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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:32:47 -0700 |
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diff --git a/9162-h/9162-h.htm b/9162-h/9162-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..747103b --- /dev/null +++ b/9162-h/9162-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11793 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!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"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <title> + Becket and Other Plays, by Alfred Lord Tennyson, Poet Laureate + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + 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%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + 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 {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Project Gutenberg's Becket and other plays, by Alfred Lord Tennyson + +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: Becket and Other plays + +Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9162] +First Posted: September 10, 2003 +Last Updated: February 10, 2019 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BECKET AND OTHER PLAYS *** + + + + +Etext produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tapio Riikonen and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + BECKET AND OTHER PLAYS + </h1> + <h2> + By Alfred Lord Tennyson, Poet Laureate + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> BECKET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE CUP </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE FALCON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE PROMISE OF MAY </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BECKET + </h2> + <p> + TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR, THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EARL OF SELBORNE. + </p> + <p> + MY DEAR SELBORNE, + </p> + <p> + <i>To you, the honoured Chancellor of our own day, I dedicate this + dramatic memorial of your great predecessor;—which, altho' not + intended in its present form to meet the exigencies of our modern theatre, + has nevertheless—for so you have assured me—won your + approbation. </i> + </p> + <p> + Ever yours, + </p> + <p> + TENNYSON. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>DRAMATIS PERSONAE</i>. + + HENRY II. (<i>son of the Earl of Anjou</i>). + THOMAS BECKET, <i>Chancellor of England, afterwards Archbishop of + Canterbury</i>. + GILBERT FOLIOT, <i>Bishop of London</i>. + ROGER, <i>Archbishop of York</i>. + <i>Bishop of Hereford</i>. + HILARY, <i>Bishop of Chichester</i>. + JOCELYN, <i>Bishop of Salisbury</i>. + JOHN OF SALISBURY | + HERBERT OF BOSHAM | <i>friends of Becket</i>. + WALTER MAP, <i>reputed author of 'Golias,' Latin poems against + the priesthood</i>. + KING LOUIS OF FRANCE. + GEOFFREY, <i>son of Rosamund and Henry</i>. + GRIM, <i>a monk of Cambridge</i>. + SIR REGINALD FITZURSE | + SIR RICHARD DE BRITO | <i>the four knights of the King's</i> + SIR WILLIAM DE TRACY | <i>household, enemies of Becket</i>. + SIR HUGH DE MORVILLE | + DE BROC OF SALTWOOD CASTLE. + LORD LEICESTER. + PHILIP DE ELEEMOSYNA. + TWO KNIGHT TEMPLARS. + JOHN OF OXFORD (<i>called the Swearer</i>). + ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE, <i>Queen of England (divorced from Louis of France)</i>. + ROSAMUND DE CLIFFORD. + MARGERY. + + <i>Knights, Monks, Beggars, etc</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PROLOGUE. + + <i>A Castle in Normandy. Interior of the Hall. Roofs of a City seen + thro' Windows</i>. + + HENRY <i>and</i> BECKET <i>at chess</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HENRY. + So then our good Archbishop Theobald + Lies dying. + + BECKET. + I am grieved to know as much. + + HENRY. + But we must have a mightier man than he + For his successor. + + BECKET. + Have you thought of one? + + HENRY. + A cleric lately poison'd his own mother, + And being brought before the courts of the Church, + They but degraded him. I hope they whipt him. + I would have hang'd him. + + BECKET. + It is your move. + + HENRY. + Well—there. [<i>Moves</i>. + The Church in the pell-mell of Stephen's time + Hath climb'd the throne and almost clutch'd the crown; + But by the royal customs of our realm + The Church should hold her baronies of me, + Like other lords amenable to law. + I'll have them written down and made the law. + + BECKET. + My liege, I move my bishop. + + HENRY. + And if I live, + No man without my leave shall excommunicate + My tenants or my household. + + BECKET. + Look to your king. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HENRY. + No man without my leave shall cross the seas + To set the Pope against me—I pray your pardon. + + BECKET. + Well—will you move? + + HENRY. + There. [<i>Moves</i>. + + BECKET. + Check—you move so wildly. + + HENRY. + There then! [<i>Moves</i>. + + BECKET. + Why—there then, for you see my bishop + Hath brought your king to a standstill. You are beaten. + + HENRY (<i>kicks over the board</i>). + Why, there then—down go bishop and king together. + I loathe being beaten; had I fixt my fancy + Upon the game I should have beaten thee, + But that was vagabond. + + BECKET. + Where, my liege? With Phryne, + Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another? + + HENRY. + My Rosamund is no Lais, Thomas Becket; + And yet she plagues me too—no fault in her— + But that I fear the Queen would have her life. + + BECKET. + Put her away, put her away, my liege! + Put her away into a nunnery! + Safe enough there from her to whom thou art bound + By Holy Church. And wherefore should she seek + The life of Rosamund de Clifford more + Than that of other paramours of thine? + + HENRY. + How dost thou know I am not wedded to her? + + BECKET. + How should I know? + + HENRY. + That is my secret, Thomas. + + BECKET. + State secrets should be patent to the statesman + Who serves and loves his king, and whom the king + Loves not as statesman, but true lover and friend. + + HENRY. + Come, come, thou art but deacon, not yet bishop, + No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor yet. + I would to God thou wert, for I should find + An easy father confessor in thee. + + BECKET. + St. Denis, that thou shouldst not. I should beat + Thy kingship as my bishop hath beaten it. + + HENRY. + Hell take thy bishop then, and my kingship too! + Come, come, I love thee and I know thee, I know thee, + A doter on white pheasant-flesh at feasts, + A sauce-deviser for thy days of fish, + A dish-designer, and most amorous + Of good old red sound liberal Gascon wine: + Will not thy body rebel, man, if thou flatter it? + + BECKET. + That palate is insane which cannot tell + A good dish from a bad, new wine from old. + + HENRY. + Well, who loves wine loves woman. + + BECKET. + So I do. + Men are God's trees, and women are God's flowers; + And when the Gascon wine mounts to my head, + The trees are all the statelier, and the flowers + Are all the fairer. + + HENRY. + And thy thoughts, thy fancies? + + BECKET. + Good dogs, my liege, well train'd, and easily call'd + Off from the game. + + HENRY. + Save for some once or twice, + When they ran down the game and worried it. + + BECKET. + No, my liege, no!—not once—in God's name, no! + + HENRY. + Nay, then, I take thee at thy word—believe thee + The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's hall. + And so this Rosamund, my true heart-wife, + Not Eleanor—she whom I love indeed + As a woman should be loved—Why dost thou smile + So dolorously? + + BECKET. + My good liege, if a man + Wastes himself among women, how should he love + A woman, as a woman should be loved? + + HENRY. + How shouldst thou know that never hast loved one? + Come, I would give her to thy care in England + When I am out in Normandy or Anjou. + + BECKET. + My lord, I am your subject, not your— + + HENRY. + Pander. + God's eyes! I know all that—not my purveyor + Of pleasures, but to save a life—her life; + Ay, and the soul of Eleanor from hell-fire. + I have built a secret bower in England, Thomas, + A nest in a bush. + + BECKET. + And where, my liege? + + HENRY (<i>whispers</i>). + Thine ear. + + BECKET. + That's lone enough. + + HENRY (<i>laying paper on table</i>). + This chart here mark'd '<i>Her Bower</i>,' + Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a circling wood, + A hundred pathways running everyway, + And then a brook, a bridge; and after that + This labyrinthine brickwork maze in maze, + And then another wood, and in the midst + A garden and my Rosamund. Look, this line— + The rest you see is colour'd green—but this + Draws thro' the chart to her. + + BECKET. + This blood-red line? + + HENRY. + Ay! blood, perchance, except thou see to her. + + BECKET. + And where is she? There in her English nest? + + HENRY. + Would God she were—no, here within the city. + We take her from her secret bower in Anjou + And pass her to her secret bower in England. + She is ignorant of all but that I love her. + + BECKET. + My liege, I pray thee let me hence: a widow + And orphan child, whom one of thy wild barons— + + HENRY. + Ay, ay, but swear to see to her in England. + + BECKET. + Well, well, I swear, but not to please myself. + + HENRY. + Whatever come between us? + + BECKET. + What should come + Between us, Henry? + + HENRY. + Nay—I know not, Thomas. + + BECKET. + What need then? Well—whatever come between us. [<i>Going</i>. + + HENRY. + A moment! thou didst help me to my throne + In Theobald's time, and after by thy wisdom + Hast kept it firm from shaking; but now I, + For my realm's sake, myself must be the wizard + To raise that tempest which will set it trembling + Only to base it deeper. I, true son + Of Holy Church—no croucher to the Gregories + That tread the kings their children underheel— + Must curb her; and the Holy Father, while + This Barbarossa butts him from his chair, + Will need my help—be facile to my hands. + Now is my time. Yet—lest there should be flashes + And fulminations from the side of Rome, + An interdict on England—I will have + My young son Henry crown'd the King of England, + That so the Papal bolt may pass by England, + As seeming his, not mine, and fall abroad. + I'll have it done—and now. + + BECKET. + Surely too young + Even for this shadow of a crown; and tho' + I love him heartily, I can spy already + A strain of hard and headstrong in him. Say, + The Queen should play his kingship against thine! + + HENRY. + I will not think so, Thomas. Who shall crown him? + Canterbury is dying. + + BECKET. + The next Canterbury. + + HENRY. + And who shall he be, my friend Thomas? Who? + + BECKET. + Name him; the Holy Father will confirm him. + + HENRY (<i>lays his hand on</i> BECKET'S <i>shoulder</i>). + Here! + + BECKET. + Mock me not. I am not even a monk. + Thy jest—no more. Why—look—is this a sleeve + For an archbishop? + + HENRY. + But the arm within + Is Becket's, who hath beaten down my foes. + + BECKET. + A soldier's, not a spiritual arm. + + HENRY. + I lack a spiritual soldier, Thomas— + A man of this world and the next to boot. + + BECKET. + There's Gilbert Foliot. + + HENRY. + He! too thin, too thin. + Thou art the man to fill out the Church robe; + Your Foliot fasts and fawns too much for me. + + BECKET. + Roger of York. + + HENRY. + Roger is Roger of York. + King, Church, and State to him but foils wherein + To set that precious jewel, Roger of York. + No. + + BECKET. + Henry of Winchester? + + HENRY. + Him who crown'd Stephen— + King Stephen's brother! No; too royal for me. + And I'll have no more Anselms. + + BECKET. + Sire, the business + Of thy whole kingdom waits me: let me go. + + HENRY. + Answer me first. + + BECKET. + Then for thy barren jest + Take thou mine answer in bare commonplace— + <i>Nolo episcopari</i>. + + HENRY. + Ay, but <i>Nolo + Archiepiscopari</i>, my good friend, + Is quite another matter. + + BECKET. + A more awful one. + Make <i>me</i> archbishop! Why, my liege, I know + Some three or four poor priests a thousand times + Fitter for this grand function. <i>Me</i> archbishop! + God's favour and king's favour might so clash + That thou and I——That were a jest indeed! + + HENRY. + Thou angerest me, man: I do not jest. + + <i>Enter</i> ELEANOR <i>and</i> SIR REGINALD FITZURSE. + + ELEANOR (<i>singing</i>). + + Over! the sweet summer closes, + The reign of the roses is done— + + HENRY (<i>to</i> BECKET, <i>who is going</i>). + Thou shalt not go. I have not ended with thee. + + ELEANOR (<i>seeing chart on table</i>). + This chart with the red line! her bower! whose bower? + + HENRY. + The chart is not mine, but Becket's: take it, Thomas. + + ELEANOR. + Becket! O—ay—and these chessmen on the floor—the king's crown + broken! Becket hath beaten thee again—and thou hast kicked down the + board. I know thee of old. + + HENRY. + True enough, my mind was set upon other matters. + + ELEANOR. + What matters? State matters? love matters? + + HENRY. + My love for thee, and thine for me. + + ELEANOR. + + Over! the sweet summer closes, + The reign of the roses is done; + Over and gone with the roses, + And over and gone with the sun. + + Here; but our sun in Aquitaine lasts longer. I would I were in + Aquitaine again—your north chills me. + + Over! the sweet summer closes, + And never a flower at the close; + Over and gone with the roses, + And winter again and the snows. + + That was not the way I ended it first—but unsymmetrically, + preposterously, illogically, out of passion, without art—like a song + of the people. Will you have it? The last Parthian shaft of a forlorn + Cupid at the King's left breast, and all left-handedness and + under-handedness. + + And never a flower at the close, + Over and gone with the roses, + Not over and gone with the rose. + + True, one rose will outblossom the rest, one rose in a bower. I speak + after my fancies, for I am a Troubadour, you know, and won the violet + at Toulouse; but my voice is harsh here, not in tune, a nightingale + out of season; for marriage, rose or no rose, has killed the golden + violet. + + BECKET. + Madam, you do ill to scorn wedded love. + + ELEANOR. + So I do. Louis of France loved me, and I dreamed that I loved Louis + of France: and I loved Henry of England, and Henry of England dreamed + that he loved me; but the marriage-garland withers even with the + putting on, the bright link rusts with the breath of the first + after-marriage kiss, the harvest moon is the ripening of the harvest, + and the honeymoon is the gall of love; he dies of his honeymoon. I + could pity this poor world myself that it is no better ordered. + + HENRY. + Dead is he, my Queen? What, altogether? Let me swear nay to that by + this cross on thy neck. God's eyes! what a lovely cross! what jewels! + + ELEANOR. + Doth it please you? Take it and wear it on that hard heart of yours— + there. + [<i>Gives it to him</i>. + + HENRY (<i>puts it on</i>). + + On this left breast before so hard a heart, + To hide the scar left by thy Parthian dart. + + ELEANOR. + Has my simple song set you jingling? Nay, if I took and translated + that hard heart into our Provençal