a world
That doled its joys as a starved city doles
Its miserable scraps of mummying bread.
He came to gladden and exalt, all such
Must suffer....
Callirrhoë. ... Of old the gods
Gave culture by the harp, the helm, the plough,
Not by the ivy-wand.
Coresus. Seems it so strange
That Semele’s sublime audacity
Should be the origin of life urbane?
We must be fools; all art is ecstasy,
All literature expression of intense
Enthusiasm: be beside yourself.
If a god violate your shrinking soul,
Suffer sublimely.
Callirrhoë. Yet I hold it true,
Divinity oft comes with quiet foot.
Coresus. To give a moment’s counsel or to guard
From instant peril. When a god forsakes
Olympus to infuse divinity
In man’s mean soul, he must confound, incite,
O’erwhelm, intoxicate, break up fresh paths
To unremembered sympathies. Nay, more,
Accompany me further in my thought—;
Callirrhoë, I tell you there are hours
When the Hereafter comes and touches me
O’ the cheek.
. . . . .
Callirrhoë. I tremble at your god, for terrible
In wrath I fear him; though you speak him fair.
. . . . .
Coresus. Turn not away, Callirrhoë; by goads
The ox-souled must be driven; yield response
To Heaven’s desire of thee; love humanly.
Love is the frenzy that unfolds ourselves;
Before it seize us we are ignorant
Of our own power as reed-bed of the pipe.
The rushes sang not; from Pan’s burning lips
Syrinx sucked music. Wert thou lute to love,
There were a new song of the heaven and earth.
Callirrhoë. ... I will not yield my love
To Bacchic priest....
Coresus. ... As unseasoned wood
That smokes and will not kindle is flung by
For any refuse purpose, while the train
Of torchlight sinuous winds among the hills,
A starry serpent, so art thou cast out,
An apathetic slave of commonplace,
Sluggish and irreceptive of true life,
From all high company of heavenly things.
Go to your home.
Callirrhoë. O, Heaven shelter it!
Act I, Scene 3
There is much that one would like to quote from this play, including the faun scenes (written by Henry) that have already been adopted into certain anthologies. Machaon, too, sceptic and humorist, might be used to confound the dullards who said that Michael Field had no humour. There is salt enough in him to give the whole tragedy another flavour, and he breaks at least one of the precious unities. His rationalism is away in a much colder region (he usually speaks in prose); and his conversion to the cult at the end is out of character. But though one may not linger on him, one must stop for a moment at Henry’s faun song. For here, very delicately and quietly, a greater theme is stated. And if we seek in this first work for an early glimpse of the larger vision which the poets attained at last, seeing the tragic element of life as life’s inescapable shadow, it will be found, quite unself-conscious, in this playful song.
I dance and dance! Another faun,
A black one, dances on the lawn.
He moves with me, and when I lift
My heels, his feet directly shift.
I can’t out-dance him, though I try;
He dances nimbler than I.
I toss my head, and so does he;
What tricks he dares to play on me!
I touch the ivy in my hair;
Ivy he has and finger there.
The spiteful thing to mock me so!
I will out-dance him! Ho! Ho! Ho!
Act III, Scene 6
Fair Rosamund, which appeared in the same volume with Callirrhoë, possesses equal dramatic power with greater control and a clearer sense of direction. The play is built with more economy; the movement is quicker, and the lyrical passages really belong to the setting and are not simply interludes to provide relief. Of the works of the first group, Fair Rosamund is perhaps the most perfect artistically, which may have been the reason why the poets chose it for reproduction in the Vale Press. But just because it is so balanced, and entirely free from afterthought, it is not fully typical of this group. We pass it, therefore, with two short quotations, and in addition only this fragment from Rosamund’s farewell to the King, to illustrate how our poet will sometimes gather infinity into a gem-like phrase: