The Chalice
(From an uncompleted play)
(Occasional murmurs, with curious leaden echo, heard during Peter’s words)
PETER.
Sunset: the extreme agate and gold of the sun has lighted
On thirsty knaveries of stone: a mountain drinks
With large stone eyes agape,
And its wasted blue flesh takes on veins and rumours of colour.
A WOMAN’S VOICE.
But these are caverns of burial under sundown:
Peter, what do we see of this healing draught, this sunset?
PETER.
The Last Supper of all daylight, the colour of blood.
Reveries, words, every sway of the oar
Depend upon blood, the blood of a Lover: sunset
Is the cry of my mother in giving birth to me,
The first bird’s cry.
A MAN’S VOICE.
But here in the catacombs
That first bird’s cry is engrossed by the huge quaking
Designs of echo; we are denied the vision
Of sun on water, childbearing, lightning:
What are you to tell us who have given so much of life
For a darkness?
PETER.
See what it is I hold in my hand:
This ancient rushlight rides an ancient tethered wind;
Earth shivers in the womb—huge fumbling shadows,
Horsemen, soldier, high priest, tremble on the walls.
Light is the centre of our darkness. I am to tell you
Of all light, all love, fast to the Cross and bleeding;
I shall tell you, sunken and in bonds, of nails, entombment...
VOICES.
But you are Peter, sunken and in bonds.
PETER.
I am Peter who was beloved of Him.
Say my yawl flounders through the fourth watch; sea and air,
Hating each other, engage; barbaric corridors
Niched with plaques of combat, all arms and legs,
Quake; the wicked lissom lightning curvets;
Floors splinter: comes the white safe footfall of love
And a long truce of the elements to windward.
Or my days are flickering, gasping in the trawl of death,
Acid catspaw trickles, torches brush my eyes,
Till He passes, when airless jaws of the last watch
Are acres of ocean deeps, pasture, housing,
When castles of coral burgeon in cruel sky:
My homecoming.
See what I hold now—His.
And now I am to tell you some of His last words:
This is My Blood, of the new and eternal Testament, which
shall be shed for you and for many unto the remission of sins.
VOICES.
He is Peter, he holds a chalice in his hand—
PETER.
I am a fisherman, humble; winds and tides of my life
Devise the long tack before grace, the unfurling and reefing of canvas.
There lies the circle of stones, my oven, for frying
Fish and for baking bread; there lies the well,
Purity, coolness, shadow;
Gulls survey my trade, chanting and peering, As eyes of the dice plotting in mid air.
But I have stood before Him drinking from red-brown agate.
This chalice in my hand has known His Blood.
I tell you that only by drinking His Blood are we free—
A WOMAN’S VOICE.
Tell us of Him.
PETER.
I tell you only of Blood.
This chalice has known His hands, the touch of His lips;
But the sick man walks, but the stolid tomb falls open;
To a wordless crowded room comes that great Ghost of love; Against haggard hearts break the visionary
Shapes of the sea.
A MAN’S VOICE.
You are Peter, you are to die.
PETER.
Death lowers slowly the ravenous close-woven net:
The artful cords spy upon my scales of action,
But deep comes that blood, my food. Death prowls the sea, But to caverns and to most vague sea-bottom,
Voyaging fathoms down,
Drifts the red and brown loaf of the moon.
So my marked, hunted silver swims in peace.
THE ANNOUNCER’S VOICE.
Centuries, feet of tribes,
Tides ramble and race,
Faces gather and swarm,
Forms of a mystery,
Sea and sun and faces
Gazing: strange movements, words.
Birds in surge as storm,
Calm as the tree’s chalice.
Volleys of questioning faces,
Grace of agate tree-breast,
It is the third century. The Emperor Valerian.
Here are one or two of the strangers in his world.
SIXTUS II.
Lawrence, deacon, what news have you heard this day?
LAWRENCE.
The Empire sprawls, crouches upon all lands,
Unwholesome breath creeps as a fog indoors,
Lewd yellow eyes are fast upon our Church.
Handicraft of holy rite, pity, and charity
These eyes decipher as treachery weaving rebellion.
All guiding hands of our doctrine are to die,
You yourself, Pope Sixtus Second, are to die.
SIXTUS II.
Lawrence, the promise came to my childhood.
Lesson, pain, love
The child learns:
Face of the dove,
Crown of thorns.
Boyhood’s lands,
Valley to verge:
Acolyte’s hands
Whispering scourge.
Manhood’s east
Beckons me:
Joys of the priest,
Gethsemane.
The elder cold,
Gain and loss:
Standards and gold,
LAWRENCE.
But what can we do without you?
SIXTUS II.
Death comes, but that white flower of the gospel
Abides his boot; friend, together with that flower
You are safe. Dying, my words are woven
Into your mounting, turning song and prayer,
The thin whirlwind pillar of contemplation. I climb with you
Among sober twinkling heart-shapes, through groves of night.