facilities, I could so play about + it with the rhyme— + + HENRY. + That the heart were lost in the rhyme and the matter in the metre. May + we not pray you, Madam, to spare us the hardness of your facility? + + ELEANOR. + The wells of Castaly are not wasted upon the desert. We did but jest. + + HENRY. + There's no jest on the brows of Herbert there. What is it, Herbert? + + <i>Enter</i> HERBERT OF BOSHAM. + + HERBERT. + My liege, the good Archbishop is no more. + + HENRY. + Peace to his soul! + + HERBERT. + I left him with peace on his face—that sweet other-world smile, which + will be reflected in the spiritual body among the angels. But he + longed much to see your Grace and the Chancellor ere he past, and his + last words were a commendation of Thomas Becket to your Grace as his + successor in the archbishoprick. + + HENRY. + Ha, Becket! thou rememberest our talk! + + BECKET. + My heart is full of tears—I have no answer. + + HENRY. + Well, well, old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would + only breed the past again. Come to me to-morrow. Thou hast but to hold + out thy hand. Meanwhile the revenues are mine. A-hawking, a-hawking! + If I sit, I grow fat. + [<i>Leaps over the table, and exit</i>. + + BECKET. + He did prefer me to the chancellorship, + Believing I should ever aid the Church— + But have I done it? He commends me now + From out his grave to this archbishoprick. + + HERBERT. + A dead man's dying wish should be of weight. + + BECKET. + <i>His</i> should. Come with me. Let me learn at full + The manner of his death, and all he said. + [<i>Exeunt</i> HERBERT <i>and</i> BECKET. + + ELEANOR. + Fitzurse, that chart with the red line—thou sawest it—her bower. + + FITZURSE. + Rosamund's? + + ELEANOR. + Ay—there lies the secret of her whereabouts, and the King gave it to + his Chancellor. + + FlTZURSE. + To this son of a London merchant—how your Grace must hate him. + + ELEANOR. + Hate him? as brave a Soldier as Henry and a goodlier man: but thou— + dost thou love this Chancellor, that thou hast sworn a voluntary + allegiance to him? + + FlTZURSE. + Not for my love toward him, but because he had the love of the King. + How should a baron love a beggar on horseback, with the retinue of + three kings behind him, outroyalling royalty? Besides, he holp the + King to break down our castles, for the which I hate him. + + ELEANOR. + For the which I honour him. Statesman not Churchman he. A great and + sound policy that: I could embrace him for it: you could not see the + King for the kinglings. + + FlTZURSE. + Ay, but he speaks to a noble as tho' he were a churl, and to a churl + as if he were a noble. + + ELEANOR. + Pride of the plebeian! + + FlTZURSE. + And this plebeian like to be Archbishop! + + ELEANOR. + True, and I have an inherited loathing of these black sheep of the + Papacy. Archbishop? I can see further into a man than our hot-headed + Henry, and if there ever come feud between Church and Crown, and I do + not then charm this secret out of our loyal Thomas, I am not Eleanor. + + FlTZURSE. + Last night I followed a woman in the city here. Her face was veiled, + but the back methought was Rosamund—his paramour, thy rival. I can + feel for thee. + + ELEANOR. + Thou feel for me!—paramour—rival! King Louis had no paramours, and I + loved him none the more. Henry had many, and I loved him none the + less—now neither more nor less—not at all; the cup's empty. I would + she were but his paramour, for men tire of their fancies; but I fear + this one fancy hath taken root, and borne blossom too, and she, whom + the King loves indeed, is a power in the State. Rival!—ay, and when + the King passes, there may come a crash and embroilment as in + Stephen's time; and her children—canst thou not—that secret matter + which would heat the King against thee (<i>whispers him and he starts</i>). + Nay, that is safe with me as with thyself: but canst thou not—thou + art drowned in debt—thou shalt have our love, our silence, and our + gold—canst thou not—if thou light upon her—free me from her? + + FITZURSE. + Well, Madam, I have loved her in my time. + + ELEANOR. + No, my bear, thou hast not. My Courts of Love would have held thee + guiltless of love—the fine attractions and repulses, the delicacies, + the subtleties. + + FITZURSE. + Madam, I loved according to the main purpose and intent of nature. + + ELEANOR. + I warrant thee! thou wouldst hug thy Cupid till his ribs cracked— + enough of this. Follow me this Rosamund day and night, whithersoever + she goes; track her, if thou canst, even into the King's lodging, that + I may (<i>clenches her fist</i>)—may at least have my cry against him and + her,—and thou in thy way shouldst be + jealous of the King, for thou in thy way didst once, + what shall I call it, affect her thine own self. + + FITZURSE. + Ay, but the young colt winced and whinnied and + flung up her heels; and then the King came honeying + about her, and this Becket, her father's friend, like + enough staved us from her. + + ELEANOR. + Us! + + FITZURSE. + Yea, by the Blessed Virgin! There were more than + I buzzing round the blossom—De Tracy—even that + flint De Brito. + + ELEANOR. + Carry her off among you; run in upon her and + devour her, one and all of you; make her as hateful + to herself and to the King, as she is to me. + + FITZURSE. + I and all would be glad to wreak our spite on the + rose-faced minion of the King, and bring her to the + level of the dust, so that the King— + + ELEANOR. + Let her eat it like the serpent, and be driven out + of her paradise. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT ONE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—BECKET'S <i>House in London. Chamber barely furnished</i>. BECKET + <i>unrobing</i>. HERBERT OF BOSHAM <i>and</i> SERVANT. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SERVANT. + Shall I not help your lordship to your rest? + + BECKET. + Friend, am I so much better than thyself + That thou shouldst help me? Thou art wearied out + With this day's work, get thee to thine own bed. + Leave me with Herbert, friend. [<i>Exit</i> SERVANT. + Help me off, Herbert, with this—and this. + + HERBERT. + Was not the people's blessing as we past + Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy blood? + + BECKET. + The people know their Church a tower of strength, + A bulwark against Throne and Baronage. + Too heavy for me, this; off with it, Herbert! + + HERBERT. + Is it so much heavier than thy Chancellor's robe? + + BECKET. + No; but the Chancellor's and the Archbishop's + Together more than mortal man can bear. + + HERBERT. + Not heavier than thine armour at Thoulouse? + + BECKET. + O Herbert, Herbert, in my chancellorship + I more than once have gone against the Church. + + HERBERT. + To please the King? + + BECKET. + Ay, and the King of kings, + Or justice; for it seem'd to me but just + The Church should pay her scutage like the lords. + But hast thou heard this cry of Gilbert Foliot + That I am not the man to be your Primate, + For Henry could not work a miracle— + Make an Archbishop of a soldier? + + HERBERT. + Ay, + For Gilbert Foliot held himself the man. + + BECKET. + Am I the man? My mother, ere she bore me, + Dream'd that twelve stars fell glittering out of heaven + Into her bosom. + + HERBERT. + Ay, the fire, the light, + The spirit of the twelve Apostles enter'd + Into thy making. + + BECKET. + And when I was a child, + The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep, + Gave me the golden keys of Paradise. Dream, + Or prophecy, that? + + HERBERT. + Well, dream and prophecy both. + + BECKET. + And when I was of Theobald's household, once— + The good old man would sometimes have his jest— + He took his mitre off, and set it on me, + And said, 'My young Archbishop—thou wouldst make + A stately Archbishop!' Jest or prophecy there? + + HERBERT. + Both, Thomas, both. + + BECKET. + Am I the man? That rang + Within my head last night, and when I slept + Methought I stood in Canterbury Minster, + And spake to the Lord God, and said, 'O Lord, + I have been a lover of wines, and delicate meats, + And secular splendours, and a favourer + Of players, and a courtier, and a feeder + Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and lions, and lynxes. + Am <i>I</i> the man?' And the Lord answer'd me, + 'Thou art the man, and all the more the man.' + And then I asked again, 'O Lord my God, + Henry the King hath been my friend, my brother, + And mine uplifter in this world, and chosen me + For this thy great archbishoprick, believing + That I should go against the Church with him. + And I shall go against him with the Church, + And I have said no word of this to him: + 'Am <i>I</i> the man?' And the Lord answer'd me, + 'Thou art the man, and all the more the man.' + And thereupon, methought, He drew toward me, + And smote me down upon the Minster floor. + I fell. + + HERBERT. + God make not thee, but thy foes, fall. + + BECKET. + I fell. Why fall? Why did He smite me? What? + Shall I fall off—to please the King once more? + Not fight—tho' somehow traitor to the King— + My truest and mine utmost for the Church? + + HERBERT. + Thou canst not fall that way. Let traitor be; + For how have fought thine utmost for the Church, + Save from the throne of thine archbishoprick? + And how been made Archbishop hadst thou told him, + 'I mean to fight mine utmost for the Church, + Against the King?' + + BECKET. + But dost thou think the King + Forced mine election? + + HERBERT. + I do think the King + Was potent in the election, and why not? + Why should not Heaven have so inspired the King? + Be comforted. Thou art the man—be thou + A mightier Anselm. + + BECKET. + I do believe thee, then. I am the man. + And yet I seem appall'd—on such a sudden + At such an eagle-height I stand and see + The rift that runs between me and the King. + I served our Theobald well when I was with him; + I served King Henry well as Chancellor; + I am his no more, and I must serve the Church. + This Canterbury is only less than Rome, + And all my doubts I fling from me like dust, + Winnow and scatter all scruples to the wind, + And all the puissance of the warrior, + And all the wisdom of the Chancellor, + And all the heap'd experiences of life, + I cast upon the side of Canterbury— + Our holy mother Canterbury, who sits + With tatter'd robes. Laics and barons, thro' + The random gifts of careless kings, have graspt + Her livings, her advowsons, granges, farms, + And goodly acres—we will make her whole; + Not one rood lost. And for these Royal customs, + These ancient Royal customs—they <i>are</i> Royal, + Not of the Church—and let them be anathema, + And all that speak for them anathema. + + HERBERT. + Thomas, thou art moved too much. + + BECKET. + O Herbert, here + I gash myself asunder from the King, + Tho' leaving each, a wound; mine own, a grief + To show the scar for ever—his, a hate + Not ever to be heal'd. + + <i>Enter</i> ROSAMUND DE CLIFFORD, <i>flying from</i> SIR REGINALD + FITZURSE. <i>Drops her veil</i>. + + BECKET. + Rosamund de Clifford! + + ROSAMUND. + Save me, father, hide me—they follow me— + and I must not be known. + + BECKET. + Pass in with Herbert there. + + [<i>Exeunt</i> ROSAMUND <i>and</i> HERBERT <i>by side door</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> FITZURSE. + + FITZURSE. + The Archbishop! + + BECKET. + Ay! what wouldst thou, Reginald? + + FITZURSE. + Why—why, my lord, I follow'd—follow'd one— + + BECKET. + And then what follows? Let me follow thee. + + FITZURSE. + It much imports me I should know her name. + + BECKET. + What her? + + FITZURSE. + The woman that I follow'd hither. + + BECKET. + Perhaps it may import her all as much + Not to be known. + + FITZURSE. + And what care I for that? + Come, come, my lord Archbishop; I saw that door + Close even now upon the woman. + + BECKET. + Well? + + FITZURSE (<i>making for the door</i>). + Nay, let me pass, my lord, for I must know. + + BECKET. + Back, man! + + FITZURSE. + Then tell me who and what she is. + + BECKET. + Art thou so sure thou followedst anything? + Go home, and sleep thy wine off, for thine eyes + Glare stupid—wild with wine. + + FITZURSE (<i>making to the door</i>). + I must and will. + I care not for thy new archbishoprick. + + BECKET. + Back, man, I tell thee! What! + Shall I forget my new archbishoprick + And smite thee with my crozier on the skull? + 'Fore God, I am a mightier man than thou. + + FlTZURSE. + It well befits thy new archbishoprick + To take the vagabond woman of the street + Into thine arms! + + BECKET. + O drunken ribaldry! + Out, beast! out, bear! + + FlTZURSE. + I shall remember this. + + BECKET. + Do, and begone! [<i>Exit</i> FITZURSE. + [<i>Going to the door, sees</i> DE TRACY.] + Tracy, what dost thou here? + + DE TRACY. + My lord, I follow'd Reginald Fitzurse. + + BECKET. + Follow him out! + + DE TRACY. + I shall remember this + Discourtesy. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + BECKET. + Do. These be those baron-brutes + That havock'd all the land in Stephen's day. + Rosamund de Clifford. + + <i>Re-enter</i> ROSAMUND <i>and</i> HERBERT. + + ROSAMUND. + Here am I. + + BECKET. + Why here? + We gave thee to the charge of John of Salisbury. + To pass thee to thy secret bower to-morrow. + Wast thou not told to keep thyself from sight? + + ROSAMUND. + Poor bird of passage! so I was; but, father, + They say that you are wise in winged things, + And know the ways of Nature. Bar the bird + From following the fled summer—a chink—he's out, + Gone! And there stole into the city a breath + Full of the meadows, and it minded me + Of the sweet woods of Clifford, and the walks + Where I could move at pleasure, and I thought + Lo! I must out or die. + + BECKET. + Or out <i>and</i> die. + And what hast thou to do with this Fitzurse? + + ROSAMUND. + Nothing. He sued my hand. I shook at him. + He found me once alone. Nay—nay—I cannot + Tell you: my father drove him and his friends, + De Tracy and De Brito, from our castle. + I was but fourteen and an April then. + I heard him swear revenge. + + BECKET. + Why will you court it + By self-exposure? flutter out at night? + Make it so hard to save a moth from the fire? + + ROSAMUND. + I have saved many of 'em. You catch 'em, so, + Softly, and fling them out to the free air. + They burn themselves <i>within</i>-door. + + BECKET. + Our good John + Must speed you to your bower at once. The child + Is there already. + + ROSAMUND. + Yes—the child—the child— + O rare, a whole long day of open field. + + BECKET. + Ay, but you go disguised. + + ROSAMUND. + O rare again! + We'll baffle them, I warrant. What shall it be? + I'll go as a nun. + + BECKET. + No. + + ROSAMUND. + What, not good enough + Even to play at nun? + + BECKET. + Dan John with a nun, + That Map, and these new railers at the Church + May plaister his clean name with scurrilous rhymes! + No! + Go like a monk, cowling and clouding up + That fatal star, thy Beauty, from the squint + Of lust and glare of malice. Good night! good night! + + ROSAMUND. + Father, I am so tender to all hardness! + Nay, father, first thy blessing. + + BECKET. + Wedded? + + ROSAMUND. + Father! + + BECKET. + Well, well! I ask no more. Heaven bless thee! hence! + + ROSAMUND. + O, holy father, when thou seest him next, + Commend me to thy friend. + + BECKET. + What friend? + + ROSAMUND. + The King. + + BECKET. + Herbert, take out a score of armed men + To guard this bird of passage to her cage; + And watch Fitzurse, and if he follow thee, + Make him thy prisoner. I am Chancellor yet. + [<i>Exeunt</i> HERBERT <i>and</i> ROSAMUND. + Poor soul! poor soul! + My friend, the King!... O thou Great Seal of England, + Given me by my dear friend the King of England— + We long have wrought together, thou and I— + Now must I send thee as a common friend + To tell the King, my friend, I am against him. + We are friends no more: he will say that, not I. + The worldly bond between us is dissolved, + Not yet the love: can I be under him + As Chancellor? as Archbishop over him? + Go therefore like a friend slighted by one + That hath climb'd up to nobler company. + Not slighted—all but moan'd for: thou must go. + I have not dishonour'd thee—I trust I have not; + Not mangled justice. May the hand that next + Inherits thee be but as true to thee + As mine hath been! O, my dear friend, the King! + O brother!—I may come to martyrdom. + I am martyr in myself already.—Herbert! + + HERBERT (<i>re-entering</i>). + My lord, the town is quiet, and the moon + Divides the whole long street with light and shade. + No footfall—no Fitzurse. We have seen her home. + + BECKET. + The hog hath tumbled himself into some corner, + Some ditch, to snore away his drunkenness + Into the sober headache,—Nature's moral + Against excess. Let the Great Seal be sent + Back to the King to-morrow. + + HERBERT. + Must that be? + The King may rend the bearer limb from limb + Think on it again. + + BECKET. + Against the moral excess + No physical ache, but failure it may be + Of all we aim'd at. John of Salisbury + Hath often laid a cold hand on my heats, + And Herbert hath rebuked me even now. + I will be wise and wary, not the soldier + As Foliot swears it.—John, and out of breath! + + <i>Enter</i> JOHN OF SALISBURY. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Thomas, thou wast not happy taking charge + Of this wild Rosamund to please the King, + Nor am I happy having charge of her— + The included Danaë has escaped again + Her tower, and her Acrisius—where to seek? + I have been about the city. + + BECKET. + Thou wilt find her + Back in her lodging. Go with her—at once— + To-night—my men will guard you to the gates. + Be sweet to her, she has many enemies. + Send the Great Seal by daybreak. Both, good night! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—<i>Street in Northampton leading to the Castle</i>. + + ELEANOR'S RETAINERS <i>and</i> BECKET'S RETAINERS <i>fighting. Enter</i> ELEANOR + <i>and</i> BECKET <i>from opposite streets</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ELEANOR. + Peace, fools! + + BECKET. + Peace, friends! what idle brawl is this? + + RETAINER OF BECKET. + They said—her Grace's people—thou wast found— + Liars! I shame to quote 'em—caught, my lord, + With a wanton in thy lodging—Hell requite 'em! + + RETAINER OF ELEANOR. + My liege, the Lord Fitzurse reported this + In passing to the Castle even now. + + RETAINER OF BECKET. + And then they mock'd us and we fell upon 'em, + For we would live and die for thee, my lord, + However kings and queens may frown on thee. + + BECKET TO HIS RETAINERS. + Go, go—no more of this! + + ELEANOR TO HER RETAINERS. + Away!—(<i>Exeunt</i> RETAINERS) Fitzurse— + + BECKET. + Nay, let him be. + + ELEANOR. + No, no, my Lord Archbishop, + 'Tis known you are midwinter to all women, + But often in your chancellorship you served + The follies of the King. + + BECKET. + No, not these follies! + + ELEANOR. + My lord, Fitzurse beheld her in your lodging. + + BECKET. + Whom? + + ELEANOR. + Well—you know—the minion, Rosamund. + + BECKET. + He had good eyes! + + ELEANOR. + Then hidden in the street + He watch'd her pass with John of Salisbury + And heard her cry 'Where is this bower of mine?' + + BECKET. + Good ears too! + + ELEANOR. + You are going to the Castle, + Will you subscribe the customs? + + BECKET. + I leave that, + Knowing how much you reverence Holy Church, + My liege, to your conjecture. + + ELEANOR. + I and mine— + And many a baron holds along with me— + Are not so much at feud with Holy Church + But we might take your side against the customs— + So that you grant me one slight favour. + + BECKET. + What? + + ELEANOR. + A sight of that same chart which Henry gave you + With the red line—'her bower.' + + BECKET. + And to what end? + + ELEANOR. + That Church must scorn herself whose fearful Priest + Sits winking at the license of a king, + Altho' we grant when kings are dangerous + The Church must play into the hands of kings; + Look! I would move this wanton from his sight + And take the Church's danger on myself. + + BECKET. + For which she should be duly grateful. + + ELEANOR. + True! + Tho' she that binds the bond, herself should see + That kings are faithful to their marriage vow. + + BECKET. + Ay, Madam, and queens also. + + ELEANOR. + And queens also! + What is your drift? + + BECKET. + My drift is to the Castle, + Where I shall meet the Barons and my King. [<i>Exit</i>. + + DE BROC, DE TRACY, DE BRITO, DE MORVILLE (<i>passing</i>). + + ELEANOR. + To the Castle? + + DE BROC. + Ay! + + ELEANOR. + Stir up the King, the Lords! + Set all on fire against him! + + DE BRITO. + Ay, good Madam! [<i>Exeunt</i>. + + ELEANOR. + Fool! I will make thee hateful to thy King. + Churl! I will have thee frighted into France, + And I shall live to trample on thy grave. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE III.—<i>The Hall in Northampton Castle</i>. + + <i>On one side of the stage the doors of an inner Council-chamber, + half-open. At the bottom, the great doors of the Hall</i>. ROGER + ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, FOLIOT BISHOP OF LONDON, HILARY OF CHICHESTER, + BISHOP OF HEREFORD, RICHARD DE HASTINGS (<i>Grand Prior of Templars</i>), + PHILIP DE ELEEMOSYNA (<i>the Pope's Almoner</i>), <i>and others</i>. DE BROC, + FITZURSE, DE BRITO, DE MORVILLE, DE TRACY, <i>and other</i> BARONS + <i>assembled—a table before them</i>. JOHN OF OXFORD, <i>President of the + Council</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> BECKET <i>and</i> HERBERT OF BOSHAM. + + BECKET. + Where is the King? + + ROGER OF YORK. + Gone hawking on the Nene, + His heart so gall'd with thine ingratitude, + He will not see thy face till thou hast sign'd + These ancient laws and customs of the realm. + Thy sending back the Great Seal madden'd him, + He all but pluck'd the bearer's eyes away. + Take heed, lest he destroy thee utterly. + + BECKET. + Then shalt thou step into my place and sign. + + ROGER OF YORK. + Didst thou not promise Henry to obey + These ancient laws and customs of the realm? + + BECKET. + Saving the honour of my order—ay. + Customs, traditions,—clouds that come and go; + The customs of the Church are Peter's rock. + + ROGER OF YORK. + Saving thine order! But King Henry sware + That, saving his King's kingship, he would grant thee + The crown itself. Saving thine order, Thomas, + Is black and white at once, and comes to nought. + O bolster'd up with stubbornness and pride, + Wilt thou destroy the Church in fighting for it, + And bring us all to shame? + + BECKET. + Roger of York, + When I and thou were youths in Theobald's house, + Twice did thy malice and thy calumnies + Exile me from the face of Theobald. + Now I am Canterbury and thou art York. + + ROGER OF YORK. + And is not York the peer of Canterbury? + Did not Great Gregory bid St. Austin here + Found two archbishopricks, London and York? + + BECKET. + What came of that? The first archbishop fled, + And York lay barren for a hundred years. + Why, by this rule, Foliot may claim the pall + For London too. + + FOLIOT. + And with good reason too, + For London had a temple and a priest + When Canterbury hardly bore a name. + + BECKET. + The pagan temple of a pagan Rome! + The heathen priesthood of a heathen creed! + Thou goest beyond thyself in petulancy! + Who made thee London? Who, but Canterbury? + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + Peace, peace, my lords! these customs are no longer + As Canterbury calls them, wandering clouds, + But by the King's command are written down, + And by the King's command I, John of Oxford, + The President of this Council, read them. + + BECKET. + Read! + + JOHN OF OXFORD (<i>reads</i>). + 'All causes of advowsons and presentations, whether between laymen or + clerics, shall be tried in the King's court.' + + BECKET. + But that I cannot sign: for that would drag + The cleric before the civil judgment-seat, + And on a matter wholly spiritual. + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + 'If any cleric be accused of felony, the Church shall not protect him: + but he shall answer to the summons of the King's court to be tried + therein.' + + BECKET. + And that I cannot sign. + Is not the Church the visible Lord on earth? + Shall hands that do create the Lord be bound + Behind the back like laymen-criminals? + The Lord be judged again by Pilate? No! + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + 'When a bishoprick falls vacant, the King, till another be appointed, + shall receive the revenues thereof.' + + BECKET. + And that I cannot sign. Is the King's treasury + A fit place for the monies of the Church, + That be the patrimony of the poor? + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + 'And when the vacancy is to be filled up, the King shall summon the + chapter of that church to court, and the election shall be made in the + Chapel Royal, with the consent of our lord the King, and by the advice + of his Government.' + + BECKET. + And that I cannot sign: for that would make + Our island-Church a schism from Christendom, + And weight down all free choice beneath the throne. + + FOLIOT. + And was thine own election so canonical, + Good father? + + BECKET. + If it were not, Gilbert Foliot, + I mean to cross the sea to France, and lay + My crozier in the Holy Father's hands, + And bid him re-create me, Gilbert Foliot. + + FOLIOT. + Nay; by another of these customs thou + Wilt not be suffer'd so to cross the seas + Without the license of our lord the King. + + BECKET. + That, too, I cannot sign. + + DE BROC, DE BRITO, DE TRACY, FITZURSE, DE + MORVILLE, <i>start up—a clash of swords</i>. + + Sign and obey! + + BECKET. + My lords, is this a combat or a council? + Are ye my masters, or my lord the King? + Ye make this clashing for no love o' the customs + Or constitutions, or whate'er ye call them, + But that there be among you those that hold + Lands reft from Canterbury. + + DE BROC. + And mean to keep them, + In spite of thee! + + LORDS (<i>shouting</i>). + Sign, and obey the crown! + + BECKET. + The crown? Shall I do less for Canterbury + Than Henry for the crown? King Stephen gave + Many of the crown lands to those that helpt him; + So did Matilda, the King's mother. Mark, + When Henry came into his own again, + Then he took back not only Stephen's gifts, + But his own mother's, lest the crown should be + Shorn of ancestral splendour. This did Henry. + Shall I do less for mine own Canterbury? + And thou, De Broc, that holdest Saltwood Castle— + + DE BROC. + And mean to hold it, or— + + BECKET. + To have my life. + + DE BROC. + The King is quick to anger; if thou anger him, + We wait but the King's word to strike thee dead. + + BECKET. + Strike, and I die the death of martyrdom; + Strike, and ye set these customs by my death + Ringing their own death-knell thro' all the realm. + + HERBERT. + And I can tell you, lords, ye are all as like + To lodge a fear in Thomas Becket's heart + As find a hare's form in a lion's cave. + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + Ay, sheathe your swords, ye will displease the King. + + DE BROC. + Why down then thou! but an he come to Saltwood, + By God's death, thou shalt stick him like a calf! + [<i>Sheathing his sword</i>. + + HILARY. + O my good lord, I do entreat thee—sign. + Save the King's honour here before his barons. + He hath sworn that thou shouldst sign, and now but shuns + The semblance of defeat; I have heard him say + He means no more; so if thou sign, my lord, + That were but as the shadow of an assent. + + BECKET. + 'Twould seem too like the substance, if I sign'd. + + PHILIP DE ELEEMOSYNA. + My lord, thine ear! I have the ear of the Pope. + As thou hast honour for the Pope our master, + Have pity on him, sorely prest upon + By the fierce Emperor and his Antipope. + Thou knowest he was forced to fly to France; + He pray'd me to pray thee to pacify + Thy King; for if thou go against thy King, + Then must he likewise go against thy King, + And then thy King might join the Antipope, + And that would shake the Papacy as it stands. + Besides, thy King swore to our cardinals + He meant no harm nor damage to the Church. + Smoothe thou his pride—thy signing is but form; + Nay, and should harm come of it, it is the Pope + Will be to blame—not thou. Over and over + He told me thou shouldst pacify the King, + Lest there be battle between Heaven and Earth, + And Earth should get the better—for the time. + Cannot the Pope absolve thee if thou sign? + + BECKET. + Have I the orders of the Holy Father? + + PHILIP DE ELEEMOSYNA. + Orders, my lord—why, no; for what am I? + The secret whisper of the Holy Father. + Thou, that hast been a statesman, couldst thou always + Blurt thy free mind to the air? + + BECKET. + If Rome be feeble, then should I be firm. + + PHILIP. + Take it not that way—balk not the Pope's will. + When he hath shaken off the Emperor, + He heads the Church against the King with thee. + + RICHARD DE HASTINGS (<i>kneeling</i>). + Becket, I am the oldest of the Templars; + I knew thy father; he would be mine age + Had he lived now; think of me as thy father! + Behold thy father kneeling to thee, Becket. + Submit; I promise thee on my salvation + That thou wilt hear no more o' the customs. + + BECKET. + What! + Hath Henry told thee? hast thou talk'd with him? + + <i>Another</i> TEMPLAR (<i>kneeling</i>). + Father, I am the youngest of the Templars, + Look on me as I were thy bodily son, + For, like a son, I lift my hands to thee. + + PHILIP. + Wilt thou hold out for ever, Thomas Becket? + Dost thou not hear? + + BECKET (<i>signs</i>). + Why—there then—there—I sign, + And swear to obey the customs. + + FOLIOT. + Is it thy will, + My lord Archbishop, that we too should sign? + + BECKET. + O ay, by that canonical obedience + Thou still hast owed thy father, Gilbert Foliot. + + FOLIOT. + Loyally and with good faith, my lord Archbishop? + + BECKET. + O ay, with all that loyalty and good faith + Thou still hast shown thy primate, Gilbert Foliot. + [BECKET <i>draws apart with</i> HERBERT. + Herbert, Herbert, have I betray'd the Church? + I'll have the paper back—blot out my name. + + HERBERT. + Too late, my lord: you see they are signing there. + + BECKET. + False to myself—it is the will of God + To break me, prove me nothing of myself! + This Almoner hath tasted Henry's gold. + The cardinals have finger'd Henry's gold. + And Rome is venal ev'n to rottenness. + I see it, I see it. + I am no soldier, as he said—at least + No leader. Herbert, till I hear from the Pope + I will suspend myself from all my functions. + If fast and prayer, the lacerating scourge— + + FOLIOT (<i>from the table</i>). + My lord Archbishop, thou hast yet to seal. + + BECKET. + First, Foliot, let me see what I have sign'd. + [<i>Goes to the table</i>. + What, this! and this!—what! new and old together! + Seal? If a seraph shouted from the sun, + And bad me seal against the rights of the Church, + I would anathematise him. I will not seal. + [<i>Exit with</i> HERBERT. + + <i>Enter</i> KING HENRY. + + HENRY. + Where's Thomas? hath he sign'd? show me the papers! + Sign'd and not seal'd! How's that? + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + He would not seal. + And when he sign'd, his face was stormy-red— + Shame, wrath, I know not what. He sat down there + And dropt it in his hands, and then a paleness, + Like the wan twilight after sunset, crept + Up even to the tonsure, and he groan'd, + 'False to myself! It is the will of God!' + + HENRY. + God's will be what it will, the man shall seal, + Or I will seal his doom. My burgher's son— + Nay, if I cannot break him as the prelate, + I'll crush him as the subject. Send for him back. + [<i>Sits on his throne</i>. + Barons and bishops of our realm of England, + After the nineteen winters of King Stephen— + A reign which was no reign, when none could sit + By his own hearth in peace; when murder common + As nature's death, like Egypt's plague, had fill'd + All things with blood; when every doorway blush'd, + Dash'd red with that unhallow'd passover; + When every baron ground his blade in blood; + The household dough was kneaded up with blood; + The millwheel turn'd in blood; the wholesome plow + Lay rusting in the furrow's yellow weeds, + Till famine dwarft the race—I came, your King! + Nor dwelt alone, like a soft lord of the East, + In mine own hall, and sucking thro' fools' ears + The flatteries of corruption—went abroad + Thro' all my counties, spied my people's ways; + Yea, heard the churl against the baron—yea, + And did him justice; sat in mine own courts + Judging my judges, that had found a King + Who ranged confusions, made the twilight day, + And struck a shape from out the vague, and law + From madness. And the event—our fallows till'd, + Much corn, repeopled towns, a realm again. + So far my course, albeit not glassy-smooth, + Had prosper'd in the main, but suddenly + Jarr'd on this rock. A cleric violated + The daughter of his host, and murder'd him. + Bishops—York, London, Chichester, Westminster— + Ye haled this tonsured devil into your courts; + But since your canon will not let you take + Life for a life, ye but degraded him + Where I had hang'd him. What doth hard murder care + For degradation? and that made me muse, + Being bounden by my coronation oath + To do men justice. Look to it, your own selves! + Say that a cleric murder'd an archbishop, + What could ye do? Degrade, imprison him— + Not death for death. + JOHN OF OXFORD. + But I, my liege, could swear, + To death for death. + + HENRY. + And, looking thro' my reign, + I found a hundred ghastly murders done + By men, the scum and offal of the Church; + Then, glancing thro' the story of this realm, + I came on certain wholesome usages, + Lost in desuetude, of my grandsire's day, + Good royal customs—had them written fair + For John of Oxford here to read to you. + JOHN OF OXFORD. + And I can easily swear to these as being + The King's will and God's will and justice; yet + I could but read a part to-day, because—— + + FITZURSE. + Because my lord of Canterbury—— + + DE TRACY. + Ay, + This lord of Canterbury—— + + DE BRITO. + As is his wont + Too much of late whene'er your royal rights + Are mooted in our councils—— + + FITZURSE. + —made an uproar. + + HENRY. + And Becket had my bosom on all this; + If ever man by bonds of gratefulness— + I raised him from the puddle of the gutter, + I made him porcelain from the clay of the city— + Thought that I knew him, err'd thro' love of him, + Hoped, were he chosen archbishop, Church and Crown, + Two sisters gliding in an equal dance, + Two rivers gently flowing side by side— + But no! + The bird that moults sings the same song again, + The snake that sloughs comes out a snake again. + Snake—ay, but he that lookt a fangless one, + Issues a venomous adder. + For he, when having dofft the Chancellor's robe— + Flung the Great Seal of England in my face— + Claim'd some of our crown lands for Canterbury— + My comrade, boon companion, my co-reveller, + The master of his master, the King's king.— + God's eyes! I had meant to make him all but king. + Chancellor-Archbishop, he might well have sway'd + All England under Henry, the young King, + When I was hence. What did the traitor say? + False to himself, but ten-fold false to me! + The will of God—why, then it is my will— + Is he coming? + MESSENGER (<i>entering</i>). + With a crowd of worshippers, + And holds his cross before him thro' the crowd, + As one that puts himself in sanctuary. + + HENRY. + His cross! + + ROGER OF YORK. + His cross! I'll front him, cross to cross. + [<i>Exit</i> ROGER OF YORK. + HENRY. + His cross! it is the traitor that imputes + Treachery to his King! + It is not safe for me to look upon him. + Away—with me! + + [<i>Goes in with his</i> BARONS <i>to the Council Chamber, + the door of which is left open</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> BECKET, <i>holding his cross of silver before him</i>. + <i>The</i> BISHOPS <i>come round him</i>. + + HEREFORD. + The King will not abide thee with thy cross. + Permit me, my good lord, to bear it for thee, + Being thy chaplain. + + BECKET. + No: it must protect me. + + HERBERT. + As once he bore the standard of the Angles, + So now he bears the standard of the angels. + + FOLIOT. + I am the Dean of the province: let me bear it. + Make not thy King a traitorous murderer. + + BECKET. + Did not your barons draw their swords against me? + + <i>Enter</i> ROGER OF YORK, <i>with his cross, + advancing to</i> BECKET. + + BECKET. + + Wherefore dost thou presume to bear thy cross, + Against the solemn ordinance from Rome, + Out of thy province? + + ROGER OF YORK. + Why dost thou presume, + Arm'd with thy cross, to come before the King? + If Canterbury bring his cross to court, + Let York bear his to mate with Canterbury. + + FOLIOT (<i>seizing hold of</i> BECKET'S <i>cross</i>). + Nay, nay, my lord, thou must not brave the King. + Nay, let me have it. I will have it! + + BECKET. + Away! + + [<i>Flinging him off</i>. + + FOLIOT. + <i>He</i> fasts, they say, this mitred Hercules! + <i>He</i> fast! is that an arm of fast? My lord, + Hadst thou not sign'd, I had gone along with thee; + But thou the shepherd hast betray'd the sheep, + And thou art perjured, and thou wilt not seal. + As Chancellor thou wast against the Church, + Now as Archbishop goest against the King; + For, like a fool, thou knowst no middle way. + Ay, ay! but art thou stronger than the King? + + BECKET. + Strong—not in mine own self, but Heaven; true + To either function, holding it; and thou + Fast, scourge thyself, and mortify thy flesh, + Not spirit—thou remainest Gilbert Foliot, + A worldly follower of the worldly strong. + I, bearing this great ensign, make it clear + Under what Prince I fight. + + FOLIOT. + My lord of York, + Let us go in to the Council, where our bishops + And our great lords will sit in judgment on him. + + BECKET. + Sons sit in judgment on their father!—then + The spire of Holy Church may prick the graves— + Her crypt among the stars. Sign? seal? I promised + The King to obey these customs, not yet written, + Saving mine order; true too, that when written + I sign'd them—being a fool, as Foliot call'd me. + I hold not by my signing. Get ye hence, + Tell what I say to the King. + + [<i>Exeunt</i> HEREFORD, FOLIOT, <i>and other</i> BISHOPS. + + ROGER OF YORK. + The Church will hate thee. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + BECKET. + Serve my best friend and make him my worst foe; + Fight for the Church, and set the Church against me! + + HERBERT. + To be honest is to set all knaves against thee. + Ah! Thomas, excommunicate them all! + + HEREFORD (<i>re-entering</i>). + I cannot brook the turmoil thou hast raised. + I would, my lord Thomas of Canterbury, + Thou wert plain Thomas and not Canterbury, + Or that thou wouldst deliver Canterbury + To our King's hands again, and be at peace. + + HILARY (<i>re-entering</i>). + For hath not thine ambition set the Church + This day between the hammer and the anvil— + Fealty to the King, obedience to thyself? + + HERBERT. + What say the bishops? + + HILARY. + Some have pleaded for him, + But the King rages—most are with the King; + And some are reeds, that one time sway to the current, + And to the wind another. But we hold + Thou art forsworn; and no forsworn Archbishop + Shall helm the Church. We therefore place ourselves + Under the shield and safeguard of the Pope, + And cite thee to appear before the Pope, + And answer thine accusers.... Art thou deaf? + + BECKET. + I hear you. [<i>Clash of arms</i>. + + HILARY. + Dost thou hear those others? + + BECKET. + Ay! + + ROGER OF YORK (<i>re-entering</i>). + The King's 'God's eyes!' come now so thick and fast, + We fear that he may reave thee of thine own. + Come on, come on! it is not fit for us + To see the proud Archbishop mutilated. + Say that he blind thee and tear out thy tongue. + + BECKET. + So be it. He begins at top with me: + They crucified St. Peter downward. + + ROGER OF YORK. + Nay, + But for their sake who stagger betwixt thine + Appeal, and Henry's anger, yield. + + BECKET. + Hence, Satan! + + [<i>Exit</i> ROGER OF YORK. + + FITZURSE (re-entering), + My lord, the King demands three hundred marks, + Due from his castles of Berkhamstead and Eye + When thou thereof wast warden. + + BECKET. + Tell the King + I spent thrice that in fortifying his castles. + + DE TRACY (<i>re-entering</i>.) + My lord, the King demands seven hundred marks, + Lent at the siege of Thoulouse by the King. + + BECKET. + I led seven hundred knights and fought his wars. + + DE BRITO (<i>re-entering</i>). + My lord, the King demands five hundred marks, + Advanced thee at his instance by the Jews, + For which the King was bound security. + + BECKET. + I thought it was a gift; I thought it was a gift. + + <i>Enter Lord</i> LEICESTER (<i>followed by</i> BARONS <i>and</i> BISHOPS). + + My lord, I come unwillingly. The King + Demands a strict account of all those revenues + From all the vacant sees and abbacies, + Which came into thy hands when Chancellor. + + BECKET. + How much might that amount to, my lord Leicester? + + LEICESTER. + Some thirty—forty thousand silver marks. + + BECKET. + Are these your customs? O my good lord Leicester, + The King and I were brothers. All I had + I lavish'd for the glory of the King; + I shone from him, for him, his glory, his + Reflection: now the glory of the Church + Hath swallow'd up the glory of the King; + I am his no more, but hers. Grant me one day + To ponder these demands. + + LEICESTER. + Hear first thy sentence! + The King and all his lords— + + BECKET. + Son, first hear <i>me</i>! + + LEICESTER. + Nay, nay, canst thou, that holdest thine estates + In fee and barony of the King, decline + The judgment of the King? + + BECKET. + The King! I hold + Nothing in fee and barony of the King. + Whatever the Church owns—she holds it in + Free and perpetual alms, unsubject to + One earthly sceptre. + + LEICESTER. + Nay, but hear thy judgment. + The King and all his barons— + + BECKET. + Judgment! Barons! + Who but the bridegroom dares to judge the bride, + Or he the bridegroom may appoint? Not he + That is not of the house, but from the street + Stain'd with the mire thereof. + I had been so true + To Henry and mine office that the King + Would throne me in the great Archbishoprick: + And I, that knew mine own infirmity, + For the King's pleasure rather than God's cause + Took it upon me—err'd thro' love of him. + Now therefore God from me withdraws Himself, + And the King too. + What! forty thousand marks! + Why thou, the King, the Pope, the Saints, the world, + Know that when made Archbishop I was freed, + Before the Prince and chief Justiciary, + From every bond and debt and obligation + Incurr'd as Chancellor. + Hear me, son. + As gold + Outvalues dross, light darkness, Abel Cain, + The soul the body, and the Church the Throne, + I charge thee, upon pain of mine anathema, + That thou obey, not me, but God in me, + Rather than Henry. I refuse to stand + By the King's censure, make my cry to the Pope, + By whom I will be judged; refer myself, + The King, these customs, all the Church, to him, + And under his authority—I depart. [<i>Going</i>. + [LEICESTER <i>looks at him doubtingly</i>. + Am I a prisoner? + + LEICESTER. + By St. Lazarus, no! + I am confounded by thee. Go in peace. + + DE BROC. + In peace now—but after. Take that for earnest. + [<i>Flings a bone at him from the rushes</i>. + + DE BRITO, FITZURSE, DE TRACY, <i>and others (flinging wisps of rushes)</i>. + Ay, go in peace, caitiff, caitiff! And that too, perjured prelate—and + that, turncoat shaveling! There, there, there! traitor, traitor, + traitor! + + BECKET. + Mannerless wolves! [<i>Turning and facing them</i>. + + HERBERT. + Enough, my lord, enough! + + BECKET. + Barons of England and of Normandy, + When what ye shake at doth but seem to fly, + True test of coward, ye follow with a yell. + But I that threw the mightiest knight of France, + Sir Engelram de Trie,— + + HERBERT. + Enough, my lord. + + BECKET. + More than enough. I play the fool again. + + <i>Enter</i> HERALD. + + HERALD. + The King commands you, upon pain of death, + That none should wrong or injure your Archbishop. + + FOLIOT. + Deal gently with the young man Absalom. + + [<i>Great doors of the Hall at the back open, and + discover a crowd. They shout</i>: + + Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE IV.