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diff --git a/2880-h/2880-h.htm b/2880-h/2880-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d11795f --- /dev/null +++ b/2880-h/2880-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2648 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + A Blot in the 'scutcheon, by Robert Browning + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Blot In The 'Scutcheon, by Robert Browning + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: A Blot In The 'Scutcheon + +Author: Robert Browning + +Release Date: December 6, 2008 [EBook #2880] +Last Updated: February 1, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON *** + + + + +Produced by Gary R. Young, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Robert Browning + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Contents + </h3> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> Transcriber's comments </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> INTRODUCTORY NOTE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ACT I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ACT II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ACT III </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div class="mynote"> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> Transcriber's comments on the preparation of this + e-text: + <p> + Closing brackets i.e. "]" have been added to some of the stage + directions. + </p> + <p> + Leading blanks are reproduced from the printed text. Eg.: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GUENDOLEN. Where are you taking me? + TRESHAM. He fell just here. +</pre> + <br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTORY NOTE + </h2> + <p> + ROBERT BROWNING stands, in respect to his origin and his career, in marked + contrast to the two aristocratic poets beside whose dramas his "Blot in + the 'Scutcheon" is here printed. His father was a bank clerk and a + dissenter at a time when dissent meant exclusion from Society; the poet + went neither to one of the great public schools nor to Oxford or + Cambridge; and no breath of scandal touched his name. Born in London in + 1812, he was educated largely by private tutors, and spent two years at + London University, but the influence of his father, a man of wide reading + and cultivated tastes, was probably the most important element in his + early training. He drew well, was something of a musician, and wrote + verses from an early age, though it was the accidental reading of a volume + of Shelley which first kindled his real inspiration. This indebtedness is + beautifully acknowledged in his first published poem, "Pauline" (1833). + </p> + <p> + Apart from frequent visits to Italy, there is little of incident to + chronicle in Browning's life, with the one great exception of his more + than fortunate marriage in 1846 to Elizabeth Barrett, the greatest of + English poetesses. + </p> + <p> + Browning's dramatic period extended from 1835 to the time of his marriage, + and produced some nine plays, not all of which, however, were intended for + the stage. "Paracelsus," the first of the series, has been fairly + described as a "conversational drama," and "Pippa Passes," though it has + been staged, is essentially a poem to read. The historical tragedy of + "Strafford" has been impressively performed, but "King Victor and King + Charles," "The Return of the Druses," "Colombe's Birthday," "A Soul's + Tragedy," and "Luria," while interesting in many ways, can hardly be + regarded as successful stage-plays. "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon" was + performed at Drury Lane, but its chances of a successful run were spoiled + by the jealousy of Macready, the manager. + </p> + <p> + The main cause of Browning's weakness as a playwright lay in the fact that + he was so much more interested in psychology than in action. But in the + present tragedy this defect is less prominent than usual, and in spite of + flaws in construction, it reaches a high pitch of emotional intensity, the + characters are drawn with vividness, and the lines are rich in poetry. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON + </h1> + <h2> + A TRAGEDY + </h2> + <h3> + (1843) + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DRAMATIS PERSONAE + MILDRED TRESHAM. + GUENDOLEN TRESHAM. + THOROLD, Earl Tresham. + AUSTIN TRESHAM. + HENRY, Earl Mertoun. + GERARD, and other retainers of Lord Tresham. + + Time, 17— +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT I + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—The Interior of a Lodge in Lord Tresham's Park. + Many Retainers crowded at the window, supposed to command + a view of the entrance to his Mansion. + + GERARD, the Warrener, his back to a table on which are flagons, + etc. + + FIRST RETAINER. Ay, do! push, friends, and then you'll push down me! + —What for? Does any hear a runner's foot + Or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's cry? + Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant? + But there's no breeding in a man of you + Save Gerard yonder: here's a half-place yet, + Old Gerard! + + GERARD. Save your courtesies, my friend. Here is my place. + + SECOND RETAINER. Now, Gerard, out with it! + What makes you sullen, this of all the days + I' the year? To-day that young rich bountiful + Handsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone they match + With our Lord Tresham through the country-side, + Is coming here in utmost bravery + To ask our master's sister's hand? + + GERARD. What then? + + SECOND RETAINER. What then? Why, you, she speaks to, if she meets + Your worship, smiles on as you hold apart + The boughs to let her through her forest walks, + You, always favourite for your no-deserts, + You've heard, these three days, how Earl Mertoun sues + To lay his heart and house and broad lands too + At Lady Mildred's feet: and while we squeeze + Ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss + One congee of the least page in his train, + You sit o' one side—"there's the Earl," say I— + "What then?" say you! + + THIRD RETAINER. I'll wager he has let + Both swans he tamed for Lady Mildred swim + Over the falls and gain the river! + + GERARD. Ralph, + Is not to-morrow my inspecting-day + For you and for your hawks? + + FOURTH RETAINER. Let Gerard be! + He's coarse-grained, like his carved black cross-bow stock. + Ha, look now, while we squabble with him, look! + Well done, now—is not this beginning, now, + To purpose? + + FIRST RETAINER. Our retainers look as fine— + That's comfort. Lord, how Richard holds himself + With his white staff! Will not a knave behind + Prick him upright? + + FOURTH RETAINER. He's only bowing, fool! + The Earl's man bent us lower by this much. + + FIRST RETAINER. That's comfort. Here's a very cavalcade! + + THIRD RETAINER. I don't see wherefore Richard, and his troop + Of silk and silver varlets there, should find + Their perfumed selves so indispensable + On high days, holidays! Would it so disgrace + Our family, if I, for instance, stood— + In my right hand a cast of Swedish hawks, + A leash of greyhounds in my left?— + + GERARD. —With Hugh + The logman for supporter, in his right + The bill-hook, in his left the brushwood-shears! + + THIRD RETAINER. Out on you, crab! What next, what next? The Earl! + + FIRST RETAINER. Oh Walter, groom, our horses, do they match + The Earl's? Alas, that first pair of the six— + They paw the ground—Ah Walter! and that brute + Just on his haunches by the wheel! + + SIXTH RETAINER. Ay—ay! + You, Philip, are a special hand, I hear, + At soups and sauces: what's a horse to you? + D'ye mark that beast they've slid into the midst + So cunningly?—then, Philip, mark this further; + No leg has he to stand on! + + FIRST RETAINER. No? that's comfort. + + SECOND RETAINER. Peace, Cook! The Earl descends. Well, Gerard, see + The Earl at least! Come, there's a proper man, + I hope! Why, Ralph, no falcon, Pole or Swede, + Has got a starrier eye. + + THIRD RETAINER. His eyes are blue: + But leave my hawks alone! + + FOURTH RETAINER. So young, and yet + So tall and shapely! + + FIFTH RETAINER. Here's Lord Tresham's self! + There now—there's what a nobleman should be! + He's older, graver, loftier, he's more like + A House's head. + + SECOND RETAINER. But you'd not have a boy + —And what's the Earl beside?—possess too soon + That stateliness? + + FIRST RETAINER. Our master takes his hand— + Richard and his white staff are on the move— + Back fall our people—(tsh!—there's Timothy + Sure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties, + And Peter's cursed rosette's a-coming off!) + —At last I see our lord's back and his friend's; + And the whole beautiful bright company + Close round them—in they go! + [Jumping down from the window-bench, and making for + the table and its jugs.] + Good health, long life, + Great joy to our Lord Tresham and his House! + + SIXTH RETAINER. My father drove his father first to court, + After his marriage-day—ay, did he! + + SECOND RETAINER. God bless + Lord Tresham, Lady Mildred, and the Earl! + Here, Gerard, reach your beaker! + + GERARD. Drink, my boys! + Don't mind me—all's not right about me—drink! + + SECOND RETAINER [aside]. + He's vexed, now, that he let the show escape! + [To GERARD.] + Remember that the Earl returns this way. + + GERARD. That way? + + SECOND RETAINER. Just so. + + GERARD. Then my way's here. + [Goes.] + + SECOND RETAINER. Old Gerard + Will die soon—mind, I said it! He was used + To care about the pitifullest thing + That touched the House's honour, not an eye + But his could see wherein: and on a cause + Of scarce a quarter this importance, Gerard + Fairly had fretted flesh and bone away + In cares that this was right, nor that was wrong, + Such point decorous, and such square by rule— + He knew such niceties, no herald more: + And now—you see his humour: die he will! + + SECOND RETAINER. God help him! Who's for the great servants' hall + To hear what's going on inside! They'd follow + Lord Tresham into the saloon. + + THIRD RETAINER. I!— + + FOURTH RETAINER. I!— + Leave Frank alone for catching, at the door, + Some hint of how the parley goes inside! + Prosperity to the great House once more! + Here's the last drop! + + FIRST RETAINER. Have at you! Boys, hurrah! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—A Saloon in the Mansion + + Enter LORD TRESHAM, LORD MERTOUN, AUSTIN, and GUENDOLEN + + TRESHAM. I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once more, + To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name + —Noble among the noblest in itself, + Yet taking in your person, fame avers, + New price and lustre,—(as that gem you wear, + Transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts, + Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord, + Seems to re-kindle at the core)—your name + Would win you welcome!— + + MERTOUN. Thanks! + + TRESHAM. —But add to that, + The worthiness and grace and dignity + Of your proposal for uniting both + Our Houses even closer than respect + Unites them now—add these, and you must grant + One favour more, nor that the least,—to think + The welcome I should give;—'tis given! My lord, + My only brother, Austin: he's the king's. + Our cousin, Lady Guendolen—betrothed + To Austin: all are yours. + + MERTOUN. I thank you—less + For the expressed commendings which your seal, + And only that, authenticates—forbids + My putting from me... to my heart I take + Your praise... but praise less claims my gratitude, + Than the indulgent insight it implies + Of what must needs be uppermost with one + Who comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask, + In weighed and measured unimpassioned words, + A gift, which, if as calmly 'tis denied, + He must withdraw, content upon his cheek, + Despair within his soul. That I dare ask + Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence + That gift, I have to thank you. Yes, Lord Tresham, + I love your sister—as you'd have one love + That lady... oh more, more I love her! Wealth, + Rank, all the world thinks me, they're yours, you know, + To hold or part with, at your choice—but grant + My true self, me without a rood of land, + A piece of gold, a name of yesterday, + Grant me that lady, and you... Death or life? + + GUENDOLEN. [apart to AUSTIN]. Why, this is loving, + Austin! + + AUSTIN. He's so young! + + GUENDOLEN. Young? Old enough, I think, to half surmise + He never had obtained an entrance here, + Were all this fear and trembling needed. + + AUSTIN. Hush! + He reddens. + + GUENDOLEN. Mark him, Austin; that's true love! + Ours must begin again. + + TRESHAM. We'll sit, my lord. + Ever with best desert goes diffidence. + I may speak plainly nor be misconceived + That I am wholly satisfied with you + On this occasion, when a falcon's eye + Were dull compared with mine to search out faults, + Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is hers to give + Or to refuse. + + MERTOUN. But you, you grant my suit? + I have your word if hers? + + TRESHAM. My best of words + If hers encourage you. I trust it will. + Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way? + + MERTOUN. I... I... our two demesnes, remember, touch, + I have beer used to wander carelessly + After my stricken game: the heron roused + Deep in my woods, has trailed its broken wing + Thro' thicks and glades a mile in yours,—or else + Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight + And lured me after her from tree to tree, + I marked not whither. I have come upon + The lady's wondrous beauty unaware, + And—and then... I have seen her. + + GUENDOLEN [aside to AUSTIN]. Note that mode + Of faltering out that, when a lady passed, + He, having eyes, did see her! You had said— + "On such a day I scanned her, head to foot; + Observed a red, where red should not have been, + Outside her elbow; but was pleased enough + Upon the whole." Let such irreverent talk + Be lessoned for the future! + + TRESHAM. What's to say + May be said briefly. She has never known + A mother's care; I stand for father too. + Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems— + You cannot know the good and tender heart, + Its girl's trust and its woman's constancy, + How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind, + How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free + As light where friends are—how imbued with lore + The world most prizes, yet the simplest, yet + The... one might know I talked of Mildred—thus + We brothers talk! + + MERTOUN. I thank you. + + TRESHAM. In a word, + Control's not for this lady; but her wish + To please me outstrips in its subtlety + My power of being pleased: herself creates + The want she means to satisfy. My heart + Prefers your suit to her as 'twere its own. + Can I say more? + + MERTOUN. No more—thanks, thanks—no more! + + TRESHAM. This matter then discussed... + + MERTOUN. —We'll waste no breath + On aught less precious. I'm beneath the roof + Which holds her: while I thought of that, my speech + To you would wander—as it must not do, + Since as you favour me I stand or fall. + I pray you suffer that I take my leave! + + TRESHAM. With less regret 'tis suffered, that again + We meet, I hope, so shortly. + + MERTOUN. We? again?— + Ah yes, forgive me—when shall... you will crown + Your goodness by forthwith apprising me + When... if... the lady will appoint a day + For me to wait on you—and her. + + TRESHAM. So soon + As I am made acquainted with her thoughts + On your proposal—howsoe'er they lean— + A messenger shall bring you the result. + + MERTOUN. You cannot bind me more to you, my lord. + Farewell till we renew... I trust, renew + A converse ne'er to disunite again. + + TRESHAM. So may it prove! + + MERTOUN. You, lady, you, sir, take + My humble salutation! + + GUENDOLEN and AUSTIN. Thanks! + + TRESHAM. Within there! + [Servants enter. TRESHAM conducts MERTOUN to the door. + Meantime AUSTIN remarks,] + Well, + Here I have an advantage of the Earl, + Confess now! I'd not think that all was safe + Because my lady's brother stood my friend! + Why, he makes sure of her—"do you say yes— + She'll not say, no,"—what comes it to beside? + I should have prayed the brother, "speak this speech, + For Heaven's sake urge this on her—put in this— + Forget not, as you'd save me, t'other thing,— + Then set down what she says, and how she looks, + And if she smiles, and" (in an under breath) + "Only let her accept me, and do you + And all the world refuse me, if you dare!" + + GUENDOLEN. That way you'd take, friend Austin? What a shame + I was your cousin, tamely from the first + Your bride, and all this fervour's run to waste! + Do you know you speak sensibly to-day? + The Earl's a fool. + + AUSTIN. Here's Thorold. Tell him so! + + TRESHAM [returning]. Now, voices, voices! 'St! the lady's first! + How seems he?—seems he not... come, faith give fraud + The mercy-stroke whenever they engage! + Down with fraud, up with faith! How seems the Earl? + A name! a blazon! if you knew their worth, + As you will never! come—the Earl? + + GUENDOLEN. He's young. + + TRESHAM. What's she? an infant save in heart and brain. + Young! Mildred is fourteen, remark! And you... + Austin, how old is she? + + GUENDOLEN. There's tact for you! + I meant that being young was good excuse + If one should tax him... + + TRESHAM. Well? + + GUENDOLEN. —With lacking wit. + + TRESHAM. He lacked wit? Where might he lack wit, so please you? + + GUENDOLEN. In standing straighter than the steward's rod + And making you the tiresomest harangue, + Instead of slipping over to my side + And softly whispering in my ear, "Sweet lady, + Your cousin there will do me detriment + He little dreams of: he's absorbed, I see, + In my old name and fame—be sure he'll leave + My Mildred, when his best account of me + Is ended, in full confidence I wear + My grandsire's periwig down either cheek. + I'm lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes"... + + TRESHAM... "To give a best of best accounts, yourself, + Of me and my demerits." You are right! + He should have said what now I say for him. + Yon golden creature, will you help us all? + Here's Austin means to vouch for much, but you + —You are... what Austin only knows! Come up, + All three of us: she's in the library + No doubt, for the day's wearing fast. Precede! + + GUENDOLEN. Austin, how we must—! + + TRESHAM. Must what? Must speak truth, + Malignant tongue! Detect one fault in him! + I challenge you! + + GUENDOLEN. Witchcraft's a fault in him, + For you're bewitched. + + TRESHAM. What's urgent we obtain + Is, that she soon receive him—say, to-morrow—, + Next day at furthest. + + GUENDOLEN. Ne'er instruct me! + + TRESHAM. Come! + —He's out of your good graces, since forsooth, + He stood not as he'd carry us by storm + With his perfections! You're for the composed + Manly assured becoming confidence! + —Get her to say, "to-morrow," and I'll give you... + I'll give you black Urganda, to be spoiled + With petting and snail-paces. Will you? Come! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE III. + —MILDRED'S Chamber. A Painted Window overlooks the Park + + MILDRED and GUENDOLEN + + GUENDOLEN. Now, Mildred, spare those pains. I have not left + Our talkers in the library, and climbed + The wearisome ascent to this your bower + In company with you,—I have not dared... + Nay, worked such prodigies as sparing you + Lord Mertoun's pedigree before the flood, + Which Thorold seemed in very act to tell + —Or bringing Austin to pluck up that most + Firm-rooted heresy—your suitor's eyes, + He would maintain, were grey instead of blue— + I think I brought him to contrition!—Well, + I have not done such things, (all to deserve + A minute's quiet cousin's talk with you,) + To be dismissed so coolly. + + MILDRED. Guendolen! + What have I done? what could suggest... + + GUENDOLEN. There, there! + Do I not comprehend you'd be alone + To throw those testimonies in a heap, + Thorold's enlargings, Austin's brevities, + With that poor silly heartless Guendolen's + Ill-time misplaced attempted smartnesses— + And sift their sense out? now, I come to spare you + Nearly a whole night's labour. Ask and have! + Demand, he answered! Lack I ears and eyes? + Am I perplexed which side of the rock-table + The Conqueror dined on when he landed first, + Lord Mertoun's ancestor was bidden take— + The bow-hand or the arrow-hand's great meed? + Mildred, the Earl has soft blue eyes! + + MILDRED. My brother— + Did he... you said that he received him well? + + GUENDOLEN. If I said only "well" I said not much. + Oh, stay—which brother? + + MILDRED. Thorold! who—Who else? + + GUENDOLEN. Thorold (a secret) is too proud by half,— + Nay, hear me out—with us he's even gentler + Than we are with our birds. Of this great House + The least retainer that e'er caught his glance + Would die for him, real dying—no mere talk: + And in the world, the court, if men would cite + The perfect spirit of honour, Thorold's name + Rises of its clear nature to their lips. + But he should take men's homage, trust in it, + And care no more about what drew it down. + He has desert, and that, acknowledgment; + Is he content? + + MILDRED. You wrong him, Guendolen. + + GUENDOLEN. He's proud, confess; so proud with brooding o'er + The light of his interminable line, + An ancestry with men all paladins, + And women all... + + MILDRED. Dear Guendolen, 'tis late! + When yonder purple pane the climbing moon + Pierces, I know 'tis midnight. + + GUENDOLEN. Well, that Thorold + Should rise up from such musings, and receive + One come audaciously to graft himself + Into this peerless stock, yet find no flaw, + No slightest spot in such an one... + + MILDRED. Who finds + A spot in Mertoun? + + GUENDOLEN. Not your brother; therefore, + Not the whole world. + + MILDRED. I am weary, Guendolen. + Bear with me! + + GUENDOLEN. I am foolish. + + MILDRED. Oh no, kind! + But I would rest. + + GUENDOLEN. Good night and rest to you! + I said how gracefully his mantle lay + Beneath the rings of his light hair? + + MILDRED. Brown hair. + + GUENDOLEN. Brown? why, it IS brown: how could you know that? + + MILDRED. How? did not you—Oh, Austin 'twas, declared + His hair was light, not brown—my head!—and look, + The moon-beam purpling the dark chamber! Sweet, + Good night! + + GUENDOLEN. Forgive me—sleep the soundlier for me! + [Going, she turns suddenly.] + Mildred! + Perdition! all's discovered! Thorold finds + —That the Earl's greatest of all grandmothers + Was grander daughter still—to that fair dame + Whose garter slipped down at the famous dance! + [Goes.] + + MILDRED. Is she—can she be really gone at last? + My heart! I shall not reach the window. Needs + Must I have sinned much, so to suffer. + [She lifts the small lamp which is suspended before the Virgin's + image in the window, and places it by the purple pane.] + There! + [She returns to the seat in front.] + Mildred and Mertoun! Mildred, with consent + Of all the world and Thorold, Mertoun's bride! + Too late! 'Tis sweet to think of, sweeter still + To hope for, that this blessed end soothes up + The curse of the beginning; but I know + It comes too late: 'twill sweetest be of all + To dream my soul away and die upon. + [A noise without.] + The voice! Oh why, why glided sin the snake + Into the paradise Heaven meant us both? + [The window opens softly. A low voice sings.] + + There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest; + And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the + surest: + And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre + Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape + cluster, + Gush in golden tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: + Then her voice's music... call it the well's bubbling, the bird's + warble! + + [A figure wrapped in a mantle appears at the window.] + + And this woman says, "My days were sunless and my nights were + moonless, + Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak + tuneless, + If you loved me not!" And I who—(ah, for words of flame!) adore + her, + Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her— + + [He enters, approaches her seat, and bends over her.] + + I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, + And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me! + + [The EARL throws off his slouched hat and long cloak.] + + My very heart sings, so I sing, Beloved! + + MILDRED. Sit, Henry—do not take my hand! + + MERTOUN. 'Tis mine. + The meeting that appalled us both so much + Is ended. + + MILDRED. What begins now? + + MERTOUN. Happiness + Such as the world contains not. + + MILDRED. That is it. + Our happiness would, as you say, exceed + The whole world's best of blisses: we—do we + Deserve that? Utter to your soul, what mine + Long since, Beloved, has grown used to hear, + Like a death-knell, so much regarded once, + And so familiar now; this will not be! + + MERTOUN. Oh, Mildred, have I met your brother's face? + Compelled myself—if not to speak untruth, + Yet to disguise, to shun, to put aside + The truth, as—what had e'er prevailed on me + Save you to venture? Have I gained at last + Your brother, the one scarer of your dreams, + And waking thoughts' sole apprehension too? + Does a new life, like a young sunrise, break + On the strange unrest of our night, confused + With rain and stormy flaw—and will you see + No dripping blossoms, no fire-tinted drops + On each live spray, no vapour steaming up, + And no expressless glory in the East? + When I am by you, to be ever by you, + When I have won you and may worship you, + Oh, Mildred, can you say "this will not be"? + + MILDRED. Sin has surprised us, so will punishment. + + MERTOUN. No—me alone, who sinned alone! + + MILDRED. The night + You likened our past life to—was it storm + Throughout to you then, Henry? + + MERTOUN. Of your life + I spoke—what am I, what my life, to waste + A thought about when you are by me?—you + It was, I said my folly called the storm + And pulled the night upon. 'Twas day with me— + Perpetual dawn with me. + + MILDRED. Come what, come will, + You have been happy: take my hand! + + MERTOUN [after a pause]. How good + Your brother is! I figured him a cold— + Shall I say, haughty man? + + MILDRED. They told me all. + I know all. + + MERTOUN. It will soon be over. + + MILDRED. Over? + Oh, what is over? what must I live through + And say, "'tis over"? Is our meeting over? + Have I received in presence of them all + The partner of my guilty love—with brow + Trying to seem a maiden's brow—with lips + Which make believe that when they strive to form + Replies to you and tremble as they strive, + It is the nearest ever they approached + A stranger's... Henry, yours that stranger's... lip— + With cheek that looks a virgin's, and that is... + Ah God, some prodigy of thine will stop + This planned piece of deliberate wickedness + In its birth even! some fierce leprous spot + Will mar the brow's dissimulating! I + Shall murmur no smooth speeches got by heart, + But, frenzied, pour forth all our woeful story, + The love, the shame, and the despair—with them + Round me aghast as round some cursed fount + That should spirt water, and spouts blood. I'll not + ...Henry, you do not wish that I should draw + This vengeance down? I'll not affect a grace + That's gone from me—gone once, and gone for ever! + + MERTOUN. Mildred, my honour is your own. I'll share + Disgrace I cannot suffer by myself. + A word informs your brother I retract + This morning's offer; time will yet bring forth + Some better way of saving both of us. + + MILDRED. I'll meet their faces, Henry! + + MERTOUN. When? to-morrow! + Get done with it! + + MILDRED. Oh, Henry, not to-morrow! + Next day! I never shall prepare my words + And looks and gestures sooner.—How you must + Despise me! + + MERTOUN. Mildred, break it if you choose, + A heart the love of you uplifted—still + Uplifts, thro' this protracted agony, + To heaven! but Mildred, answer me,—first pace + The chamber with me—once again—now, say + Calmly the part, the... what it is of me + You see contempt (for you did say contempt) + —Contempt for you in! I would pluck it off + And cast it from me!—but no—no, you'll not + Repeat that?—will you, Mildred, repeat that? + + MILDRED. Dear Henry! + + MERTOUN. I was scarce a boy—e'en now + What am I more? And you were infantine + When first I met you; why, your hair fell loose + On either side! My fool's-cheek reddens now + Only in the recalling how it burned + That morn to see the shape of many a dream + —You know we boys are prodigal of charms + To her we dream of—I had heard of one, + Had dreamed of her, and I was close to her, + Might speak to her, might live and die her own, + Who knew? I spoke. Oh, Mildred, feel you not + That now, while I remember every glance + Of yours, each word of yours, with power to test + And weigh them in the diamond scales of pride, + Resolved the treasure of a first and last + Heart's love shall have been bartered at its worth, + —That now I think upon your purity + And utter ignorance of guilt—your own + Or other's guilt—the girlish undisguised + Delight at a strange novel prize—(I talk + A silly language, but interpret, you!) + If I, with fancy at its full, and reason + Scarce in its germ, enjoined you secrecy, + If you had pity on my passion, pity + On my protested sickness of the soul + To sit beside you, hear you breathe, and watch + Your eyelids and the eyes beneath—if you + Accorded gifts and knew not they were gifts— + If I grew mad at last with enterprise + And must behold my beauty in her bower + Or perish—(I was ignorant of even + My own desires—what then were you?) if sorrow— + Sin—if the end came—must I now renounce + My reason, blind myself to light, say truth + Is false and lie to God and my own soul? + Contempt were all of this! + + MILDRED. Do you believe... + Or, Henry, I'll not wrong you—you believe + That I was ignorant. I scarce grieve o'er + The past. We'll love on; you will love me still. + + MERTOUN. Oh, to love less what one has injured! Dove, + Whose pinion I have rashly hurt, my breast— + Shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee into strength? + Flower I have crushed, shall I not care for thee? + Bloom o'er my crest, my fight-mark and device! + Mildred, I love you and you love me. + + MILDRED. Go! + Be that your last word. I shall sleep to-night. + + MERTOUN. This is not our last meeting? + + MILDRED. One night more. + + MERTOUN. And then—think, then! + + MILDRED. Then, no sweet courtship-days, + No dawning consciousness of love for us, + No strange and palpitating births of sense + From words and looks, no innocent fears and hopes, + Reserves and confidences: morning's over! + + MERTOUN. How else should love's perfected noontide follow? + All the dawn promised shall the day perform. + + MILDRED. So may it be! but— + You are cautious, Love? + Are sure that unobserved you scaled the walls? + + MERTOUN. Oh, trust me! Then our final meeting's fixed + To-morrow night? + + MILDRED. Farewell! stay, Henry... wherefore? + His foot is on the yew-tree bough; the turf + Receives him: now the moonlight as he runs + Embraces him—but he must go—is gone. + Ah, once again he turns—thanks, thanks, my Love! + He's gone. Oh, I'll believe him every word! + I was so young, I loved him so, I had + No mother, God forgot me, and I fell. + There may be pardon yet: all's doubt beyond! + Surely the bitterness of death is past. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE.—The Library + + Enter LORD TRESHAM, hastily + + TRESHAM. This way! In, Gerard, quick! + [As GERARD enters, TRESHAM secures the door.] + Now speak! or, wait— + I'll bid you speak directly. + [Seats himself.] + Now repeat + Firmly and circumstantially the tale + You just now told me; it eludes me; either + I did not listen, or the half is gone + Away from me. How long have you lived here? + Here in my house, your father kept our woods + Before you? + + GERARD. —As his father did, my lord. + I have been eating, sixty years almost, + Your bread. + + TRESHAM. Yes, yes. You ever were of all + The servants in my father's house, I know, + The trusted one. You'll speak the truth. + + GERARD. I'll speak + God's truth. Night after night... + + TRESHAM. Since when? + + GERARD. At least + A month—each midnight has some man access + To Lady Mildred's chamber. + + TRESHAM. Tush, "access"— + No wide words like "access" to me! + + GERARD. He runs + Along the woodside, crosses to the South, + Takes the left tree that ends the avenue... + + TRESHAM. The last great yew-tree? + + GERARD. You might stand upon + The main boughs like a platform. Then he... + + TRESHAM. Quick! + + GERARD. Climbs up, and, where they lessen at the top, + —I cannot see distinctly, but he throws, + I think—for this I do not vouch—a line + That reaches to the lady's casement— + + TRESHAM. —Which + He enters not! Gerard, some wretched fool + Dares pry into my sister's privacy! + When such are young, it seems a precious thing + To have approached,—to merely have approached, + Got sight of the abode of her they set + Their frantic thoughts upon. Ha does not enter? + Gerard? + + GERARD. There is a lamp that's full i' the midst. + Under a red square in the painted glass + Of Lady Mildred's... + + TRESHAM. Leave that name out! Well? + That lamp? + + GERARD. Is moved at midnight higher up + To one pane—a small dark-blue pane; he waits + For that among the boughs: at sight of that, + I see him, plain as I see you, my lord, + Open the lady's casement, enter there... + + TRESHAM. —And stay? + + GERARD. An hour, two hours. + + TRESHAM. And this you saw + Once?—twice?—quick! + + GERARD. Twenty times. + + TRESHAM. And what brings you + Under the yew-trees? + + GERARD. The first night I left + My range so far, to track the stranger stag + That broke the pale, I saw the man. + + TRESHAM. Yet sent + No cross-bow shaft through the marauder? + + GERARD. But + He came, my lord, the first time he was seen, + In a great moonlight, light as any day, + FROM Lady Mildred's chamber. + + TRESHAM [after a pause]. You have no cause + —Who could have cause to do my sister wrong? + + GERARD. Oh, my lord, only once—let me this once + Speak what is on my mind! Since first I noted + All this, I've groaned as if a fiery net + Plucked me this way and that—fire if I turned + To her, fire if I turned to you, and fire + If down I flung myself and strove to die. + The lady could not have been seven years old + When I was trusted to conduct her safe + Through the deer-herd to stroke the snow-white fawn + I brought to eat bread from her tiny hand + Within a month. She ever had a smile + To greet me with—she... if it could undo + What's done, to lop each limb from off this trunk... + All that is foolish talk, not fit for you— + I mean, I could not speak and bring her hurt + For Heaven's compelling. But when I was fixed + To hold my peace, each morsel of your food + Eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place too, + Choked me. I wish I had grown mad in doubts + What it behoved me do. This morn it seemed + Either I must confess to you or die: + Now it is done, I seem the vilest worm + That crawls, to have betrayed my lady. + + TRESHAM. No— + No, Gerard! + + GERARD. Let me go! + + TRESHAM. A man, you say: + What man? Young? Not a vulgar hind? What dress? + + GERARD. A slouched hat and a large dark foreign cloak + Wraps his whole form; even his face is hid; + But I should judge him young: no hind, be sure! + + TRESHAM. Why? + + GERARD. He is ever armed: his sword projects + Beneath the cloak. + + TRESHAM. Gerard,—I will not say + No word, no breath of this! + + GERARD. Thank, thanks, my lord! + [Goes.] + + TRESHAM [paces the room. After a pause]. + Oh, thoughts absurd!—as with some monstrous fact + Which, when ill thoughts beset us, seems to give + Merciful God that made the sun and stars, + The waters and the green delights of earth, + The lie! I apprehend the monstrous fact— + Yet know the maker of all worlds is good, + And yield my reason up, inadequate + To reconcile what yet I do behold— + Blasting my sense! There's cheerful day outside: + This is my library, and this the chair + My father used to sit in carelessly + After his soldier-fashion, while I stood + Between his knees to question him: and here + Gerard our grey retainer,—as he says, + Fed with our food, from sire to son, an age,— + Has told a story—I am to believe! + That Mildred... oh, no, no! both tales are true, + Her pure cheek's story and the forester's! + Would she, or could she, err—much less, confound + All guilts of treachery, of craft, of... Heaven + Keep me within its hand!—I will sit here + Until thought settle and I see my course. + Avert, oh God, only this woe from me! + [As he sinks his head between his arms on the table, + GUENDOLEN'S voice is heard at the door.] + + Lord Tresham! + [She knocks.] + Is Lord Tresham there? + + [TRESHAM, hastily turning, pulls down the first book + above him and opens it.] + + TRESHAM. Come in! + [She enters.] + Ha, Guendolen!—good morning. + + GUENDOLEN. Nothing more? + + TRESHAM. What should I say more? + + GUENDOLEN. Pleasant question! more? + This more. Did I besiege poor Mildred's brain + Last night till close on morning with "the Earl," + "The Earl"—whose worth did I asseverate + Till I am very fain to hope that... Thorold, + What is all this? You are not well! + + TRESHAM. Who, I? + You laugh at me. + + GUENDOLEN. Has what I'm fain to hope, + Arrived then? Does that huge tome show some blot + In the Earl's 'scutcheon come no longer back + Than Arthur's time? + + TRESHAM. When left you Mildred's chamber? + + GUENDOLEN. Oh, late enough, I told you! The main thing + To ask is, how I left her chamber,—sure, + Content yourself, she'll grant this paragon + Of Earls no such ungracious... + + TRESHAM. Send her here! + + GUENDOLEN. Thorold? + + TRESHAM. I mean—acquaint her, Guendolen, + —But mildly! + + GUENDOLEN. Mildly? + + TRESHAM. Ah, you guessed aright! + I am not well: there is no hiding it. + But tell her I would see her at her leisure— + That is, at once! here in the library! + The passage in that old Italian book + We hunted for so long is found, say, found— + And if I let it slip again... you see, + That she must come—and instantly! + + GUENDOLEN. I'll die + Piecemeal, record that, if there have not gloomed + Some blot i' the 'scutcheon! + + TRESHAM. Go! or, Guendolen, + Be you at call,—With Austin, if you choose,— + In the adjoining gallery! There go! + [GUENDOLEN goes.] + Another lesson to me! You might bid + A child disguise his heart's sore, and conduct + Some sly investigation point by point + With a smooth brow, as well as bid me catch + The inquisitorial cleverness some praise. + If you had told me yesterday, "There's one + You needs must circumvent and practise with, + Entrap by policies, if you would worm + The truth out: and that one is—Mildred!" There, + There—reasoning is thrown away on it! + Prove she's unchaste... why, you may after prove + That she's a poisoner, traitress, what you will! + Where I can comprehend nought, nought's to say, + Or do, or think. Force on me but the first + Abomination,—then outpour all plagues, + And I shall ne'er make count of them. + + Enter MILDRED + + MILDRED. What book + Is it I wanted, Thorold? Guendolen + Thought you were pale; you are not pale. That book? + That's Latin surely. + + TRESHAM. Mildred, here's a line, + (Don't lean on me: I'll English it for you) + "Love conquers all things." What love conquers them? + What love should you esteem—best love? + + MILDRED. True love. + + TRESHAM. I mean, and should have said, whose love is best + Of all that love or that profess to love? + + MILDRED. + The list's so long: there's father's, mother's, husband's... + + TRESHAM. Mildred, I do believe a brother's love + For a sole sister must exceed them all. + For see now, only see! there's no alloy + Of earth that creeps into the perfect'st gold + Of other loves—no gratitude to claim; + You never gave her life, not even aught + That keeps life—never tended her, instructed, + Enriched her—so, your love can claim no right + O'er her save pure love's claim: that's what I call + Freedom from earthliness. You'll never hope + To be such friends, for instance, she and you, + As when you hunted cowslips in the woods, + Or played together in the meadow hay. + Oh yes—with age, respect comes, and your worth + Is felt, there's growing sympathy of tastes, + There's ripened friendship, there's confirmed esteem: + —Much head these make against the newcomer! + The startling apparition, the strange youth— + Whom one half-hour's conversing with, or, say, + Mere gazing at, shall change (beyond all change + This Ovid ever sang about) your soul + ...Her soul, that is,—the sister's soul! With her + 'Twas winter yesterday; now, all is warmth, + The green leaf's springing and the turtle's voice, + "Arise and come away!" Come whither?—far + Enough from the esteem, respect, and all + The brother's somewhat insignificant + Array of rights! All which he knows before, + Has calculated on so long ago! + I think such love, (apart from yours and mine,) + Contented with its little term of life, + Intending to retire betimes, aware + How soon the background must be placed for it, + —I think, am sure, a brother's love exceeds + All the world's love in its unworldliness. + + MILDRED. What is this for? + + TRESHAM. This, Mildred, is it for! + Or, no, I cannot go to it so soon! + That's one of many points my haste left out— + Each day, each hour throws forth its silk-slight film + Between the being tied to you by birth, + And you, until those slender threads compose + A web that shrouds her daily life of hopes + And fears and fancies, all her life, from yours: + So close you live and yet so far apart! + And must I rend this web, tear up, break down + The sweet and palpitating mystery + That makes her sacred? You—for you I mean, + Shall I speak, shall I not speak? + + MILDRED. Speak! + + TRESHAM. I will. + Is there a story men could—any man + Could tell of you, you would conceal from me? + I'll never think there's falsehood on that lip. + Say "There is no such story men could tell," + And I'll believe you, though I disbelieve + The world—the world of better men than I, + And women such as I suppose you. Speak! + [After a pause.] + Not speak? Explain then! Clear it up then! Move + Some of the miserable weight away + That presses lower than the grave. Not speak? + Some of the dead weight, Mildred! Ah, if I + Could bring myself to plainly make their charge + Against you! Must I, Mildred? Silent still? + [After a pause.] + Is there a gallant that has night by night + Admittance to your chamber? + [After a pause.] + Then, his name! + Till now, I only had a thought for you: + But now,—his name! + + MILDRED. Thorold, do you devise + Fit expiation for my guilt, if fit + There be! 'Tis nought to say that I'll endure + And bless you,—that my spirit yearns to purge + Her stains off in the fierce renewing fire: + But do not plunge me into other guilt! + Oh, guilt enough! I cannot tell his name. + + TRESHAM. Then judge yourself! How should I act? Pronounce! + + MILDRED. Oh, Thorold, you must never tempt me thus! + To die here in this chamber by that sword + Would seem like punishment: so should I glide, + Like an arch-cheat, into extremest bliss! + 'Twere easily arranged for me: but you— + What would become of you? + + TRESHAM. And what will now + Become of me? I'll hide your shame and mine + From every eye; the dead must heave their hearts + Under the marble of our chapel-floor; + They cannot rise and blast you. You may wed + Your paramour above our mother's tomb; + Our mother cannot move from 'neath your foot. + We too will somehow wear this one day out: + But with to-morrow hastens here—the Earl! + The youth without suspicion. Face can come + From Heaven and heart from... whence proceed such hearts? + I have dispatched last night at your command + A missive bidding him present himself + To-morrow—here—thus much is said; the rest + Is understood as if 'twere written down— + "His suit finds favor in your eyes." Now dictate + This morning's letter that shall countermand + Last night's—do dictate that! + + MILDRED. But, Thorold—if + I will receive him as I said? + + TRESHAM. The Earl? + + MILDRED. I will receive him. + + TRESHAM [starting up]. Ho there! Guendolen! + GUENDOLEN and AUSTIN enter + And, Austin, you are welcome, too! Look there! + The woman there! + + AUSTIN and GUENDOLEN. How? Mildred? + + TRESHAM. Mildred once! + Now the receiver night by night, when sleep + Blesses the inmates of her father's house, + —I say, the soft sly wanton that receives + Her guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof which holds + You, Guendolen, you, Austin, and has held + A thousand Treshams—never one like her! + No lighter of the signal-lamp her quick + Foul breath near quenches in hot eagerness + To mix with breath as foul! no loosener + O' the lattice, practised in the stealthy tread, + The low voice and the noiseless come-and-go! + Not one composer of the bacchant's mien + Into—what you thought Mildred's, in a word! + Know her! + + GUENDOLEN. Oh, Mildred, look to me, at least! + Thorold—she's dead, I'd say, but that she stands + Rigid as stone and whiter! + + TRESHAM. You have heard... + + GUENDOLEN. Too much! You must proceed no further. + + MILDRED. Yes— + Proceed! All's truth. Go from me! + + TRESHAM. All is truth, + She tells you! Well, you know, or ought to know, + All this I would forgive in her. I'd con + Each precept the harsh world enjoins, I'd take + Our ancestors' stern verdicts one by one, + I'd bind myself before then to exact + The prescribed vengeance—and one word of hers, + The sight of her, the bare least memory + Of Mildred, my one sister, my heart's pride + Above all prides, my all in all so long, + Would scatter every trace of my resolve. + What were it silently to waste away + And see her waste away from this day forth, + Two scathed things with leisure to repent, + And grow acquainted with the grave, and die + Tired out if not at peace, and be forgotten? + It were not so impossible to bear. + But this—that, fresh from last night's pledge renewed + Of love with the successful gallant there, + She calmly bids me help her to entice, + Inveigle an unconscious trusting youth + Who thinks her all that's chaste and good and pure, + —Invites me to betray him... who so fit + As honour's self to cover shame's arch-deed? + —That she'll receive Lord Mertoun—(her own phrase)— + This, who could bear? Why, you have heard of thieves, + Stabbers, the earth's disgrace, who yet have laughed, + "Talk not to me of torture—I'll betray + No comrade I've pledged faith to!"