Before I stept, with the first tips of light,
On Raven Crag near by the Druid Stones;
So I paused there and, stooping, pressed my hand
Against the stony bed of the clear stream;
Then entered I the circle and raised up
My shining hand in cold stern adoration
Even as the first great gleam went up the sky.
Hygd.
Ay, you do well to worship on that height:
Life is free to the quick up in the wind,
And the wind bares you for a god's descent—
For wind is a spirit immediate and aged.
And you do well to worship harsh men-gods,
God Wind and Those who built his Stones with him:
All gods are cruel, bitter, and to be bribed,
But women-gods are mean and cunning as well.
That fierce old virgin, Cornish Merryn, prays
To a young woman, yes and even a virgin—
The poorest kind of woman—and she says
That is to be a Christian: avoid then
Her worship most, for men hate such denials,
And any woman scorns her unwed daughter.
Where sped you from that height? Did Regan join you there?
Goneril.
Does Regan worship anywhere at dawn?
The sweaty half-clad cook-maids render lard
Out in the scullery, after pig-killing,
And Regan sidles among their greasy skirts,
Smeary and hot as they, for craps to suck.
I lost my thoughts before the giant Stones …
And when anew the earth assembled round me
I swung out on the heath and woke a hare
And speared it at a cast and shouldered it,
Startled another drinking at a tarn
And speared it ere it leapt; so steady and clear
Had the god in his fastness made my mind.
Then, as I took those dead things in my hands,
I felt shame light my face from deep within,
And loathing and contempt shake in my bowels,
That such unclean coarse blows from me had issued
To crush delicate things to bloody mash
And blemish their fur when I would only kill.
My gladness left me; I careered no more
Upon the morning; I went down from there
With empty hands:
But under the first trees and without thought
I stole on conies at play and stooped at one;
I hunted it, I caught it up to me
As I outsprang it, and with this thin knife
Pierced it from eye to eye; and it was dead,
Untorn, unsullied, and with flawless fur.
Then my untroubled mind came back to me.
Hygd.
Leap down the glades with a fawn's ignorance;
Live you your fill of a harsh purity;
Be wild and calm and lonely while you may.
These are your nature's joys, and it is human
Only to recognize our natures' joys
When we are losing them for ever.
Goneril. But why
Do you say this to me with a sore heart?
You are a queen, and speak from the top of life,
And when you choose to wish for others' joys
Those others must have woe.
Hygd.
The hour comes for you to turn to a man
And give yourself with the high heart of youth
More lavishly than a queen gives anything.
But when a woman gives herself
She must give herself for ever and have faith;
For woman is a thing of a season of years,
She is an early fruit that will not keep,
She can be drained and as a husk survive
To hope for reverence for what has been;
While man renews himself into old age,
And gives himself according to his need,
And women more unborn than his next child
May take him yet with youth
And lose him with their potence.
Goneril.
But women need not wed these men.
Hygd.
We are good human currency, like gold,
For men to pass among them when they choose.
A child's hands beat on the outside of the door beyond the bed.
Cordeil's Voice, a child's voice, outside. Father. … Father. … Father. … Are you here? Merryn, ugly Merryn, let me in. … I know my father is here. … I want him. … Now. … Mother, chide Merryn, she is old and slow. … Hygd, softly. My little curse. Send her away—away. … Cordeil's Voice. Father. … O, father, father. … I want my father. Goneril, opening the door a little way. Hush; hush—you hurt your mother with your voice. You cannot come in, Cordeil; you must go away: Your father is not here. … Cordeil's Voice. He must be here: He is not in his chamber or the hall, He is not in the stable or with Gormflaith: He promised I should ride with him at dawn And sit before his saddle and hold his hawk, And ride with him and ride to the heron-marsh; He said that he would give me the first heron, And hang the longest feathers in my hair. Goneril. Then you must haste to find him; He may be riding now. … Cordeil's Voice. But Gerda said she saw him enter here. Goneril. Indeed, he is not here. … Cordeil's Voice. Let me look. … Goneril. You are too noisy. Must I make you go? Cordeil's Voice. Mother, Goneril is unkind to me. Hygd, raising herself in bed excitedly, and speaking so vehemently that her utterance strangles itself. Go, go, thou evil child, thou ill-comer.
Goneril, with a sudden strong movement, shuts the resisting door and holds it rigidly. The little hands beat on it madly for a moment, then the child's voice is heard in a retreating wail.
Goneril.
Though she is wilful, obeying only the King,
She is a very little child, mother,
To be so bitterly thought of.
Hygd.
Because a woman gives herself for ever
Cordeil the useless had to be conceived
(Like an after-thought that deceives nobody)
To keep her father from another woman.
And I lie here.
Goneril, after a silence. Hard and unjust my father has been to me; Yet that has knitted up within my mind A love of coldness and a love of him Who makes me firm, wary, swift and secret, Until I feel if I become a mother I shall at need be cruel to my children, And ever cold, to string their natures harder