—<i>Refectory of the Monastery at Northampton. + A Banquet on the Tables</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> BECKET. BECKET'S RETAINERS. + + 1ST RETAINER. + Do thou speak first. + + 2ND RETAINER. + Nay, thou! Nay, thou! Hast not thou drawn the short straw? + + 1ST RETAINER. + My lord Archbishop, wilt thou permit us— + + BECKET. + To speak without stammering and like a free man? + Ay. + + 1ST RETAINER. + My lord, permit us then to leave thy service. + + BECKET. + When? + + 1ST RETAINER. + Now. + + BECKET. + To-night? + + 1ST RETAINER. + To-night, my lord. + + BECKET. + And why? + + 1ST RETAINER. + My lord, we leave thee not without tears. + + BECKET. + Tears? Why not stay with me then? + + 1ST RETAINER. + My lord, we cannot yield thee an answer altogether to thy + satisfaction. + + BECKET. + I warrant you, or your own either. Shall I find + you one? The King hath frowned upon me. + + 1ST RETAINER. + That is not altogether our answer, my lord. + + BECKET. + No; yet all but all. Go, go! Ye have eaten of my dish and drunken of + my cup for a dozen years. + + 1ST RETAINER. + And so we have. We mean thee no wrong. Wilt thou not say, 'God bless + you,' ere we go? + + BECKET. + God bless you all! God redden your pale blood! But mine is human-red; + and when ye shall hear it is poured out upon earth, and see it + mounting to Heaven, my God bless you, that seems sweet to you now, + will blast and blind you like a curse. + + 1ST RETAINER. + We hope not, my lord. Our humblest thanks for + your blessing. Farewell! + [<i>Exeunt</i> RETAINERS. + + BECKET. + Farewell, friends! farewell, swallows! I wrong the bird; she leaves + only the nest she built, they leave the builder. Why? Am I to be + murdered to-night? + + [<i>Knocking at the door</i>. + + ATTENDANT. + Here is a missive left at the gate by one from the castle. + + BECKET. + Cornwall's hand or Leicester's: they write marvellously alike. + [<i>Reading</i>. + 'Fly at once to France, to King Louis of France: there be those about + our King who would have thy blood.' Was not my lord of Leicester + bidden to our supper? + + ATTENDANT. + Ay, my lord, and divers other earls and barons. But the hour is past, + and our brother, Master Cook, he makes moan that all be a-getting + cold. + + BECKET. + And I make my moan along with him. Cold after warm, winter after + summer, and the golden leaves, these earls and barons, that clung to + me, frosted off me by the first cold frown of the King. Cold, but look + how the table steams, like a heathen altar; nay, like the altar at + Jerusalem. Shall God's good gifts be wasted? None of them here! Call + in the poor from the streets, and let them feast. + + HERBERT. + That is the parable of our blessed Lord. + + BECKET. + And why should not the parable of our blessed Lord be acted again? + Call in the poor! The Church is ever at variance with the kings, and + ever at one with the poor. I marked a group of lazars in the + marketplace—half-rag, half-sore—beggars, poor rogues (Heaven bless + 'em) who never saw nor dreamed of such a banquet. I will amaze them. + Call them in, I say. They shall henceforward be my earls and barons— + our lords and masters in Christ Jesus. + + [<i>Exit</i> HERBERT. + + If the King hold his purpose, I am myself a beggar. Forty thousand + marks! forty thousand devils—and these craven bishops! + + <i>A</i> POOR MAN <i>(entering) with his dog</i>. + My lord Archbishop, may I come in with my poor friend, my dog? The + King's verdurer caught him a-hunting in the forest, and cut off his + paws. The dog followed his calling, my lord. I ha' carried him ever so + many miles in my arms, and he licks my face and moans and cries out + against the King. + + BECKET. + Better thy dog than thee. The King's courts would use thee worse than + thy dog—they are too bloody. Were the Church king, it would be + otherwise. Poor beast! poor beast! set him down. I will bind up his + wounds with my napkin. Give him a bone, give him a bone! Who misuses a + dog would misuse a child—they cannot speak for themselves. Past help! + his paws are past help. God help him! + + <i>Enter the</i> BEGGARS <i>(and seat themselves at the Tables)</i>. + BECKET <i>and</i> HERBERT <i>wait upon them</i>. + + 1ST BEGGAR. + Swine, sheep, ox—here's a French supper. When thieves fall out, + honest men—— + + 2ND BEGGAR. + Is the Archbishop a thief who gives thee thy supper? + + 1ST BEGGAR. + Well, then, how does it go? When honest men fall out, thieves—no, it + can't be that. + + 2ND BEGGAR. + Who stole the widow's one sitting hen o' Sunday, when she was at mass? + + 1ST BEGGAR. + Come, come! thou hadst thy share on her. Sitting hen! Our Lord + Becket's our great sitting-hen cock, and we shouldn't ha' been sitting + here if the barons and bishops hadn't been a-sitting on the + Archbishop. + + BECKET. + Ay, the princes sat in judgment against me, and the Lord hath prepared + your table—<i>Sederunt principes, ederunt pauperes</i>. + + <i>A Voice</i>. + Becket, beware of the knife! + + BECKET. + Who spoke? + + 3RD BEGGAR. + Nobody, my lord. What's that, my lord? + + BECKET. + Venison. + + 3RD BEGGAR. + Venison? + + BECKET. + Buck; deer, as you call it. + + 3RD BEGGAR. + King's meat! By the Lord, won't we pray for your lordship! + + BECKET. + And, my children, your prayers will do more for me in the day of peril + that dawns darkly and drearily over the house of God—yea, and in the + day of judgment also, than the swords of the craven sycophants would + have done had they remained true to me whose bread they have partaken. + I must leave you to your banquet. Feed, feast, and be merry. Herbert, + for the sake of the Church itself, if not for my own, I must fly to + France to-night. Come with me. + [<i>Exit with</i> HERBERT. + + 3RD BEGGAR. + Here—all of you—my lord's health (<i>they drink</i>). Well—if that isn't + goodly wine— + + 1ST BEGGAR. + Then there isn't a goodly wench to serve him with it: they were + fighting for her to-day in the street. + + 3RD BEGGAR. + Peace! + + 1ST BEGGAR. + + The black sheep baaed to the miller's ewe-lamb, + The miller's away for to-night. + Black sheep, quoth she, too black a sin for me. + And what said the black sheep, my masters? + We can make a black sin white. + + 3RD BEGGAR. + Peace! + + 1ST BEGGAR. + + 'Ewe lamb, ewe lamb, I am here by the dam.' + But the miller came home that night, + And so dusted his back with the meal in his sack, + That he made the black sheep white. + + 3RD BEGGAR. + Be we not of the family? be we not a-supping with the head of the + family? be we not in my lord's own refractory? Out from among us; thou + art our black sheep. + + <i>Enter the four</i> KNIGHTS. + + FITZURSE. + Sheep, said he? And sheep without the shepherd, too. Where is my lord + Archbishop? Thou the lustiest and lousiest of this Cain's brotherhood, + answer. + + 3RD BEGGAR. + With Cain's answer, my lord. Am I his keeper? Thou shouldst call him + Cain, not me. + + FITZURSE. + So I do, for he would murder his brother the State. + + 3RD BEGGAR (<i>rising and advancing</i>). + No my lord; but because the Lord hath set his mark upon him that no + man should murder him. + + FITZURSE. + Where is he? where is he? + + 3RD BEGGAR. + With Cain belike, in the land of Nod, or in the land of France for + aught I know. + + FITZURSE. + France! Ha! De Morville, Tracy, Brito—fled is he? Cross swords all of + you! swear to follow him! Remember the Queen! + + [<i>The four</i> KNIGHTS <i>cross their swords</i>. + + DE BRITO. + They mock us; he is here. + + [<i>All the</i> BEGGARS <i>rise and advance upon them</i>. + + FITZURSE. + Come, you filthy knaves, let us pass. + + 3RD BEGGAR. + Nay, my lord, let <i>us</i> pass. We be a-going home + after our supper in all humbleness, my lord; for the + Archbishop loves humbleness, my lord; and though + we be fifty to four, we daren't fight you with our + crutches, my lord. There now, if thou hast not laid + hands upon me! and my fellows know that I am all + one scale like a fish. I pray God I haven't given thee + my leprosy, my lord. + + [FITZURSE <i>shrinks from him and another presses upon</i> DE BRITO. + + DE BRITO. + Away, dog! + + 4TH BEGGAR. + And I was bit by a mad dog o' Friday, an' I be half dog already by + this token, that tho' I can drink wine I cannot bide water, my lord; + and I want to bite, I want to bite, and they do say the very breath + catches. + + DE BRITO. + Insolent clown. Shall I smite him with the edge of the sword? + + DE MORVILLE. + No, nor with the flat of it either. Smite the shepherd and the sheep + are scattered. Smite the sheep and the shepherd will excommunicate + thee. + + DE BRITO. + Yet my fingers itch to beat him into nothing. + + 5TH BEGGAR. + So do mine, my lord. I was born with it, and sulphur won't bring it + out o' me. But for all that the Archbishop washed my feet o' Tuesday. + He likes it, my lord. + + 6TH BEGGAR. + And see here, my lord, this rag fro' the gangrene i' my leg. It's + humbling—it smells o' human natur'. Wilt thou smell it, my lord? for + the Archbishop likes the smell on it, my lord; for I be his lord and + master i' Christ, my lord. + + DE MORVILLE. + Faugh! we shall all be poisoned. Let us go. + + [<i>They draw back,</i> BEGGARS <i>following</i>. + + 7TH BEGGAR. + My lord, I ha' three sisters a-dying at home o' the sweating sickness. + They be dead while I be a-supping. + + 8TH BEGGAR. + And I ha' nine darters i' the spital that be dead ten times o'er i' + one day wi' the putrid fever; and I bring the taint on it along wi' + me, for the Archbishop likes it, my lord. + + [<i>Pressing upon the</i> KNIGHTS <i>till they disappear thro' the door</i>. + + 3RD BEGGAR. + Crutches, and itches, and leprosies, and ulcers, and gangrenes, and + running sores, praise ye the Lord, for to-night ye have saved our + Archbishop! + + 1ST BEGGAR. + I'll go back again. I hain't half done yet. + + HERBERT OF BOSHAM (<i>entering</i>). + My friends, the Archbishop bids you good-night. He hath retired to + rest, and being in great jeopardy of his life, he hath made his bed + between the altars, from whence he sends me to bid you this night pray + for him who hath fed you in the wilderness. + + 3RD BEGGAR. + So we will—so we will, I warrant thee. Becket shall be king, and the + Holy Father shall be king, and the world shall live by the King's + venison and the bread o' the Lord, and there shall be no more poor for + ever. Hurrah! Vive le Roy! That's the English of it. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT II. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—ROSAMUND'S <i>Bower. A Garden of Flowers. In the midst a bank + of wild-flowers with a bench before it</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Voices heard singing among the trees</i>. + + <i>Duet</i>. + + 1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the pine overhead? + + 2. No; but the voice of the deep as it hollows the cliffs of the land. + + 1. Is there a voice coming up with the voice of the deep from the + strand, + One coming up with a song in the flush of the glimmering red? + + 2. Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea. + + 1. Love that can shape or can shatter a life till the life shall have + fled? + + 2. Nay, let us welcome him, Love that can lift up a life from the + dead. + + 1. Keep him away from the lone little isle. Let us be, let us be. + + 2. Nay, let him make it his own, let him reign in it—he, it is he, + Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea. + + <i>Enter</i> HENRY <i>and</i> ROSAMUND. + + ROSAMUND. + Be friends with him again—I do beseech thee. + + HENRY. + With Becket? I have but one hour with thee— + Sceptre and crozier clashing, and the mitre + Grappling the crown—and when I flee from this + For a gasp of freer air, a breathing-while + To rest upon thy bosom and forget him— + Why thou, my bird, thou pipest Becket, Becket— + Yea, thou my golden dream of Love's own bower, + Must be the nightmare breaking on my peace + With 'Becket.' + + ROSAMUND. + O my life's life, not to smile + Is all but death to me. My sun, no cloud! + Let there not be one frown in this one hour. + Out of the many thine, let this be mine! + Look rather thou all-royal as when first + I met thee. + + HENRY. + Where was that? + + ROSAMUND. + Forgetting that + Forgets me too. + + HENRY. + Nay, I remember it well. + There on the moors. + + ROSAMUND. + And in a narrow path. + A plover flew before thee. Then I saw + Thy high black steed among the flaming furze, + Like sudden night in the main glare of day. + And from that height something was said to me + I knew not what. + + HENRY. + I ask'd the way. + + ROSAMUND. + I think so. + So I lost mine. + + HENRY. + Thou wast too shamed to answer. + + ROSAMUND. + Too scared—so young! + + HENRY. + The rosebud of my rose!— + Well, well, no more of <i>him</i>—I have sent his folk, + His kin, all his belongings, overseas; + Age, orphans, and babe-breasting mothers—all + By hundreds to him—there to beg, starve, die— + So that the fool King Louis feed them not. + The man shall feel that I can strike him yet. + + ROSAMUND. + Babes, orphans, mothers! is that royal, Sire? + + HENRY. + And I have been as royal with the Church. + He shelter'd in the Abbey of Pontigny. + There wore his time studying the canon law + To work it against me. But since he cursed + My friends at Veselay, I have let them know, + That if they keep him longer as their guest, + I scatter all their cowls to all the hells. + + ROSAMUND. + And is that altogether royal? + + HENRY. + Traitress! + + ROSAMUND. + A faithful traitress to thy royal fame. + + HENRY. + Fame! what care I for fame? Spite, ignorance, envy, + Yea, honesty too, paint her what way they will. + Fame of to-day is infamy to-morrow; + Infamy of to-day is fame to-morrow; + And round and round again. What matters? Royal—I + mean to leave the royalty of my crown + Unlessen'd to mine heirs. + + ROSAMUND. + Still—thy fame too: + I say that should be royal. + + HENRY. + And I say, + I care not for thy saying. + + ROSAMUND. + And I say, + I care not for <i>thy</i> saying. A greater King + Than thou art, Love, who cares not for the word, + Makes 'care not'—care. There have I spoken true? + + HENRY. + Care dwell with me for ever, when I cease + To care for thee as ever! + + ROSAMUND. + No need! no need!... + There is a bench. Come, wilt thou sit?... My bank + Of wild-flowers [<i>he sits</i>]. At thy feet! + [She sits at his feet. + + HENRY. + I had them clear + A royal pleasaunce for thee, in the wood, + Not leave these countryfolk at court. + + ROSAMUND. + I brought them + In from the wood, and set them here. I love them + More than the garden flowers, that seem at most + Sweet guests, or foreign cousins, not half speaking + The language of the land. I love <i>them</i> too, + Yes. But, my liege, I am sure, of all the roses— + Shame fall on those who gave it a dog's name— + This wild one (<i>picking a briar-rose</i>)—nay, I shall not prick myself— + Is sweetest. Do but smell! + + HENRY. + Thou rose of the world! + Thou rose of all the roses! + [Muttering. + I am not worthy of her—this beast-body + That God has plunged my soul in—I, that taking + The Fiend's advantage of a throne, so long + Have wander'd among women,—a foul stream + Thro' fever-breeding levels,—at her side, + Among these happy dales, run clearer, drop + The mud I carried, like yon brook, and glass + The faithful face of heaven— + [Looking at her, and unconsciously aloud, + —thine! thine! + + ROSAMUND. + I know it. + + HENRY (<i>muttering</i>). + Not hers. We have but one bond, her hate of Becket. + + ROSAMUND (half hearing). + Nay! nay! what art thou muttering? <i>I</i> hate Becket? + + HENRY (<i>muttering</i>). + A sane and natural loathing for a soul + Purer, and truer and nobler than herself; + And mine a bitterer illegitimate hate, + A bastard hate born of a former love. + + ROSAMUND, + My fault to name him! O let the hand of one + To whom thy voice is all her music, stay it + But for a breath. + [<i>Puts her hand before his lips</i>. + Speak only of thy love. + Why there—like some loud beggar