_Hamish_.
It"s Morris this time, is it?
And what has he done?
_Jean_.
He"s insulted me.
And you must never let me see him again.
_Hamish_.
Sure I don"t want him seeing you. But still, If I"m to keep you safe from meeting him--
_Jean_.
To look in his eyes would mortify my heart!
_Hamish_.
Then you"ld do right to pay me.
_Jean_.
What you please.
_Hamish_.
A kiss?
_Jean_.
Of course; as many as you like-- And of any sort you like.
KATRINA
I
_On the sea-coast. Three young men_, SYLVAN, VALENTINE, _and_ FRANCIS.
_Valentine_.
Well, I suppose you"re out of your fear at last, Sylvan. This land"s empty enough; naught here Feminine but the hens, b.i.t.c.hes, and cows.
Now we are safe!
_Francis_.
Horribly safe; for here, If there are wives at all, they are salted so They have no meaning for the blood, bent things Philosophy allows not to be women.
_Valentine_.
But think of the husbands that must spend their nights Alongside skin like bark. It is the men That have the tragedy in these weather"d lands.
_Francis_.
No thought of that! We are monks now. And, indeed, This is a cloister that a man could like, This blue-aired s.p.a.ce of gra.s.sy land, that here, Just as it touches the sea"s bitter mood, Is troubled into dunes, as it were thrilled, Like a calm woman trembling against love.
_Sylvan_.
Woman again!--How, knowing you, I failed So long to know the truth, I cannot think.
_Francis_.
And what"s the truth?
_Sylvan_.
Woman and love of her Is as a dragging ivy on the growth Of that strong tree, man"s nature!
_Valentine_.
Yes. But now Tell us a simpler sort of truth. Was she---
_Sylvan_.
She? Who?
_Valentine_.
Katrina, of course: who else, when one Speaks of a she to you?
_Sylvan_.
And what about her?
_Valentine_.
Was she too cruel to you, or too kind?
_Sylvan_.
Ah, there"s no hope for men like you; you"re sunk Above your consciences in smothering ponds Of sweet imagination,--drowned in woman!
_Francis_.
Ay? Clarence and the Malmesey over again; "Twas a delightful death.
_Valentine_.
But you forget.
Sylvan, we"ve come as your disciples here.
_Sylvan_.
Yes, to a land where not the least desire Need prey upon your mettle. There are hours A G.o.d might gladly take in these basking dunes,-- Nothing but summer and piping larks, and air All a warm breath of honey, and a gra.s.s All flowers--sweet thyme and golden heart"s-ease here!
And under scent and song of flowers and birds, Far inland out of the golden bays the air Is charged with briny savour, and whispered news Gentle as whitening oats the breezes stroke.
What good is all this health to you? You bring Your own thoughts with you; and they are vinegar, Endlessly rusting what should be clear steel.
_Francis_.
I do begin to doubt our enterprise, The grand Escape from Woman. It lookt brave And n.o.bly hazardous afar off, to cease All wenching, whether in deed or word or thought.
And yet I fear pride egged us. We had done Better to be more humble, and bring here A girl apiece.
_Valentine_.
Yes, Sylvan; you must think The cloister were a thing more comfortable With your Katrina in it?
_Sylvan_.
My Katrina!
And do you think, supposing I would love, I"ld bank in such a crazy safe as that Katrina? One of those soft shy-spoken maids, Who are only maids through fear? Whose life is all A simpering pretence of modesty?
If it was love I wanted, "twould not be A dish of sweet stewed pears, laced with brandy.
But I can do without a woman"s kisses.