—you have heard + Of wretched women—all but Mildreds—tied + By wild illicit ties to losels vile + You'd tempt them to forsake; and they'll reply + "Gold, friends, repute, I left for him, I find + In him, why should I leave him then, for gold, + Repute or friends?"—and you have felt your heart + Respond to such poor outcasts of the world + As to so many friends; bad as you please, + You've felt they were God's men and women still, + So, not to be disowned by you. But she + That stands there, calmly gives her lover up + As means to wed the Earl that she may hide + Their intercourse the surelier: and, for this, + I curse her to her face before you all. + Shame hunt her from the earth! Then Heaven do right + To both! It hears me now—shall judge her then! + [AS MILDRED faints and falls, TRESHAM rushes out.] + + AUSTIN. Stay, Tresham, we'll accompany you! + + GUENDOLEN. We? + What, and leave Mildred? We? Why, where's my place + But by her side, and where yours but by mine? + Mildred—one word! Only look at me, then! + + AUSTIN. No, Guendolen! I echo Thorold's voice. + She is unworthy to behold... + + GUENDOLEN. Us two? + If you spoke on reflection, and if I + Approved your speech—if you (to put the thing + At lowest) you the soldier, bound to make + The king's cause yours and fight for it, and throw + Regard to others of its right or wrong, + —If with a death-white woman you can help, + Let alone sister, let alone a Mildred, + You left her—or if I, her cousin, friend + This morning, playfellow but yesterday, + Who said, or thought at least a thousand times, + "I'd serve you if I could," should now face round + And say, "Ah, that's to only signify + I'd serve you while you're fit to serve yourself: + So long as fifty eyes await the turn + Of yours to forestall its yet half-formed wish, + I'll proffer my assistance you'll not need— + When every tongue is praising you, I'll join + The praisers' chorus—when you're hemmed about + With lives between you and detraction—lives + To be laid down if a rude voice, rash eye, + Rough hand should violate the sacred ring + Their worship throws about you,—then indeed, + Who'll stand up for you stout as I?" If so + We said, and so we did,—not Mildred there + Would be unworthy to behold us both, + But we should be unworthy, both of us. + To be beheld by—by—your meanest dog, + Which, if that sword were broken in your face + Before a crowd, that badge torn off your breast, + And you cast out with hooting and contempt, + —Would push his way thro' all the hooters, gain + Your side, go off with you and all your shame + To the next ditch you choose to die in! Austin, + Do you love me? Here's Austin, Mildred,—here's + Your brother says he does not believe half— + No, nor half that—of all he heard! He says, + Look up and take his hand! + + AUSTIN. Look up and take + My hand, dear Mildred! + + MILDRED. I—I was so young! + Beside, I loved him, Thorold—and I had + No mother; God forgot me: so, I fell. + + GUENDOLEN. Mildred! + + MILDRED. Require no further! Did I dream + That I could palliate what is done? All's true. + Now, punish me! A woman takes my hand? + Let go my hand! You do not know, I see. + I thought that Thorold told you. + + GUENDOLEN. What is this? + Where start you to? + + MILDRED. Oh, Austin, loosen me! + You heard the whole of it—your eyes were worse, + In their surprise, than Thorold's! Oh, unless + You stay to execute his sentence, loose + My hand! Has Thorold gone, and are you here? + + GUENDOLEN. Here, Mildred, we two friends of yours will wait + Your bidding; be you silent, sleep or muse! + Only, when you shall want your bidding done, + How can we do it if we are not by? + Here's Austin waiting patiently your will! + One spirit to command, and one to love + And to believe in it and do its best, + Poor as that is, to help it—why, the world + Has been won many a time, its length and breadth, + By just such a beginning! + + MILDRED. I believe + If once I threw my arms about your neck + And sunk my head upon your breast, that I + Should weep again. + + GUENDOLEN. Let go her hand now, Austin! + Wait for me. Pace the gallery and think + On the world's seemings and realities, + Until I call you. + [AUSTIN goes.] + + MILDRED. No—I cannot weep. + No more tears from this brain—no sleep—no tears! + O Guendolen, I love you! + + GUENDOLEN. Yes: and "love" + Is a short word that says so very much! + It says that you confide in me. + + MILDRED. Confide! + + GUENDOLEN. Your lover's name, then! I've so much to learn, + Ere I can work in your behalf! + + MILDRED. My friend, + You know I cannot tell his name. + + GUENDOLEN. At least + He is your lover? and you love him too? + + MILDRED. Ah, do you ask me that,—but I am fallen + So low! + + GUENDOLEN. You love him still, then? + + MILDRED. My sole prop + Against the guilt that crushes me! I say, + Each night ere I lie down, "I was so young— + I had no mother, and I loved him so!" + And then God seems indulgent, and I dare + Trust him my soul in sleep. + + GUENDOLEN. How could you let us + E'en talk to you about Lord Mertoun then? + + MILDRED. There is a cloud around me. + + GUENDOLEN. But you said + You would receive his suit in spite of this? + + MILDRED. I say there is a cloud... + + GUENDOLEN. No cloud to me! + Lord Mertoun and your lover are the same! + + MILDRED. What maddest fancy... + + GUENDOLEN [calling aloud.] Austin! (spare your pains— + When I have got a truth, that truth I keep)— + + MILDRED. By all you love, sweet Guendolen, forbear! + Have I confided in you... + + GUENDOLEN. Just for this! + Austin!—Oh, not to guess it at the first! + But I did guess it—that is, I divined, + Felt by an instinct how it was: why else + Should I pronounce you free from all that heap + Of sins which had been irredeemable? + I felt they were not yours—what other way + Than this, not yours? The secret's wholly mine! + + MILDRED. If you would see me die before his face... + + GUENDOLEN. I'd hold my peace! And if the Earl returns + To-night? + + MILDRED. Ah Heaven, he's lost! + + GUENDOLEN. I thought so. Austin! + Enter AUSTIN + Oh, where have you been hiding? + + AUSTIN. Thorold's gone, + I know not how, across the meadow-land. + I watched him till I lost him in the skirts + O' the beech-wood. + + GUENDOLEN. Gone? All thwarts us. + + MILDRED. Thorold too? + + GUENDOLEN. I have thought. First lead this Mildred to her room. + Go on the other side; and then we'll seek + Your brother: and I'll tell you, by the way, + The greatest comfort in the world. You said + There was a clue to all. Remember, Sweet, + He said there was a clue! I hold it. Come! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—The end of the Yew-tree Avenue under MILDRED'S Window. + A light seen through a central red pane + + Enter TRESHAM through the trees + + Again here! But I cannot lose myself. + The heath—the orchard—I have traversed glades + And dells and bosky paths which used to lead + Into green wild-wood depths, bewildering + My boy's adventurous step. And now they tend + Hither or soon or late; the blackest shade + Breaks up, the thronged trunks of the trees ope wide, + And the dim turret I have fled from, fronts + Again my step; the very river put + Its arm about me and conducted me + To this detested spot. Why then, I'll shun + Their will no longer: do your will with me! + Oh, bitter! To have reared a towering scheme + Of happiness, and to behold it razed, + Were nothing: all men hope, and see their hopes + Frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope anew. + But I... to hope that from a line like ours + No horrid prodigy like this would spring, + Were just as though I hoped that from these old + Confederates against the sovereign day, + Children of older and yet older sires, + Whose living coral berries dropped, as now + On me, on many a baron's surcoat once, + On many a beauty's whimple—would proceed + No poison-tree, to thrust, from hell its root, + Hither and thither its strange snaky arms. + Why came I here? What must I do? + [A bell strikes.] + A bell? + Midnight! and 'tis at midnight... Ah, I catch + —Woods, river, plains, I catch your meaning now, + And