at thy gate— + The happy boldness of this hand hath won it + Love's alms, thy kiss (<i>looking at her hand</i>)—Sacred! + I'll kiss it too. [<i>Kissing it</i>. + There! wherefore dost thou so peruse it? Nay, + There may be crosses in my line of life. + + HENRY. + Not half <i>her</i> hand—no hand to mate with <i>her</i>, + If it should come to that. + + ROSAMUND. + With her? with whom? + + HENRY. + Life on the hand is naked gipsy-stuff; + Life on the face, the brows-clear innocence! + Vein'd marble—not a furrow yet—and hers + [<i>Muttering</i>. + Crost and recrost, a venomous spider's web— + + ROSAMUND (<i>springing up</i>). + Out of the cloud, my Sun—out of the eclipse + Narrowing my golden hour! + + HENRY. + O Rosamund, + I would be true—would tell thee all—and something + I had to say—I love thee none the less— + Which will so vex thee. + + ROSAMUND. + Something against <i>me</i>? + + HENRY. + No, no, against myself. + + ROSAMUND. + I will not hear it. + Come, come, mine hour! I bargain for mine hour. + I'll call thee little Geoffrey. + + HENRY. + Call him! + + ROSAMUND. + Geoffrey! + [<i>Enter</i> GEOFFREY. + + HENRY. + How the boy grows! + + ROSAMUND. + Ay, and his brows are thine; + The mouth is only Clifford, my dear father. + + GEOFFREY. + My liege, what hast thou brought me? + + HENRY. + Venal imp! + What say'st thou to the Chancellorship of England? + + GEOFFREY. + O yes, my liege. + + HENRY. + 'O yes, my liege!' He speaks + As if it were a cake of gingerbread. + Dost thou know, my boy, what it is to be Chancellor of England? + + GEOFFREY. + Something good, or thou wouldst not give it me. + + HENRY. + It is, my boy, to side with the King when Chancellor, and then to be + made Archbishop and go against the King who made him, and turn the + world upside down. + + GEOFFREY. + I won't have it then. Nay, but give it me, and I promise thee not to + turn the world upside down. + + HENRY (<i>giving him a ball</i>). + Here is a ball, my boy, thy world, to turn anyway and play with as + thou wilt—which is more than I can do with mine. Go try it, play. + [<i>Exit</i> GEOFFREY. + A pretty lusty boy. + + ROSAMUND. + So like to thee; + Like to be liker. + + HENRY. + Not in my chin, I hope! + That threatens double. + + ROSAMUND. + Thou art manlike perfect. + + HENRY. + Ay, ay, no doubt; and were I humpt behind, + Thou'dst say as much—the goodly way of women + Who love, for which I love them. May God grant + No ill befall or him or thee when I + Am gone. + + ROSAMUND. + Is <i>he</i> thy enemy? + + HENRY. + He? who? ay! + + ROSAMUND. + Thine enemy knows the secret of my bower. + + HENRY. + And I could tear him asunder with wild horses + Before he would betray it. Nay—no fear! + More like is he to excommunicate me. + + ROSAMUND. + And I would creep, crawl over knife-edge flint + Barefoot, a hundred leagues, to stay his hand + Before he flash'd the bolt. + + HENRY. + And when he flash'd it + Shrink from me, like a daughter of the Church. + + ROSAMUND. + Ay, but he will not. + + HENRY. + Ay! but if he did? + + ROSAMUND. + O then! O then! I almost fear to say + That my poor heretic heart would excommunicate + His excommunication, clinging to thee + Closer than ever. + + HENRY (<i>raising</i> ROSAMUND <i>and kissing her</i>). + My brave-hearted Rose! + Hath he ever been to see thee? + + ROSAMUND + Here? not he. + And it is so lonely here—no confessor. + + HENRY. + Thou shall confess all thy sweet sins to me. + + ROSAMUND. + Besides, we came away in such a heat, + I brought not ev'n my crucifix. + + HENRY. + Take this. + + [<i>Giving her the Crucifix which</i> ELEANOR <i>gave him</i>. + + ROSAMUND. + O beautiful! May I have it as mine, till mine + Be mine again? + + HENRY (<i>throwing it round her neck</i>). + Thine—as I am—till death! + + ROSAMUND. + Death? no! I'll have it with me in my shroud, + And wake with it, and show it to all the Saints. + + HENRY. + Nay—I must go; but when thou layest thy lip + To this, remembering One who died for thee, + Remember also one who lives for thee + Out there in France; for I must hence to brave + The Pope, King Louis, and this turbulent priest. + + ROSAMUND (<i>kneeling</i>). + O by thy love for me, all mine for thee, + Fling not thy soul into the flames of hell: + I kneel to thee—be friends with him again. + + HENRY. + Look, look! if little Geoffrey have not tost + His ball into the brook! makes after it too + To find it. Why, the child will drown himself. + + ROSAMUND. + Geoffrey! Geoffrey! + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—<i>Montmirail. 'The Meeting of the Kings.'</i> + + JOHN OF OXFORD <i>and</i> HENRY. <i>Crowd in the distance</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + JOHN OF OXFORD. + You have not crown'd young Henry yet, my liege? + + HENRY. + Crown'd! by God's eyes, we will not have him crown'd. + I spoke of late to the boy, he answer'd me, + As if he wore the crown already—No, + We will not have him crown'd. + 'Tis true what Becket told me, that the mother + Would make him play his kingship against mine. + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + Not have him crown'd? + + HENRY. + Not now—not yet! and Becket + Becket should crown him were he crown'd at all: + But, since we would be lord of our own manor, + This Canterbury, like a wounded deer, + Has fled our presence and our feeding-grounds. + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + Cannot a smooth tongue lick him whole again + To serve your will? + + HENRY. + He hates my will, not me. + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + There's York, my liege. + + HENRY. + But England scarce would hold + Young Henry king, if only crown'd by York, + And that would stilt up York to twice himself. + There is a movement yonder in the crowd— + See if our pious—what shall I call him, John?— + Husband-in-law, our smooth-shorn suzerain, + Be yet within the field. + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + I will. [<i>Exit</i>. + + HENRY. + Ay! Ay! + Mince and go back! his politic Holiness + Hath all but climb'd the Roman perch again, + And we shall hear him presently with clapt wing + Crow over Barbarossa—at last tongue-free + To blast my realms with excommunication + And interdict. I must patch up a peace— + A piece in this long-tugged at, threadbare-worn + Quarrel of Crown and Church—to rend again. + His Holiness cannot steer straight thro' shoals, + Nor I. The citizen's heir hath conquer'd me + For the moment. So we make our peace with him. + [Enter<i> Louis. + Brother of France,</i> what shall be done with Becket? + + LOUIS. + The holy Thomas! Brother, you have traffick'd + Between the Emperor and the Pope, between + The Pope and Antipope—a perilous game + For men to play with God. + + HENRY. + Ay, ay, good brother, + They call you the Monk-King. + + LOUIS. + Who calls me? she + That was my wife, now yours? You have her Duchy, + The point you aim'd at, and pray God she prove + True wife to you. You have had the better of us + In secular matters. + + HENRY. + Come, confess, good brother, + You did your best or worst to keep her Duchy. + Only the golden Leopard printed in it + Such hold-fast claws that you perforce again + Shrank into France. Tut, tut! did we convene + This conference but to babble of our wives? + They are plagues enough in-door. + + LOUIS. + We fought in the East, + And felt the sun of Antioch scald our mail, + And push'd our lances into Saracen hearts. + We never hounded on the State at home + To spoil the Church. + + HENRY. + How should you see this rightly? + + LOUIS. + Well, well, no more! I am proud of my 'Monk-King,' + Whoever named me; and, brother, Holy Church + May rock, but will not wreck, nor our Archbishop + Stagger on the slope decks for any rough sea + Blown by the breath of kings. We do forgive you + For aught you wrought against us. + [HENRY <i>holds up his hand</i>. + Nay, I pray you, + Do not defend yourself. You will do much + To rake out all old dying heats, if you, + At my requesting, will but look into + The wrongs you did him, and restore his kin, + Reseat him on his throne of Canterbury, + Be, both, the friends you were. + + HENRY. + The friends we were! + Co-mates we were, and had our sport together, + Co-kings we were, and made the laws together. + The world had never seen the like before. + You are too cold to know the fashion of it. + Well, well, we will be gentle with him, gracious— + Most gracious. + + <i>Enter</i> BECKET, <i>after him,</i> JOHN OF OXFORD, ROGER + OF YORK, GILBERT FOLIOT, DE BROC, FITZURSE, <i>etc</i>. + + Only that the rift he made + May close between us, here I am wholly king, + The word should come from him. + + BECKET (<i>kneeling</i>). + Then, my dear liege, + I here deliver all this controversy + Into your royal hands. + + HENRY. + Ah, Thomas, Thomas, + Thou art thyself again, Thomas again. + + BECKET (<i>rising</i>). + Saving God's honour! + + HENRY. + Out upon thee, man! + Saving the Devil's honour, his yes and no. + Knights, bishops, earls, this London spawn—by Mahound, + I had sooner have been born a Mussulman— + Less clashing with their priests— + I am half-way down the slope—will no man stay me? + I dash myself to pieces—I stay myself— + Puff—it is gone. You, Master Becket, you + That owe to me your power over me— + Nay, nay— + Brother of France, you have taken, cherish'd him + Who thief-like fled from his own church by night, + No man pursuing. I would have had him back. + Take heed he do not turn and rend you too: + For whatsoever may displease him—that + Is clean against God's honour—a shift, a trick + Whereby to challenge, face me out of all + My regal rights. Yet, yet—that none may dream + I go against God's honour—ay, or himself + In any reason, choose + A hundred of the wisest heads from England, + A hundred, too, from Normandy and Anjou: + Let these decide on what was customary + In olden days, and all the Church of France + Decide on their decision, I am content + More, what the mightiest and the holiest + Of all his predecessors may have done + Ev'n to the least and meanest of my own, + Let him do the same to me—I am content. + + LOUIS. + Ay, ay! the King humbles himself enough. + + BECKET. + (<i>Aside</i>) Words! he will wriggle out of them like an eel + When the time serves. (<i>Aloud</i>.) My lieges and my lords, + The thanks of Holy Church are due to those + That went before us for their work, which we + Inheriting reap an easier harvest. Yet— + + LOUIS. + My lord, will you be greater than the Saints, + More than St. Peter? whom—what is it you doubt? + Behold your peace at hand. + + BECKET. + I say that those + Who went before us did not wholly clear + The deadly growths of earth, which Hell's own heat + So dwelt on that they rose and darken'd Heaven. + Yet they did much. Would God they had torn up all + By the hard root, which shoots again; our trial + Had so been less; but, seeing they were men + Defective or excessive, must we follow + All that they overdid or underdid? + Nay, if they were defective as St. Peter + Denying Christ, who yet defied the tyrant, + We hold by his defiance, not his defect. + O good son Louis, do not counsel me, + No, to suppress God's honour for the sake + Of any king that breathes. No, God forbid! + + HENRY. + No! God forbid! and turn me Mussulman! + No God but one, and Mahound is his prophet. + But for your Christian, look you, you shall have + None other God but me—me, Thomas, son + Of Gilbert Becket, London merchant. Out! + I hear no more. [<i>Exit</i>. + + LOUIS. + Our brother's anger puts him, + Poor man, beside himself—not wise. My lord, + We have claspt your cause, believing that our brother + Had wrong'd you; but this day he proffer'd peace. + You will have war; and tho' we grant the Church + King over this world's kings, yet, my good lord, + We that are kings are something in this world, + And so we pray you, draw yourself from under + The wings of France. We shelter you no more. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + I am glad that France hath scouted him at last: + I told the Pope what manner of man he was. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + ROGER OF YORK. + Yea, since he flouts the will of either realm, + Let either cast him away like a dead dog! + [<i>Exit</i>. + + FOLIOT. + Yea, let a stranger spoil his heritage, + And let another take his bishoprick! + [<i>Exit</i>. + + DE BROC. + Our castle, my lord, belongs to Canterbury. + I pray you come and take it. [<i>Exit</i>. + + FITZURSE. + When you will. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + BECKET. + Cursed be John of Oxford, Roger of York, + And Gilbert Foliot! cursed those De Brocs + That hold our Saltwood Castle from our see! + Cursed Fitzurse, and all the rest of them + That sow this hate between my lord and me! + + <i>Voices from the Crowd</i>. + Blessed be the Lord Archbishop, who hath withstood two Kings to their + faces for the honour of God. + + BECKET. + Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, praise! + I thank you, sons; when kings but hold by crowns, + The crowd that hungers for a crown in Heaven + Is my true king. + + HERBERT. + Thy true King bad thee be + A fisher of men; thou hast them in thy net. + + BECKET. + I am too like the King here; both of us + Too headlong for our office. Better have been + A fisherman at Bosham, my good Herbert, + Thy birthplace—the sea-creek—the petty rill + That falls into it—the green field—the gray church— + The simple lobster-basket, and the mesh— + The more or less of daily labour done— + The pretty gaping bills in the home-nest + Piping for bread—the daily want supplied— + The daily pleasure to supply it. + + HERBERT. + Ah, Thomas, + You had not borne it, no, not for a day. + + BECKET. + Well, maybe, no. + + HERBERT. + But bear with Walter Map, + For here he comes to comment on the time. + + <i>Enter</i> WALTER MAP. + + WALTER MAP. + Pity, my lord, that you have quenched the warmth of France toward you, + tho' His Holiness, after much smouldering and smoking, be kindled + again upon your quarter. + + BECKET. + Ay, if he do not end in smoke again. + + WALTER MAP. + My lord, the fire, when first kindled, said to the smoke, 'Go up, my + son, straight to Heaven.' And the smoke said, 'I go;' but anon the + North-east took and turned him South-west, then the South-west turned + him North-east, and so of the other winds; but it was in him to go up + straight if the time had been quieter. Your lordship affects the + unwavering perpendicular; but His Holiness, pushed one way by the + Empire and another by England, if he move at all, Heaven stay him, is + fain to diagonalise. + + HERBERT. + Diagonalise! thou art a word-monger! + Our Thomas never will diagonalise. + Thou art a jester and a verse-maker. + Diagonalise! + + WALTER MAP. + Is the world any the worse for my verses if the Latin rhymes be rolled + out from a full mouth? or any harm done to the people if my jest be in + defence of the Truth? + + BECKET. + Ay, if the jest be so done that the people + Delight to wallow in the grossness of it, + Till Truth herself be shamed of her defender. + <i>Non defensoribus istis</i>, Walter Map. + + WALTER MAP. + Is that my case? so if the city be sick, and I cannot call the kennel + sweet, your lordship would suspend me from verse-writing, as you + suspended yourself after subwriting to the customs. + + BECKET. + I pray God pardon mine infirmity. + + WALTER MAP. + Nay, my lord, take heart; for tho' you suspended yourself, the Pope + let you down again; and tho' you suspend Foliot or another, the Pope + will not leave them in suspense, for the Pope himself is always in + suspense, like Mahound's coffin hung between heaven and earth—always + in suspense, like the scales, till the weight of Germany or the gold + of England brings one of them down to the dust—always in suspense, + like the tail of the horologe—to and fro—tick-tack—we make the + time, we keep the time, ay, and we serve the time; for I have heard + say that if you boxed the Pope's ears with a purse, you might stagger + him, but he would pocket the purse. No saying of mine—Jocelyn of + Salisbury. But the King hath bought half the College of Red-hats. He + warmed to you to-day, and you have chilled him again. Yet you both + love God. Agree with him quickly again, even for the sake of the + Church. My one grain of good counsel which you will not swallow. I + hate a split between old friendships as I hate the dirty gap in the + face of a Cistercian monk, that will swallow anything. Farewell. + + [<i>Exit</i>. + + BECKET. + Map scoffs at Rome. I all but hold with Map. + Save for myself no Rome were left in England, + All had been his. Why should this Rome, this Rome, + Still choose Barabbas rather than the Christ, + Absolve the left-hand thief and damn the right? + Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacrilege, + Which even Peter had not dared? condemn + The blameless exile?