Michael Field

by Mary Sturgeon

Lethington. You saved my life.

Queen [looking toward the door]. He cannot be a king;
They wither, or are murdered, or grow mad
Who link themselves with me in sovereignty.
Twilight and ruin settle on us both!
Oh, might we be forgotten; could we lie
In the blank pardon of oblivion! That,
Alack, can never be; there is no man
Can give me safety, or protection, or
Peace from vicissitude; I have no lover,
Servant or friend; and yet I am beloved
Even to marvel. I can pray no more,
I have no more dependence upon God;
And none on any of His creatures, none.
Go, tell my story as you learnt it, add
New matter. If I sat beside the fire
In prison with my maids, and never spoke,
While you put forth fresh libels, or confirmed
The common talk, you could not injure me:
My silence would have privilege.
. . . . .
Lethington. Libellers
Are sure of popularity. My brain
Treasures a rare, untarnished miniature.
With that I shall not part. [She gazes at him, sobbing.] Nay, pardon now,
Full pardon, great, obliterating sea
Of love o’erwhelm me! You have heaven’s own measure:
The seventy-times-and-seven is in your eyes,
Immeasurable grace....
God shield you from dishonour! May He draw
Blood of me, when my life has other use
Than to protect your titles.
Act V, Scene 3

IV. THE TRAGEDIES—;II

MICHAEL FIELD’S second dramatic period synchronizes almost exactly with the ‘eighteen-nineties.’ That is to say, it was contemporaneous with Wilde, Beardsley, and The Yellow Book, and belonged in time to that decadent decade which has gained its reproachful title mainly because work like that of our poet was ignored, and eyes were drawn exclusively to the swagger of a noisier set. In all that clamour there was hardly a word uttered about her, though a stray reviewer here and there tried vainly to rouse the literary world to the fact that it had in its midst a veritable dramatic poet.

The seven plays came out one by one and passed quietly into the hands of the very few—;book-lovers or poetry-lovers—;who really cared for fine work. And nothing more was heard of them or their authors. Of the noisier and naughtier set a good deal was heard; and yet it may be that in the last judgment of literary values these seven plays will go far to redeem their epoch, vicariously, from a reproach too lightly made.

This poet and her work are in truth far enough removed from decadence. A heroic temper was hers, and mental courage, rare in her day, to face and present the problems of life. A robust and militant morality—;no less moral because it sometimes shatters indignantly a mere moral convention—;informs her drama. She did not belong to any set, and was so far from swagger that her idea of advertisement was to print at the end of her books the bad as well as the good reviews. She lived secluded in the suburb of a great town, and there she laboured, with no hope of reward, at her daily toil in the service of poetry. Nevertheless, even so far withdrawn, the spirit of the age reached her and laid its mark upon her work. And that, ultimately, is the reason why this drama of the second period reveals itself, despite a continued sense of moral and spiritual problems, as drama in which Art is the primary value. If ever artist wrought, as some devout lover, for the sake of Art, it was Michael Field in this body of work; which, though it bears no relation to the trivial contemporary cliché, “Art for Art’s sake,” will be a bulwark (in the day of reckoning that one has foreseen) to the truth underlying that cry. But perhaps that is simply because this poet, as artist, was the devout lover, the reckless spendthrift of herself, the tenacious, tireless, painstaking follower of a vision.

But the proximate cause of the change from the characteristics of the first period lies in the changed conditions of the poets’ life—;that, in its turn, of course determined by their mental development. They were in many ways different people from the authors of Callirrhoë. Six years of living, as the artist lives, and the production of nine plays and at least one book of lyrics, had re-created them. Travel had made them free of a larger world, larger not merely in physical extent. For they were avid of the best in life; and they had the taste to gather and the temper to assimilate the finest things that the old cities of the Continent could offer. But whereas their early impulse had been toward Teutonic culture (Goethe had drawn them, and the German philosophers), now it was the art and the thought of the Latin races which held sway. Visits to Italy, and art friendships there and in London: research into medieval Latin chronicles, into French and Italian history: residence in Paris and contact with the Gallic sense of form—;all helped the trend of their mind. And when they determined to leave Clifton and settle at Reigate, the act was almost symbolic. For they removed themselves into what was at once a bigger and a smaller world, the resources of the metropolis lying accessible to the deliberate limits of their social existence, much as their greater mental area now lay subject to a stricter rule.

As a consequence, these plays are different in material, in spirit, and in manner from the plays of the first period. The material comes from the subjects which were most attractive to them at the time, much of it from old Roman history and the chronicles of medieval France. In spirit the work is withdrawn from the temporary, the immediate, and the actual, and is concerned with the more permanent issues of life; and in manner the sense of form which now ruled their æsthetic has constrained them to a finer balance, a sharper definition, and a greater simplicity of structure. The cumbrous Elizabethan machinery has been scrapped; and with a more careful economy of means, the plays are compressed into smaller compass. The wearisome and often redundant fifth act has disappeared. Three acts are the rule, with a fourth as an occasional exception. There is no subdivision into scenes, the movement of each act thus flowing uninterrupted. There are fewer long speeches, fewer soliloquies: dialogue is more nervous and forcible. Fine poetry is not wanting, but it is now in smaller proportion to dramatic and psychological truth. And action goes forward at its proper pace, pushed by the emotion of the moment, and freighted only by its just weight of reflection.

As a handy label, it is convenient to classify this drama as a Latin group. Its most prominent feature is, indeed, a Roman trilogy which the poets were engaged upon (though not exclusively) for seven years. These three plays are, in historical order, The Race of Leaves (1901), The World at Auction (1898), and Julia Domna (1903). Another Roman play, despite its title, is Attila, my Attila! (1896); and two whose subjects belong to French history and are drawn from medieval Latin chronicles are Anna Ruina (1899) and In the Name of Time. This last was, by the evidence of letters, being worked upon as early as 1890, but it was probably not finished until much later; and one imagines that after the poets’ conversion to the Roman Church theological scruples withheld them from publishing it. It did not appear until after their death, in 1919; but it belongs, in spirit and in form, to their work of the nineties.

Anna Ruina, a Russian princess, daughter of Jaroslav, became queen to Henry I of France in the middle of the eleventh century. Henry was prompted to seek a wife in so distant a country because nearer royal houses were already allied; and the medieval popes had an uncomfortable habit of excommunicating princes who married within the forbidden degrees. His Russian wife secured him from such molestation; but when, after his death, his widow married his kinsman Raoul, Conte de Valois, the pope of the moment annulled the marriage and ordered Raoul to take back his former wife—;a woman notoriously evil—;whom he had divorced. Our play is concerned with the loves of Anna and Raoul, their struggle with the Church, and the disastrous conflict between Anna’s passion and her piety which brought ruin on them both.