I obey you! Hist! This tree will serve. + [He retires behind one of the trees. After a pause, + enter MERTOUN cloaked as before.] + + MERTOUN. Not time! Beat out thy last voluptuous beat + Of hope and fear, my heart! I thought the clock + I' the chapel struck as I was pushing through + The ferns. And so I shall no more see rise + My love-star! Oh, no matter for the past! + So much the more delicious task to watch + Mildred revive: to pluck out, thorn by thorn, + All traces of the rough forbidden path + My rash love lured her to! Each day must see + Some fear of hers effaced, some hope renewed: + Then there will be surprises, unforeseen + Delights in store. I'll not regret the past. + [The light is placed above in the purple pane.] + And see, my signal rises, Mildred's star! + I never saw it lovelier than now + It rises for the last time. If it sets, + 'Tis that the re-assuring sun may dawn. + [As he prepares to ascend the last tree of the avenue, + TRESHAM arrests his arm.] + Unhand me—peasant, by your grasp! Here's gold. + 'Twas a mad freak of mine. I said I'd pluck + A branch from the white-blossomed shrub beneath + The casement there. Take this, and hold your peace. + + TRESHAM. Into the moonlight yonder, come with me! + Out of the shadow! + + MERTOUN. I am armed, fool! + + TRESHAM. Yes, + Or no? You'll come into the light, or no? + My hand is on your throat—refuse!— + + MERTOUN. That voice! + Where have I heard... no—that was mild and slow. + I'll come with you. + [They advance.] + + TRESHAM. You're armed: that's well. Declare + Your name: who are you? + + MERTOUN. (Tresham!—she is lost!) + + TRESHAM. Oh, silent? Do you know, you bear yourself + Exactly as, in curious dreams I've had + How felons, this wild earth is full of, look + When they're detected, still your kind has looked! + The bravo holds an assured countenance, + The thief is voluble and plausible, + But silently the slave of lust has crouched + When I have fancied it before a man. + Your name! + + MERTOUN. I do conjure Lord Tresham—ay, + Kissing his foot, if so I might prevail— + That he for his own sake forbear to ask + My name! As heaven's above, his future weal + Or woe depends upon my silence! Vain! + I read your white inexorable face. + Know me, Lord Tresham! + [He throws off his disguises.] + + TRESHAM. Mertoun! + [After a pause.] + Draw now! + + MERTOUN. Hear me + But speak first! + + TRESHAM. Not one least word on your life! + Be sure that I will strangle in your throat + The least word that informs me how you live + And yet seem what you seem! No doubt 'twas you + Taught Mildred still to keep that face and sin. + We should join hands in frantic sympathy + If you once taught me the unteachable, + Explained how you can live so and so lie. + With God's help I retain, despite my sense, + The old belief—a life like yours is still + Impossible. Now draw! + + MERTOUN. Not for my sake, + Do I entreat a hearing—for your sake, + And most, for her sake! + + TRESHAM. Ha, ha, what should I + Know of your ways? A miscreant like yourself, + How must one rouse his ire? A blow?—that's pride + No doubt, to him! One spurns him, does one not? + Or sets the foot upon his mouth, or spits + Into his face! Come! Which, or all of these? + + MERTOUN. 'Twixt him and me and Mildred, Heaven be judge! + Can I avoid this? Have your will, my lord! + [He draws and, after a few passes, falls.] + + TRESHAM. You are not hurt? + + MERTOUN. You'll hear me now! + + TRESHAM. But rise! + + MERTOUN. Ah, Tresham, say I not "you'll hear me now!" + And what procures a man the right to speak + In his defence before his fellow man, + But—I suppose—the thought that presently + He may have leave to speak before his God + His whole defence? + + TRESHAM. Not hurt? It cannot be! + You made no effort to resist me. Where + Did my sword reach you? Why not have returned + My thrusts? Hurt where? + + MERTOUN. My lord— + + TRESHAM. How young he is! + + MERTOUN. Lord Tresham, I am very young, and yet + I have entangled other lives with mine. + Do let me speak, and do believe my speech! + That when I die before you presently,— + + TRESHAM. Can you stay here till I return with help? + + MERTOUN. Oh, stay by me! When I was less than boy + I did you grievous wrong and knew it not— + Upon my honour, knew it not! Once known, + I could not find what seemed a better way + To right you than I took: my life—you feel + How less than nothing were the giving you + The life you've taken! But I thought my way + The better—only for your sake and hers: + And as you have decided otherwise, + Would I had an infinity of lives + To offer you! Now say—instruct me—think! + Can you, from the brief minutes I have left, + Eke out my reparation? Oh think—think! + For I must wring a partial—dare I say, + Forgiveness from you, ere I die? + + TRESHAM. I do + Forgive you. + + MERTOUN. Wait and ponder that great word! + Because, if you forgive me, I shall hope + To speak to you of—Mildred! + + TRESHAM. Mertoun, haste + And anger have undone us. 'Tis not you + Should tell me for a novelty you're young, + Thoughtless, unable to recall the past. + Be but your pardon ample as my own! + + MERTOUN. Ah, Tresham, that a sword-stroke and a drop + Of blood or two, should bring all this about + Why, 'twas my very fear of you, my love + Of you—(what passion like a boy's for one + Like you?)—that ruined me! I dreamed of you— + You, all accomplished, courted everywhere, + The scholar and the gentleman. I burned + To knit myself to you: but I was young, + And your surpassing reputation kept me + So far aloof! Oh, wherefore all that love? + With less of love, my glorious yesterday + Of praise and gentlest words and kindest looks, + Had taken place perchance six months ago. + Even now, how happy we had been! And yet + I know the thought of this escaped you, Tresham! + Let me look up into your face; I feel + 'Tis changed above me: yet my eyes are glazed. + Where? where? + [As he endeavours to raise himself, his eye catches the lamp.] + Ah, Mildred! What will Mildred do? + Tresham, her life is bound up in the life + That's bleeding fast away! I'll live—must live, + There, if you'll only turn me I shall live + And save her! Tresham—oh, had you but heard! + Had you but heard! What right was yours to set + The thoughtless foot upon her life and mine, + And then say, as we perish, "Had I thought, + All had gone otherwise"? We've sinned and die: + Never you sin, Lord Tresham! for you'll die, + And God will judge you. + + TRESHAM. Yes, be satisfied! + That process is begun. + + MERTOUN. And she sits there + Waiting for me! Now, say you this to her— + You, not another—say, I saw him die + As he breathed this, "I love her"—you don't know + What those three small words mean! Say, loving her + Lowers me down the bloody slope to death + With memories... I speak to her, not you, + Who had no pity, will have no remorse, + Perchance intend her... Die along with me, + Dear Mildred! 'tis so easy, and you'll 'scape + So much unkindness! Can I lie at rest, + With rude speech spoken to you, ruder deeds + Done to you?—heartless men shall have my heart, + And I tied down with grave-clothes and the worm, + Aware, perhaps, of every blow—oh God!— + Upon those lips—yet of no power to tear + The felon stripe by stripe! Die, Mildred! Leave + Their honourable world to them! For God + We're good enough, though the world casts us out. + [A whistle is heard.] + + TRESHAM. Ho, Gerard! + Enter GERARD, AUSTIN and GUENDOLEN, with lights + No one speak! You see what's done. + I cannot bear another voice. + + MERTOUN. There's light— + Light all about me, and I move to it. + Tresham, did I not tell you—did you not + Just promise to deliver words of mine + To Mildred? + + TRESHAM. I will bear those words to her. + + MERTOUN. Now? + + TRESHAM. Now. Lift you the body, and leave me + The head. + [As they have half raised MERTOUN, he turns suddenly.] + + MERTOUN. I knew they turned me: turn me not from her! + There! stay you! there! + [Dies.] + + GUENDOLEN [after a pause]. Austin, remain you here + With Thorold until Gerard comes with help: + Then lead him to his chamber. I must go + To Mildred. + + TRESHAM. Guendolen, I hear each word + You utter. Did you hear him bid me give + His message? Did you hear my promise? I, + And only I, see Mildred. + + GUENDOLEN. She will die. + + TRESHAM. Oh no, she will not die! I dare not hope + She'll die. What ground have you to think she'll die? + Why, Austin's with you! + + AUSTIN. Had we but arrived + Before you fought! + + TRESHAM. There was no fight at all. + He let me slaughter him—the boy! I'll trust + The body there to you and Gerard—thus! + Now bear him on before me. + + AUSTIN. Whither bear him? + + TRESHAM. Oh, to my chamber! When we meet there next, + We shall be friends. + [They bear out the body of MERTOUN.] + Will she die, Guendolen? + + GUENDOLEN. Where are you taking me? + + TRESHAM. He fell just here. + Now answer me. Shall you in your whole life + —You who have nought to do with Mertoun's fate, + Now you have seen his breast upon the turf, + Shall you e'er walk this way if you can help? + When you and Austin wander arm-in-arm + Through our ancestral grounds, will not a shade + Be ever on the meadow and the waste— + Another kind of shade than when the night + Shuts the woodside with all its whispers up? + But will you ever so forget his breast + As carelessly to cross this bloody turf + Under the black yew avenue? That's well! + You turn your head: and I then?