— + + HERBERT. + Thee, thou holy Thomas! + I would that thou hadst been the Holy Father. + + BECKET. + I would have done my most to keep Rome holy, + I would have made Rome know she still is Rome— + Who stands aghast at her eternal self + And shakes at mortal kings—her vacillation, + Avarice, craft—O God, how many an innocent + Has left his bones upon the way to Rome + Unwept, uncared for. Yea—on mine own self + The King had had no power except for Rome. + 'Tis not the King who is guilty of mine exile, + But Rome, Rome, Rome! + + HERBERT. + My lord, I see this Louis + Returning, ah! to drive thee from his realm. + + BECKET. + He said as much before. Thou art no prophet, + Nor yet a prophet's son. + + HERBERT. + Whatever he say, + Deny not thou God's honour for a king. + The King looks troubled. + + <i>Re-enter</i> KING LOUIS. + + LOUIS. + My dear lord Archbishop, + I learn but now that those poor Poitevins, + That in thy cause were stirr'd against King Henry, + Have been, despite his kingly promise given + To our own self of pardon, evilly used + And put to pain. I have lost all trust in him. + The Church alone hath eyes—and now I see + That I was blind—suffer the phrase—surrendering + God's honour to the pleasure of a man. + Forgive me and absolve me, holy father. [<i>Kneels</i>. + + BECKET. + Son, I absolve thee in the name of God. + + LOUIS (<i>rising</i>). + Return to Sens, where we will care for you. + The wine and wealth of all our France are yours; + Rest in our realm, and be at peace with all. + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + + <i>Voices from the Crowd</i>. + Long live the good King Louis! God bless the great Archbishop! + + <i>Re-enter</i> HENRY <i>and</i> JOHN OF OXFORD. + + HENRY (<i>looking after</i> KING LOUIS <i>and</i> BECKET). + Ay, there they go—both backs are turn'd to me— + Why then I strike into my former path + For England, crown young Henry there, and make + Our waning Eleanor all but love me! + John, + Thou hast served me heretofore with Rome—and well. + They call thee John the Swearer. + + JOHN OF OXFORD. + For this reason, + That, being ever duteous to the King, + I evermore have sworn upon his side, + And ever mean to do it. + + HENRY (<i>claps him on the shoulder</i>). + Honest John! + To Rome again! the storm begins again. + Spare not thy tongue! be lavish with our coins, + Threaten our junction with the Emperor—flatter + And fright the Pope—bribe all the Cardinals—leave + Lateran and Vatican in one dust of gold— + Swear and unswear, state and misstate thy best! + I go to have young Henry crown'd by York. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT III. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—<i>The Bower</i>. HENRY <i>and</i> ROSAMUND. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HENRY. + All that you say is just. I cannot answer it + Till better times, when I shall put away— + + ROSAMUND. + What will you put away? + + HENRY. + That which you ask me + Till better times. Let it content you now + There is no woman that I love so well. + + ROSAMUND. + No woman but should be content with that— + + HENRY. + And one fair child to fondle! + + ROSAMUND. + O yes, the child + We waited for so long—heaven's gift at last— + And how you doated on him then! To-day + I almost fear'd your kiss was colder—yes— + But then the child <i>is</i> such a child. What chance + That he should ever spread into the man + Here in our silence? I have done my best. + I am not learn'd. + + HENRY. + I am the King, his father, + And I will look to it. Is our secret ours? + Have you had any alarm? no stranger? + + ROSAMUND. + No. + The warder of the bower hath given himself + Of late to wine. I sometimes think he sleeps + When he should watch; and yet what fear? the people + Believe the wood enchanted. No one comes, + Nor foe nor friend; his fond excess of wine + Springs from the loneliness of my poor bower, + Which weighs even on me. + + HENRY. + Yet these tree-towers, + Their long bird-echoing minster-aisles,—the voice + Of the perpetual brook, these golden slopes + Of Solomon-shaming flowers—that was your saying, + All pleased you so at first. + + ROSAMUND. + Not now so much. + My Anjou bower was scarce as beautiful. + But you were oftener there. I have none but you. + The brook's voice is not yours, and no flower, not + The sun himself, should he be changed to one, + Could shine away the darkness of that gap + Left by the lack of love. + + HENRY. + The lack of love! + + ROSAMUND. + Of one we love. Nay, I would not be bold, + Yet hoped ere this you might— + [<i>Looks earnestly at him</i>. + + HENRY. + Anything further? + + ROSAMUND. + Only my best bower-maiden died of late, + And that old priest whom John of Salisbury trusted + Hath sent another. + + HENRY. + Secret? + + ROSAMUND. + I but ask'd her + One question, and she primm'd her mouth and put + Her hands together—thus—and said, God help her, + That she was sworn to silence. + + HENRY. + What did you ask her? + + ROSAMUND. + Some daily something—nothing. + + HENRY. + Secret, then? + + ROSAMUND. + I do not love her. Must you go, my liege, + So suddenly? + + HENRY. + I came to England suddenly, + And on a great occasion sure to wake + As great a wrath in Becket— + + ROSAMUND. + Always Becket! + He always comes between us. + + HENRY. + —And to meet it + I needs must leave as suddenly. It is raining, + Put on your hood and see me to the bounds. + + [<i>Exeunt</i> + + MARGERY (<i>singing behind scene</i>). + + Babble in bower + Under the rose! + Bee mustn't buzz, + Whoop—but he knows. + Kiss me, little one, + Nobody near! + Grasshopper, grasshopper, + Whoop—you can hear. + Kiss in the bower, + Tit on the tree! + Bird mustn't tell, + Whoop—he can see. + + <i>Enter</i> MARGERY. + + I ha' been but a week here and I ha' seen what I ha' seen, for to be + sure it's no more than a week since our old Father Philip that has + confessed our mother for twenty years, and she was hard put to it, and + to speak truth, nigh at the end of our last crust, and that mouldy, + and she cried out on him to put me forth in the world and to make me a + woman of the world, and to win my own bread, whereupon he asked our + mother if I could keep a quiet tongue i' my head, and not speak till I + was spoke to, and I answered for myself that I never spoke more than + was needed, and he told me he would advance me to the service of a + great lady, and took me ever so far away, and gave me a great pat o' + the cheek for a pretty wench, and said it was a pity to blindfold such + eyes as mine, and such to be sure they be, but he blinded 'em for all + that, and so brought me no-hows as I may say, and the more shame to + him after his promise, into a garden and not into the world, and bad + me whatever I saw not to speak one word, an' it 'ud be well for me in + the end, for there were great ones who would look after me, and to be + sure I ha' seen great ones to-day—and then not to speak one word, for + that's the rule o' the garden, tho' to be sure if I had been Eve i' + the garden I shouldn't ha' minded the apple, for what's an apple, you + know, save to a child, and I'm no child, but more a woman o the world + than my lady here, and I ha' seen what I ha' seen—tho' to be sure if + I hadn't minded it we should all on us ha' had to go, bless the + Saints, wi' bare backs, but the backs 'ud ha' countenanced one + another, and belike it 'ud ha' been always summer, and anyhow I am as + well-shaped as my lady here, and I ha' seen what I ha' seen, and + what's the good of my talking to myself, for here comes my lady + (<i>enter</i> ROSAMUND), and, my lady, tho' I shouldn't speak one word, I + wish you joy o' the King's brother. + + ROSAMUND. + What is it you mean? + + MARGERY. + + I mean your goodman, your husband, my lady, for I saw your ladyship + a-parting wi' him even now i' the coppice, when I was a-getting o' + bluebells for your ladyship's nose to smell on—and I ha' seen the + King once at Oxford, and he's as like the King as fingernail to + fingernail, and I thought at first it was the King, only you know the + King's married, for King Louis— + + ROSAMUND. + Married! + + MARGERY. + Years and years, my lady, for her husband, King Louis— + + ROSAMUND. + Hush! + + MARGERY. + —And I thought if it were the King's brother he had a better bride + than the King, for the people do say that his is bad beyond all + reckoning, and— + + ROSAMUND. + The people lie. + + MARGERY. + Very like, my lady, but most on 'em know an honest woman and a lady + when they see her, and besides they say, she makes songs, and that's + against her, for I never knew an honest woman that could make songs, + tho' to be sure our mother 'ill sing me old songs by the hour, but + then, God help her, she had 'em from her mother, and her mother from + her mother back and back for ever so long, but none on 'em ever made + songs, and they were all honest. + + ROSAMUND. + Go, you shall tell me of her some other time. + + MARGERY. + There's none so much to tell on her, my lady, only she kept the + seventh commandment better than some I know on, or I couldn't look + your ladyship i' the face, and she brew'd the best ale in all + Glo'ster, that is to say in her time when she had the 'Crown.' + + ROSAMUND. + The crown! who? + + MARGERY. + Mother. + + ROSAMUND. + I mean her whom you call—fancy—my husband's brother's wife. + + MARGERY. + Oh, Queen Eleanor. Yes, my lady; and tho' I be sworn not to speak a + word, I can tell you all about her, if—— + + ROSAMUND. + No word now. I am faint and sleepy. Leave me. + Nay—go. What! will you anger me. + + [<i>Exit</i> MARGERY. + + He charged me not to question any of those + About me. Have I? no! she question'd <i>me</i>. + Did she not slander <i>him</i>? Should she stay here? + May she not tempt me, being at my side, + To question <i>her</i>? Nay, can I send her hence + Without his kingly leave! I am in the dark. + I have lived, poor bird, from cage to cage, and known + Nothing but him—happy to know no more, + So that he loved me—and he loves me—yes, + And bound me by his love to secrecy + Till his own time. + Eleanor, Eleanor, have I + Not heard ill things of her in France? Oh, she's + The Queen of France. I see it—some confusion, + Some strange mistake. I did not hear aright, + Myself confused with parting from the King. + + MARGERY (<i>behind scene</i>). + + Bee mustn't buzz, + Whoop—but he knows. + + ROSAMUND. + Yet her—what her? he hinted of some her— + When he was here before— + Something that would displease me. Hath he stray'd + From love's clear path into the common bush, + And, being scratch'd, returns to his true rose, + Who hath not thorn enough to prick him for it, + Ev'n with a word? + + MARGERY (<i>behind scene</i>). + + Bird mustn't tell, + Whoop—he can see. + + ROSAMUND. + I would not hear him. Nay—there's more—he frown'd + 'No mate for her, if it should come to that'— + To that—to what? + + MARGERY (<i>behind scene</i>). + + Whoop—but he knows, + Whoop—but he knows. + + ROSAMUND. + O God! some dreadful truth is breaking on me— + Some dreadful thing is coming on me. + [<i>Enter</i> GEOFFREY. + Geoffrey! + + GEOFFREY. + What are you crying for, when the sun shines? + + ROSAMUND. + Hath not thy father left us to ourselves? + + GEOFFREY. + Ay, but he's taken the rain with him. I hear + Margery: I'll go play with her. [<i>Exit</i> GEOFFREY. + + ROSAMUND. + + Rainbow, stay, + Gleam upon gloom, + Bright as my dream, + Rainbow, stay! + But it passes away, + Gloom upon gleam, + Dark as my doom— + O rainbow stay. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—<i>Outside the Woods near</i> ROSAMUND'S <i>Bower</i>. + + ELEANOR. FITZURSE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ELEANOR. + Up from the salt lips of the land we two + Have track'd the King to this dark inland wood; + And somewhere hereabouts he vanish'd. Here + His turtle builds: his exit is our adit: + Watch! he will out again, and presently, + Seeing he must to Westminster and crown + Young Henry there to-morrow. + + FITZURSE. + We have watch'd + So long in vain, he hath pass'd out again, + And on the other side. [<i>A great horn winded</i>. + Hark! Madam! + + ELEANOR. + Ay, + How ghostly sounds that horn in the black wood! + [<i>A countryman flying</i>. + Whither away, man? what are you flying from? + + COUNTRYMAN. + The witch! the witch! she sits naked by a great heap of gold in the + middle of the wood, and when the horn sounds she comes out as a wolf. + Get you hence! a man passed in there to-day: I holla'd to him, but he + didn't hear me: he'll never out again, the witch has got him. I + daren't stay—I daren't stay! + + ELEANOR. + Kind of the witch to give thee warning tho'. + [<i>Man flies</i>. + Is not this wood-witch of the rustic's fear + Our woodland Circe that hath witch'd the King? + [<i>Horn sounded. Another flying</i>. + + FITZURSE. + Again! stay, fool, and tell me why thou fliest. + + COUNTRYMAN. + Fly thou too. The King keeps his forest head of game here, and when + that horn sounds, a score of wolf-dogs are let loose that will tear + thee piecemeal. Linger not till the third horn. Fly! + [<i>Exit</i>. + + ELEANOR. + This is the likelier tale. We have hit the place. + Now let the King's fine game look to itself. [<i>Horn</i>. + + FITZURSE. + Again!