OLIVE TILFORD DARGAN
Reading edition
Mrs. Olive Tilford Dargan, poet and dramatist, was born at Tilfordsville, near Leitchfield, Kentucky, in 1870. She attended the public schools, in which her parents were teachers, until she was ten years of age, when they left Kentucky and established a school at Donophan, Missouri. Three years later she was ready for college, but her mother's health broke, and the family settled in the Ozark Mountains, near Warm Springs, Arkansas, where another school was conducted, this time with the daughter as her father's assistant. For the following five years she taught the young idea of backwoods Arkansas how to shoot; and during these years she herself was always hoping and planning for a college education, which hopes and plans seemed to crumble beneath her feet when her mother died, in 1888, and she returned to Kentucky with her invalid father. She had purposed in her heart, however, and finally obtained a Peabody scholarship, which took her to the University of Nashville, Tennessee, from which institution she was graduated two years later. Miss Tilford then accepted a position to teach in Missouri, but the climate so affected her health that she was forced to resign and repair to Houston, Texas, to recuperate. She shortly afterwards took a course in a business college and, for a brief period, held a position in a bank. Teaching again called her and for two years she taught in the schools of San Antonio, Texas. In 1894 Miss Tilford did work in English and philosophy at Radcliffe College, Cambridge, Massachusetts; and a year later she turned again to teaching, holding a position in Acadia Seminary, Wolfville, Nova Scotia. This was followed by a year spent in reading in the libraries of Boston, in which city she also worked as a stenographer. Several of her articles were accepted by the magazines about this time, which decided her to settle upon literature as her life work. She worked too hard at the outset, however, her health gave way, and she spent some months in the mountains of Georgia in order to regain her strength. Miss Tilford was married, in 1898, to Mr. Pegram Dargan, of Darlington, South Carolina, a Harvard man, whom she had met while at Radcliffe. Not long after she went to New York, and there resumed her literary labors with a high and serious purpose. Mrs. Dargan's first volume of dramas, Semiramis and Other Plays, was published by Brentano's in 1904, and taken over by the Scribner's in 1909. Besides the title-play, Semiramis, founded on the life of the famous Persian queen, this book contained Carlotta, a drama of Mexico in the days of Maximilian, and The Poet, which is Edgar Allan Poe's life dramatized. Mrs. Dargan's second volume of plays bore the attractive title of Lords and Lovers and Other Dramas (New York, 1906), the second edition of which appeared in 1908. This also contains three plays, the second being The Shepherd, with the setting in Russia, and the third, The Siege, a Sicilian play, the scene of which is laid in Syracuse, three hundred and fifty-six years before Christ. Mrs. Dargan's Lords and Lovers, set against an English background, is generally regarded as the best work she has done hitherto. Mr. Hamilton Wright Mabie has praised this play highly, placing the author beside Percy MacKaye and Josephine Preston Peabody Marks. Mrs. Dargan is Kentucky's foremost poetic dramatist, and the work she has so far accomplished may be considered but an earnest of what she will ultimately produce. Her beautiful masque, The Woods of Ida, appeared in The Century Magazine for August, 1907, and it has taken its place with the finest English work in that branch of the drama. She has had lyrics in Scribner's, McClure's, The Century, and The Atlantic Monthly, her most recent poem, "In the Blue Ridge," having appeared in Scribner's for May, 1911. Mrs. Dargan's home is in Boston, but for the last three years she has traveled abroad, spending much time in England, the background of her greatest work. Her third and latest volume contains three dramas, entitled The Mortal Gods and Other Plays (New York, 1912). This was awaited with impatience by her admirers on both sides of the Atlantic and read with delight by them.
"Mrs. Dargan has so recently achieved fame that it may seem premature to pronounce a critical judgment on her work," wrote Dr. George A. Wauchope, professor of English in the University of South Carolina, in claiming her for his State. "It is certain, however," he continued, "that it marks the high tide of dramatic poetry in this country, and is, indeed, not unworthy of comparison with all but the greatest in English literature. One is equally impressed by the creative inspiration and the mastery of technique displayed by the author. Each of her plays reveals a dramatic power and a poetic beauty of thought and diction that are surprising. The numerous songs, also, with which her plays are interspersed, yield a rich and haunting melody that is redolent of the charming Elizabethan lyrics. The dramas as a whole are audacious in plot and vigorous in characterization. In the handling of the blank verse, in the witty scenes of the sub-plots, in the splendor of the phrasing, in the strong undercurrent of reflection, and, above all, in their spiritual uplift and noble emotion, these dramas give evidence of a remarkably gifted playwright who not only possesses a deep feeling for art at its highest and best, but who also has command of all the varied resources of dramatic expression."
It would be difficult for a critic to say more in praise of an author, would it not?
Bibliography. The University of Virginia Magazine (January, 1909), containing Wm. Kavanaugh Doty's review of Mrs. Dargan's The Poet; Library of Southern Literature (Atlanta, 1909, v. iii); The Writers of South Carolina, by G. A. Wauchope (Columbia, S. C., 1910).