— + + GUENDOLEN. What is done + Is done. My care is for the living. Thorold, + Bear up against this burden: more remains + To set the neck to! + + TRESHAM. Dear and ancient trees + My fathers planted, and I loved so well! + What have I done that, like some fabled crime + Of yore, lets loose a Fury leading thus + Her miserable dance amidst you all? + Oh, never more for me shall winds intone + With all your tops a vast antiphony, + Demanding and responding in God's praise! + Hers ye are now, not mine! Farewell—farewell! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—MILDRED'S Chamber + MILDRED alone + + He comes not! I have heard of those who seemed + Resourceless in prosperity,—you thought + Sorrow might slay them when she listed; yet + Did they so gather up their diffused strength + At her first menace, that they bade her strike, + And stood and laughed her subtlest skill to scorn. + Oh, 'tis not so with me! The first woe fell, + And the rest fall upon it, not on me: + Else should I bear that Henry comes not?—fails + Just this first night out of so many nights? + Loving is done with. Were he sitting now, + As so few hours since, on that seat, we'd love + No more—contrive no thousand happy ways + To hide love from the loveless, any more. + I think I might have urged some little point + In my defence, to Thorold; he was breathless + For the least hint of a defence: but no, + The first shame over, all that would might fall. + No Henry! Yet I merely sit and think + The morn's deed o'er and o'er. I must have crept + Out of myself. A Mildred that has lost + Her lover—oh, I dare not look upon + Such woe! I crouch away from it! 'Tis she, + Mildred, will break her heart, not I! The world + Forsakes me: only Henry's left me—left? + When I have lost him, for he does not come, + And I sit stupidly... Oh Heaven, break up + This worse than anguish, this mad apathy, + By any means or any messenger! + + TRESHAM [without]. Mildred! + + MILDRED. Come in! Heaven hears me! + [Enter TRESHAM.] + You? alone? + Oh, no more cursing! + + TRESHAM. Mildred, I must sit. + There—you sit! + + MILDRED. Say it, Thorold—do not look + The curse! deliver all you come to say! + What must become of me? Oh, speak that thought + Which makes your brow and cheeks so pale! + + TRESHAM. My thought? + + MILDRED. All of it! + + TRESHAM. How we waded years—ago— + After those water-lilies, till the plash, + I know not how, surprised us; and you dared + Neither advance nor turn back: so, we stood + Laughing and crying until Gerard came— + Once safe upon the turf, the loudest too, + For once more reaching the relinquished prize! + How idle thoughts are, some men's, dying men's! + Mildred,— + + MILDRED. You call me kindlier by my name + Than even yesterday: what is in that? + + TRESHAM. It weighs so much upon my mind that I + This morning took an office not my own! + I might... of course, I must be glad or grieved, + Content or not, at every little thing + That touches you. I may with a wrung heart + Even reprove you, Mildred; I did more: + Will you forgive me? + + MILDRED. Thorold? do you mock? + Oh no... and yet you bid me... say that word! + + TRESHAM. Forgive me, Mildred!—are you silent, Sweet? + + MILDRED [starting up]. Why does not Henry Mertoun come to-night? + Are you, too, silent? + [Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to his scabbard, + which is empty.] + Ah, this speaks for you! + You've murdered Henry Mertoun! Now proceed! + What is it I must pardon? This and all? + Well, I do pardon you—I think I do. + Thorold, how very wretched you must be! + + TRESHAM. He bade me tell you... + + MILDRED. What I do forbid + Your utterance of! So much that you may tell + And will not—how you murdered him... but, no! + You'll tell me that he loved me, never more + Than bleeding out his life there: must I say + "Indeed," to that? Enough! I pardon you. + + TRESHAM. You cannot, Mildred! for the harsh words, yes: + Of this last deed Another's judge: whose doom + I wait in doubt, despondency and fear. + + MILDRED. Oh, true! There's nought for me to pardon! True! + You loose my soul of all its cares at once. + Death makes me sure of him for ever! You + Tell me his last words? He shall tell me them, + And take my answer—not in words, but reading + Himself the heart I had to read him late, + Which death... + + TRESHAM. Death? You are dying too? Well said + Of Guendolen! I dared not hope you'd die: + But she was sure of it. + + MILDRED. Tell Guendolen + I loved her, and tell Austin... + + TRESHAM. Him you loved: + And me? + + MILDRED. Ah, Thorold! Was't not rashly done + To quench that blood, on fire with youth and hope + And love of me—whom you loved too, and yet + Suffered to sit here waiting his approach + While you were slaying him? Oh, doubtlessly + You let him speak his poor confused boy's-speech + —Do his poor utmost to disarm your wrath + And respite me!—you let him try to give + The story of our love and ignorance, + And the brief madness and the long despair— + You let him plead all this, because your code + Of honour bids you hear before you strike: + But at the end, as he looked up for life + Into your eyes—you struck him down! + + TRESHAM. No! No! + Had I but heard him—had I let him speak + Half the truth—less—had I looked long on him + I had desisted! Why, as he lay there, + The moon on his flushed cheek, I gathered all + The story ere he told it: I saw through + The troubled surface of his crime and yours + A depth of purity immovable, + Had I but glanced, where all seemed turbidest + Had gleamed some inlet to the calm beneath; + I would not glance: my punishment's at hand. + There, Mildred, is the truth! and you—say on— + You curse me? + + MILDRED. As I dare approach that Heaven + Which has not bade a living thing despair, + Which needs no code to keep its grace from stain, + But bids the vilest worm that turns on it + Desist and be forgiven,—I—forgive not, + But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of souls! + [Falls on his neck.] + There! Do not think too much upon the past! + The cloud that's broke was all the same a cloud + While it stood up between my friend and you; + You hurt him 'neath its shadow: but is that + So past retrieve? I have his heart, you know; + I may dispose of it: I give it you! + It loves you as mine loves! Confirm me, Henry! + [Dies.] + + TRESHAM. I wish thee joy, Beloved! I am glad + In thy full gladness! + + GUENDOLEN [without]. Mildred! Tresham! + [Entering with AUSTIN.] + Thorold, + I could desist no longer. Ah, she swoons! + That's well. + + TRESHAM. Oh, better far than that! + + GUENDOLEN. She's dead! + Let me unlock her arms! + + TRESHAM. She threw them thus + About my neck, and blessed me, and then died: + You'll let them stay now, Guendolen! + + AUSTIN. Leave her + And look to him! What ails you, Thorold? + + GUENDOLEN. White + As she, and whiter! Austin! quick—this side! + + AUSTIN. A froth is oozing through his clenched teeth; + Both lips, where they're not bitten through, are black: + Speak, dearest Thorold! + + TRESHAM. Something does weigh down + My neck beside her weight: thanks: I should fall + But for you, Austin, I believe!—there, there, + 'Twill pass away soon!—ah,—I had forgotten: + I am dying. + + GUENDOLEN. Thorold—Thorold—why was this? + + TRESHAM. I said, just as I drank the poison off, + The earth would be no longer earth to me, + The life out of all life was gone from me. + There are blind ways provided, the fore-done + Heart-weary player in this pageant-world + Drops out by, letting the main masque defile + By the conspicuous portal: I am through— + Just through! + + GUENDOLEN. Don't leave him, Austin! Death is close. + + TRESHAM. Already Mildred's face is peacefuller, + I see you, Austin—feel you; here's my hand, + Put yours in it—you, Guendolen, yours too! + You're lord and lady now—you're Treshams; name + And fame are yours: you hold our 'scutcheon up. + Austin, no blot on it! You see how blood + Must wash one blot away: the first blot came + And the first blood came. To the vain world's eye + All's gules again: no care to the vain world, + From whence the red was drawn! + + AUSTIN. No blot shall come! + + TRESHAM. I said that: yet it did come. Should it come, + Vengeance is God's, not man's. Remember me! + [Dies.] + + GUENDOLEN [letting fall the pulseless arm]. + Ah, Thorold, we can but—remember you! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The End +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's A Blot In The 'Scutcheon, by Robert Browning + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON *** + +***** This file should be named 2880-h.htm or 2880-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/8/8/2880/ + +Produced by Gary R. Young, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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