LAWRENCE.
We call him among the orisons of stars.
SLXTUS II.
You are my deacon; our Spain before the monstrous cat
Shivers at limb and honour mangled, eaten.
Before they come for me I give you my precious things,
This crown, this staff, and first of all this chalice.
Take it and hold it in your hand: I am watching
Amid mesmerisms of walls—open the door.
His Blood lies before us.
LAWRENCE.
I shall guard this, guard it.
ANNOUNCER.
Three days. Sixtus dead. We find Lawrence alone.
LAWRENCE.
Huesca, town of my childhood, daughter of Spain, talk quickly,
With bargainings and smells and colours of the market,
Silks, oranges, man. In the nameless hours
I waking early saw you promised to another.
Yellow nesting beaks of life yawned without hope,
Animal howling in pursuit forgot his lines.
You would not know me. Tower, breast rose moodily
In the embrace of a steep spousal blue before dawn.
Never on earth has a wind spoken thus.
That the aloofness of your other life
Be out of this hour, have hubbub, Huesca. I
Am now to die.
Crown and staff he gave me—here, and here:
They beg his old hands that never flinched in fear.
The killers make ready: nearer, nearer, their voices.
Something sustains my soul in barbed noises,
This holy chalice, shapely as the fire
(Nearer, nearer): let it be my desire.
I shall send the chalice to Huesca, house of gold.
Stand firm, my bones, argue with all the cold...
ANNOUNCER.
Centuries of sunshine. But we go to Huesca,
See of Audebert, Bishop, in the eighth century.
Some news has come, some words are in the wind.
AUDEBERT.
It is said that the blood changes, the steeple tumbles,
In hordes of thousands they come. O what a glorious day:
The sun’s huge face is all a mildness for Huesca.
(Chime of a bell)
It is said that a crescent-broidered canvas enwraps the altar.
But how the fields sway together, recklessly
Turn out their pockets-sesterces, golden fruit!
By ship, on horseback, with spearmen it is said they come.
Ho, sun and tillage are the eyes and ears of Huesca,
And what a glorious day, with the sun’s huge face.
(Chime of a bell)
YOUNG MAN’S VOICE (sudden).
My Lord Audebert, master of Huesca,
The Moors have arrived.
AUDEBERT.
O blindfold blockhead sun!
Juan, who told you this?
YOUNG MAN.
Their soldiers are advancing,
By moonrise they will arrive. You must leave this town.
AUDEBERT.
Where can I go? All towns about are taken.
YOUNG MAN.
My Lord, there is a forsaken mountain, Pano.
None will find you there, none follow you.
A hermit lives there, watching only the trees
In their concupiscent grey nakedness every winter.
Perhaps, my lord, you should stay, let the Moors come.
AUDEBERT.
Bring me my ass. I shall take the holy chalice.
O precious Blood, moisten my dry lips
As I ride through dust and a greedy cloud of wasps.
ANNOUNCER.
Huesca has fallen. We go to Mount Pano.
JEAN DE ATARES.
My lord, I welcome you to the mountain and my hut.
AUDEBERT.
Dear mother of Jesu, bless this place.
JEAN DE ATARES.
I am Jean de Atares. For thirty years
Masquerades of the world have missed my sight,
Rigmaroles of the world have missed my ears.
Eternity is this mountain; I have smiled.
An eagle swerving in his orderly flight
Welcomed me home as Pano’s errant child.
Wild beasts figured loneliness, delight.
I have left their houses, voices, gamings, wars
To some quaint fit of time, who, standing still,
Leaves man hound his own carcass through the hours
Of rumour, money, and to merrily lick his scars.
Meantime, wild bees bedeck this genial hill;
She is the mother, has the mother’s powers.
AUDEBERT.
It is a beautiful mountain. I have brought many things.
But most of all I wish you to see this chalice.
We believe that it was used by our Lord on earth.
It came from a rich house in Jerusalem.
JEAN DE ATARES.
My Lord, O let me see! Agate, agate!
AUDEBERT.
It passed through all their hands. The early Christians
JEAN DE ATARES.
Heavens, I am lonely.
AUDEBERT.
They crowded around His Cross wearing stern expressions. Some mocked Him. Vinegar. But He came back.
JEAN DE ATARES.
My boyhood, there were a group of young fellows like angels...
Do they laugh now, chatter, sing?
AUDEBERT.
Only the Moors.
Let us rest now, and find Him in our sleep.
ANNOUNCER.
That prayer tempts us. But we turn onwards
Towards King Martin the Kind, of Aragon in the fourteenth century.
Two workmen are alone with the chalice, muttering.
FIRST WORKMAN.
It is of agate, this puny chalice,
To be fitted with a stem of gold, they tell us.
SECOND WORKMAN.
Quieter, we are in the palace.
FIRST WORKMAN.
