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Title: In A Dungeon Of Russia
Author: Max Eastman [
More Titles by Eastman]
Scene: A cell leading to the gallows.
Characters: A noble lady, who is an assassin.
A common murderer.
The chilling gray, a ghost of mortal dawn,
Has touched them, and they know the hour. The guard
Shifts guiltily his shoes upon the stone.
They raise their eyes in languid terror; but
The moment passes, and 'tis still again--
Save, in some piteous way she moves her throat.
There is a wandering of her burning eyes,
Until they fix, and strangely stare upon
The face of her companion. They would plead
Against the heavy horror of his look;
For not an idiot's corpse could strike the soul
More sick with wonder.
"O look up and speak
To me!"--Her voice is startling to the walls--
"Speak any word against this gloom!"
He moves
A blood-deserted eye, but answers not.
"Tell if 'twas cold and filthy where you lay!"
"Ay, filthy cold! 'Twas cold enough to keep
The carrion from rotting on these bones!
They never kill us--never 'til we hang!"
He spoke a brutal tongue against the gloom.
And there was heard far off a step, a voice.
The guard stood up; a quiver moved her limbs.
"Give me some simple word. Give me your hand
In comradeship. We die together--and
The while we breathe--we are each other's world."
"No--not your world, my lady! Though we die,
I have no grace to give a hand to you.
My hand is thick and dirty--yours is pale!"
"You say 'my lady' in the very tomb!
Will even death not laugh this weakness off
Your tongue? To think nobility abides
This hour! My lady! O, it is a curse
That whips me at the grave! I was not born--
Can I not even die, a human soul?"
"Yes, you can die! And better--you can kill!
'Tis not your ladyship--the gallows' rope
Snaps that to nothing! Death? Not death alone
Can laugh at your nobility--I laugh.
No--not your piteous ladyship--that dies.
It is your crime that daunts me--That shall live!
To plant, with this fine delicate little hand,
Small heavy death into the very heart
Of time-defended tyranny--that lives!
The future is all life for you. For me--
A glassy look, a yell into the air,
And I am gone! No life springs up from me!
I am the dirt that drank the drippings of
A guilty murder--that is why I sit
Like sickness here, and goad you with my shame!
I'll take your hand. I'll tell you I was starved,
Wrecked, shattered to the bones with drunken hunger,
And I killed for gold. I'll tell you this--
Your crime shall live to blot the memory
Of mine, and me, and all the insane tribe
Of us, who having strength in poverty
Will not lie down and starve--blot off the world
Our having been--the crime of our killed hopes,
And gradual infamy!"
The fever gleam
Was in his eyes--the future! There it burned
A moment, while he stood to see the door
Swing darkly open, and the guard salute.
She stood beside him. And together in
High union of their fainting hearts, they faced
The hour that brought them to their level graves.
* * * * *
March, 1912.
[The end]
Max Eastman's poem: In A Dungeon Of Russia
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