NEAR THE COTTAGE IN GREENOT WOODS[65]
[From Lords and Lovers (New York, 1906)]
Act IV, Scene I. Henry, with lute, singing.
Ope, throw ope thy bower door, And come thou forth, my sweet! 'Tis morn, the watch of love is o'er, And mating hearts should meet. The stars have fled and left their grace In every blossom's lifted face, And gentle shadows fleck the light With tender memories of the night. Sweet, there's a door to every shrine; Wilt thou, as morning, open thine? Hark! now the lark has met the clouds, And rains his sheer melodious flood; The green earth casts her mystic shrouds To meet the flaming god! Alas, for me there is no dawn If Glaia come not with the sun.
[Enter Glaia. The king kneels as she approaches.]
Gla. 'Tis you! Hen. [Leaping up] Pardoned! Queen of this bowerland, Your glad eyes tell me that I have not sinned. Gla. How cam'st thou here? Now who plays Hubert false? Nay, I'm too glad thou'rt come to question so. 'Tis easy to forgive the treachery That opes our gates to angels. Hen. O, I'm loved? Gla. Yes, Henry. All the morn I've thought of you, And I rose early, for I love to say Good-by to my dear stars; they seem so wan And loath to go away, as though they know The fickle world is thinking of the sun And all their gentle service of the night Is quite forgot. Hen. And what didst think of me? Gla. That you could come and see this beauteous wood, Fair with Spring's love and morning's kiss of grace, You'd be content to live awhile with me, Leave war's red step to follow living May Passing to pour her veins' immortal flood To each decaying root; and rest by springs Where waters run to sounds less rude than song, And hiding sibyls stir sweet prophecies. Hen. The only springs I seek are in your eyes That nourish all the desert of myself. Drop here, O, Glaia, thy transforming dews, And start fair summer in this waste of me! Gla. Poor Henry! What dost know of me to love? Hen. See yon light cloud half-kirtled with faint rose? What do I know of it but that 'tis fair? And yet I dream 'twas born of flower dews And goes to some sweet country of the sky, So cloud-like dost thou move before my love, From beauty coming that I may not see, To beauty going that I can but dream. O, love me, Glaia! Give to me this hand, This miracle of warm, unmelting snow, This lily bit of thee that in my clasp Lies like a dove in all too rude a cote— Wee heaven-cloud to drop on monarch brows And smooth the ridgy traces of a crown! Rich me with this, and I'll not fear to dare The darkest shadow of defeat that broods O'er sceptres and unfriended kings. Gla. Why talk Of crowns and kings? This is our home, dear Henry, For if you love me you will stay with me. Hen. Ah, blest to be here, and from morning's top Review the sunny graces of the world, Plucking the smilingest to dearer love, Until the heart becomes the root and spring Of hopes as natural and as simply sweet As these bright children of the wedded sun And dewy earth! Gla. I knew you'd stay, my brother! You'll live with me! Hen. But there's a world not this, O'er-roofed and fretted by ambition's arch, Whose sun is power and whose rains are blood, Whose iris bow is the small golden hoop That rims the forehead of a king,—a world Where trampling armies and sedition's march Cut off the flowers of descanting love Ere they may sing their perfect word to man, And the rank weeds of envies, jealousies, Push up each night from day's hot-beaten paths— Gla. O, do not tell me, do not think of it! Hen. I must. There is my world, and there my life Must grow to gracious end, if so it can. If thou wouldst come, my living periapt, With virtue's gentle legend overwrit, I should not fail, nor would this flower cheek, Pure lily cloister of a praying rose, E'er know the stain of one despoiling tear Shed for me graceless. Will you come, my Glaia? Gla. Into that world? No, thou shalt stay with me. Here you shall be a king, not serve one. Ah, The whispering winds do never counsel false, And senatorial trees droop not their state To tribe and treachery. Nature's self shall be Your minister, the seasons your envoys And high ambassadors, bearing from His court The mortal olive of immortal love. Hen. To man my life belongs. Hope not, dear Glaia, To bind me here; and if you love me true, You will not ask me where I go or stay, But that your feet may stay or go with mine. Let not a nay unsweet those tender lips That all their life have ripened for this kiss. [Kisses her] O ruby purities! I would not give Their chaste extravagance for fruits Iran Stored with the honey of a thousand suns Through the slow measure of as many years! Gla. Do brothers talk like that? Hen. I think not, sweet Gla. But you will be my brother? Hen. We shall see. Gla. And you will stay with me? No? Ah, I fear All that you love in me is born of these Wild innocences that I live among, And far from here, all such sweet value lost, I'll be as others are in your mad world, Or wither mortally, even as the sprig A moment gone so pertly trimmed this bough. Let us stay here, my Henry. We shall be Dear playmates ever, never growing old,— Or if we do 'twill be at such a pace Time will grow weary chiding, leaving us To come at will. Hen. No, Glaia. Even now I must be gone. I came for this——to say I'd come again, and bid you watch for me. A tear? O, love! One moment, then away! [Exeunt. Curtain]