When they have it with gold, will the wine
Taste like a nectar for the Divine?
SECOND WORKMAN.
At any rate it will taste better than mine.
FIRST WORKMAN.
They coat their creaking dry bones over
With silver and jewel—garbage on a river.
SECOND WORKMAN.
I’d collect that garbage like a lover.
FIRST WORKMAN.
A palace crammed with nonsense, not a thing
But what makes Saxon crickets try hard to sing—
SECOND WORKMAN.
Shut up, for God’s sake, here is the King.
(Pause)
MARTIN THE KIND.
Ah, my two loyal subjects, hard at work?
FIRST WORKMAN.
Oh, ever, your most royal majesty, it is our delight.
MARTIN THE KIND.
I see. And are you working on the chalice?
FIRST WORKMAN.
Most royal majesty, it will be a joy to your table.
MARTIN THE KIND.
No, it is not for mine.
FIRST WORKMAN.
Excuse me, most royal majesty,
It shall be a glory to your chosen one’s possessions.
MARTIN THE KIND.
No, it is simply a glory to Aragon:
This is a chalice used by our Lord Himself
At the Last Supper. Hands of blessed Peter
Brought it among men.
FIRST WORKMAN.
Most royal majesty, I—
MARTIN THE KIND.
What does your friend here say, the silent one?
SECOND WORKMAN.
Your majesty, I am honoured.
MARTIN THE KIND.
Peace be with you.
I must now return to the Council Chamber.
(Pause)
FIRST WORKMAN.
Don’t rub the stem like that, take your hands off!
SECOND WORKMAN.
The job has to be done.
FIRST WORKMAN.
I feel a little frightened.
SECOND WORKMAN.
So do I.
FIRST WORKMAN.
This room, these colours, and this chalice.
SECOND WORKMAN.
He used it in a big grand room like this.
I shall remember this day’s work for ever.
ANNOUNCER.
Enter the twentieth century, with sunshine and harvest.
Come into a hospital—here are miracles.
But here, outside, flickers the proboscis of war.
Air-raids on England: a woman whose airman husband
Is dead tries to think well.
(Siren: Alert)
WOMAN.
Lights out in the Garden, and the exhausted angel
Lolling in harness, laden with darkness, watches.
Disconsolate reverie of sirens:
The night is a ritual of paid-off fingers, begging pipe-bowl,
And frayed fable of last century’s photograph.
So give me to drink the juice of withered houses,
The towers, alleys, shopfronts, ragged school yard,
All bubbling, bursting, upon the black port of my glass.
(Siren)
Or the tangled wreckage of his death, our death...
It was our silver thinking,
Conjectural fuselage evolving somehow
From porous fabric of a hundred hundred locusts,
From hungry rookie swarm, buzz of Names in vain, Instinctive emigration, stolen heretical greenstuff.
But our frightened wings of experiment in the historic Contrarieties of winds dabbled, soaring, banking.
Wisdom gradually cuts its teeth.
Husband, we rose on a day
Under hood of glass, from runways of old streets:
We ate and drank; small white faces of instruments
Were righteous about some aerobatics of the spirit.
Then came marauding moon, warm hangars of sleep.
I shall turn now, clumsily, creak up the stairs:
Moth-wing and mouse-routine would have this grounded
Hour eternal, actual, alone.
(Siren)
Death or fear? The siren, motherly,
Drools cunningly into the ear of the pathfinder;
Flat wailing accents cosset the violators
Of London’s evening; they are winged, secure,
Their droning mouths nuzzle the paps of night-sky.
But was it then our night-sky?
Wings ... our broken burning thought...
Revelled in us, tumbled from us suchlike genes of ruin?
(Siren)
An atoll, a minute of peace in flooded Europe
Holds the steep-climbing chalice of our Lord,
Pilgrims marvel at wings that toy with planets
And yet might brush gently their heads and hands.
Then bring to these shores, this hour the gallant cup;
The glum night-fighters will spill it, knock it down...
Next day will see it airborne in the priest’s hands at Mass...
But our wings, broken ... at the topmost stair I think
To see my husband waiting. Siren will mumble.
I shall think of earthly love.
The trial run; poor biplane tottering
On unstable and tattered wing,
Willy-nilly to blunder to the grave.
Whistling struts are in time’s pincers,
Aileron hardly answers.
Hey, the quaint bulk is love.
Call them wings of a dove?
In the narrow cockpit bouncing, peace is war.
Hails us some broad star,
So we quarrel, kiss, and in a sideslip move.
Children, parishioners—courage,
With such faulty undercarriage.
Hey, the quaint bulk is love.
Unappetizing curve:
Shall we rise and rise, buzzing free
Near the bearded Trinity?
Shall checking motors, joy, pain, be joy and joy all alive?
Oxygen, then, for our crude
Ransackings of altitude.
Hey, the quaint bulk is love.