— + And far on in the dark heart of the wood + I hear the yelping of the hounds of hell. + + ELEANOR. + I have my dagger here to still their throats. + + FITZURSE. + Nay, Madam, not to-night—the night is falling. + What can be done to-night? + + ELEANOR. + Well—well—away. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE III.—<i>Traitor's Meadow at Fréteval. Pavilions and Tents of the + English and French Baronage</i>. BECKET <i>and</i> HERBERT OF BOSHAM. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BECKET. + See here! + + HERBERT. + What's here? + + BECKET. + A notice from the priest, + To whom our John of Salisbury committed + The secret of the bower, that our wolf-Queen + Is prowling round the fold. I should be back + In England ev'n for this. + + HERBERT. + These are by-things + In the great cause. + + BECKET. + The by-things of the Lord + Are the wrong'd innocences that will cry + From all the hidden by-ways of the world + In the great day against the wronger. I know + Thy meaning. Perish she, I, all, before + The Church should suffer wrong! + + HERBERT. + Do you see, my lord, + There is the King talking with Walter Map? + + BECKET. + He hath the Pope's last letters, and they threaten + The immediate thunder-blast of interdict: + Yet he can scarce be touching upon those, + Or scarce would smile that fashion. + + HERBERT. + Winter sunshine! + Beware of opening out thy bosom to it, + Lest thou, myself, and all thy flock should catch + An after ague-fit of trembling. Look! + He bows, he bares his head, he is coming hither. + Still with a smile. + + <i>Enter</i> KING HENRY <i>and</i> WALTER MAP. + + HENRY. + We have had so many hours together, Thomas, + So many happy hours alone together, + That I would speak with you once more alone. + + BECKET. + My liege, your will and happiness are mine. + + [<i>Exeunt</i> KING <i>and</i> BECKET. + + HERBERT. + The same smile still. + + WALTER MAP. + Do you see that great black cloud that hath come over the sun and cast + us all into shadow? + + HERBERT. + And feel it too. + + WALTER MAP. + And see you yon side-beam that is forced from under it, and sets the + church-tower over there all a-hell-fire as it were? + + HERBERT. + Ay. + + WALTER MAP. + It is this black, bell-silencing, anti-marrying, burial-hindering + interdict that hath squeezed out this side-smile upon Canterbury, + whereof may come conflagration. Were I Thomas, I wouldn't trust it. + Sudden change is a house on sand; and tho' I count Henry honest + enough, yet when fear creeps in at the front, honesty steals out at + the back, and the King at last is fairly scared by this cloud—this + interdict. I have been more for the King than the Church in this + matter—yea, even for the sake of the Church: for, truly, as the case + stood, you had safelier have slain an archbishop than a she-goat: but + our recoverer and upholder of customs hath in this crowning of young + Henry by York and London so violated the immemorial usage of the + Church, that, like the gravedigger's child I have heard of, trying to + ring the bell, he hath half-hanged himself in the rope of the Church, + or rather pulled all the Church with the Holy Father astride of it + down upon his own head. + + HERBERT. + Were you there? + + WALTER MAP. + In the church rope?—no. I was at the crowning, for I have pleasure in + the pleasure of crowds, and to read the faces of men at a great show. + + HERBERT. + And how did Roger of York comport himself? + + WALTER MAP. + As magnificently and archiepiscopally as our Thomas would have done: + only there was a dare-devil in his eye—I should say a dare-Becket. He + thought less of two kings than of one Roger the king of the occasion. + Foliot is the holier man, perhaps the better. Once or twice there ran + a twitch across his face as who should say what's to follow? but + Salisbury was a calf cowed by Mother Church, and every now and then + glancing about him like a thief at night when he hears a door open in + the house and thinks 'the master.' + + HERBERT. + And the father-king? + + WALTER MAP. + The father's eye was so tender it would have called a goose off the + green, and once he strove to hide his face, like the Greek king when + his daughter was sacrificed, but he thought better of it: it was but + the sacrifice of a kingdom to his son, a smaller matter; but as to the + young crownling himself, he looked so malapert in the eyes, that had I + fathered him I had given him more of the rod than the sceptre. Then + followed the thunder of the captains and the shouting, and so we came + on to the banquet, from whence there puffed out such an incense of + unctuosity into the nostrils of our Gods of Church and State, that + Lucullus or Apicius might have sniffed it in their Hades of + heathenism, so that the smell of their own roast had not come across + it— + + HERBERT. + Map, tho' you make your butt too big, you overshoot it. + + WALTER MAP. + —For as to the fish, they de-miracled the miraculous draught, and + might have sunk a navy— + + HERBERT. + There again, Goliasing and Goliathising! + + WALTER MAP. + —And as for the flesh at table, a whole Peter's sheet, with all + manner of game, and four-footed things, and fowls— + + HERBERT. + And all manner of creeping things too? + + WALTER MAP. + —Well, there were Abbots—but they did not bring their women; and so + we were dull enough at first, but in the end we flourished out into a + merriment; for the old King would act servitor and hand a dish to his + son; whereupon my Lord of York—his fine-cut face bowing and beaming + with all that courtesy which hath less loyalty in it than the backward + scrape of the clown's heel—'great honour,' says he, 'from the King's + self to the King's son.' Did you hear the young King's quip? + + HERBERT. + No, what was it? + + WALTER MAP. + Glancing at the days when his father was only Earl of Anjou, he + answered:—'Should not an earl's son wait on a king's son?' And when + the cold corners of the King's mouth began to thaw, there was a great + motion of laughter among us, part real, part childlike, to be freed + from the dulness—part royal, for King and kingling both laughed, and + so we could not but laugh, as by a royal necessity—part childlike + again—when we felt we had laughed too long and could not stay + ourselves—many midriff-shaken even to tears, as springs gush out + after earthquakes—but from those, as I said before, there may come a + conflagration—tho', to keep the figure moist and make it hold water, + I should say rather, the lacrymation of a lamentation; but look if + Thomas have not flung himself at the King's feet. They have made it up + again—for the moment. + + HERBERT. + Thanks to the blessed Magdalen, whose day it is. + + <i>Re-enter</i> HENRY <i>and</i> BECKET. (<i>During their conference + the</i> BARONS <i>and</i> BISHOPS <i>of</i> FRANCE <i>and</i> ENGLAND <i>come + in at back of stage</i>.) + + BECKET. + Ay, King! for in thy kingdom, as thou knowest, + The spouse of the Great King, thy King, hath fallen— + The daughter of Zion lies beside the way— + The priests of Baal tread her underfoot— + The golden ornaments are stolen from her— + + HENRY. + Have I not promised to restore her, Thomas, + And send thee back again to Canterbury? + + BECKET. + Send back again those exiles of my kin + Who wander famine-wasted thro' the world. + + HENRY. + Have I not promised, man, to send them back? + + BECKET. + Yet one thing more. Thou hast broken thro' the pales + Of privilege, crowning thy young son by York, + London and Salisbury—not Canterbury. + + HENRY. + York crown'd the Conqueror—not Canterbury. + + BECKET. + There was no Canterbury in William's time. + + HENRY. + But Hereford, you know, crown'd the first Henry. + + BECKET. + But Anselm crown'd this Henry o'er again. + + HENRY. + And thou shalt crown my Henry o'er again. + + BECKET. + And is it then with thy good-will that I + Proceed against thine evil councillors, + And hurl the dread ban of the Church on those + Who made the second mitre play the first, + And acted me? + + HENRY. + Well, well, then—have thy way! + It may be they were evil councillors. + What more, my lord Archbishop? What more, Thomas? + I make thee full amends. Say all thy say, + But blaze not out before the Frenchmen here. + + BECKET. + More? Nothing, so thy promise be thy deed. + + HENRY (<i>holding out his hand</i>). + Give me thy hand. My Lords of France and England, + My friend of Canterbury and myself + Are now once more at perfect amity. + Unkingly should I be, and most unknightly, + Not striving still, however much in vain, + To rival him in Christian charity. + + HERBERT. + All praise to Heaven, and sweet St. Magdalen! + + HENRY. + And so farewell until we meet in England. + + BECKET. + I fear, my liege, we may not meet in England. + + HENRY. + How, do you make me a traitor? + + BECKET. + No, indeed! + That be far from thee. + + HENRY. + Come, stay with us, then, + Before you part for England. + + BECKET. + I am bound + For that one hour to stay with good King Louis, + Who helpt me when none else. + + HERBERT. + He said thy life + Was not one hour's worth in England save + King Henry gave thee first the kiss of peace. + + HENRY. + He said so? Louis, did he? look you, Herbert. + When I was in mine anger with King Louis, + I sware I would not give the kiss of peace, + Not on French ground, nor any ground but English, + Where his cathedral stands. Mine old friend, Thomas, + I would there were that perfect trust between us, + That health of heart, once ours, ere Pope or King + Had come between us! Even now—who knows?— + I might deliver all things to thy hand— + If ... but I say no more ... farewell, my lord. + + BECKET. + Farewell, my liege! + + [<i>Exit</i> HENRY, <i>then the</i> BARONS <i>and</i> BISHOPS. + + WALTER MAP. + There again! when the full fruit of the royal promise might have dropt + into thy mouth hadst thou but opened it to thank him. + + BECKET. + He fenced his royal promise with an <i>if</i>. + + WALTER MAP. + And is the King's <i>if</i> too high a stile for your lordship to overstep + and come at all things in the next field? + + BECKET. + Ay, if this <i>if</i> be like the Devil's '<i>if</i> + Thou wilt fall down and worship me.' + + HERBERT. + Oh, Thomas; + I could fall down and worship thee, my Thomas, + For thou hast trodden this wine-press alone. + + BECKET. + Nay, of the people there are many with me. + + WALTER MAP. + I am not altogether with you, my lord, tho' I am none of those that + would raise a storm between you, lest ye should draw together like two + ships in a calm. You wrong the King: he meant what he said to-day. Who + shall vouch for his to-morrows? One word further. Doth not the + <i>fewness</i> of anything make the fulness of it in estimation? Is not + virtue prized mainly for its rarity and great baseness loathed as an + exception: for were all, my lord, as noble as yourself, who would look + up to you? and were all as base as—who shall I say—Fitzurse and his + following—who would look down upon them? My lord, you have put so + many of the King's household out of communion, that they begin to + smile at it. + + BECKET. + At their peril, at their peril— + + WALTER MAP. + —For tho' the drop may hollow out the dead stone, + doth not the living skin thicken against perpetual whippings? + This is the second grain of good counsel I + ever proffered thee, and so cannot suffer by the rule of + frequency. Have I sown it in salt? I trust not, for + before God I promise you the King hath many more + wolves than he can tame in his woods of England, and + if it suit their purpose to howl for the King, and you + still move against him, you may have no less than to + die for it; but God and his free wind grant your lordship + a happy home-return and the King's kiss of peace + in Kent. Farewell! I must follow the King. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + HERBERT. + Ay, and I warrant the customs. Did the King + Speak of the customs? + + BECKET. + No!—To die for it— + I live to die for it, I die to live for it. + The State will die, the Church can never die. + The King's not like to die for that which dies; + But I must die for that which never dies. + It will be so—my visions in the Lord: + It must be so, my friend! the wolves of England + Must murder her one shepherd, that the sheep + May feed in peace. False figure, Map would say. + Earth's falses are heaven's truths. And when my voice + Is martyr'd mute, and this man disappears, + That perfect trust may come again between us, + And there, there, there, not here I shall rejoice + To find my stray sheep back within the fold. + The crowd are scattering, let us move away! + And thence to England. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT IV. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—<i>The Outskirts of the Bower</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GEOFFREY (<i>coming out of the wood</i>). + Light again! light again! Margery? no, that's a finer thing there. How + it glitters! + + ELEANOR (<i>entering</i>). + Come to me, little one. How camest thou hither? + + GEOFFREY. + On my legs. + + ELEANOR. + And mighty pretty legs too. Thou art the prettiest child I ever saw. + Wilt thou love me? + + GEOFFREY. + No; I only love mother. + + ELEANOR. + Ay; and who is thy mother? + + GEOFFREY. + They call her—But she lives secret, you see. + + ELEANOR. + Why? + + GEOFFREY. + Don't know why. + + ELEANOR. + Ay, but some one comes to see her now and then. Who is he? + + GEOFFREY. + Can't tell. + + ELEANOR. + What does she call him? + + GEOFFREY. + My liege. + + ELEANOR. + Pretty one, how camest thou? + + GEOFFREY. + There was a bit of yellow silk here and there, and it looked pretty + like a glowworm, and I thought if I followed it I should find the + fairies. + + ELEANOR. + I am the fairy, pretty one, a good fairy to thy mother. Take me to + her. + + GEOFFREY. + There are good fairies and bad fairies, and sometimes she cries, and + can't sleep sound o' nights because of the bad fairies. + + ELEANOR. + She shall cry no more; she shall sleep sound enough if thou wilt take + me to her. I am her good fairy. + + GEOFFREY. + But you don't look like a good fairy. Mother does. You are not pretty, + like mother. + + ELEANOR. + We can't all of us be as pretty as thou art—(<i>aside</i>) little bastard. + Come, here is a golden chain I will give thee if thou wilt lead me to + thy mother. + + GEOFFREY. + No—no gold. Mother says gold spoils all. Love is the only gold. + + ELEANOR. + I love thy mother, my pretty boy. Show me where thou camest out of the + wood. + + GEOFFREY. + By this tree; but I don't know if I can find the way back again. + + ELEANOR. + Where's the warder? + + GEOFFREY. + Very bad. Somebody struck him. + + ELEANOR. + Ay? who was that? + + GEOFFREY. + Can't tell. But I heard say he had had a stroke, or you'd have heard + his horn before now. Come along, then; we shall see the silk here and + there, and I want my supper. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—ROSAMUND'S <i>Bower</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ROSAMUND. + The boy so late; pray God, he be not lost. + I sent this Margery, and she comes not back; + I sent another, and she comes not back. + I go myself—so many alleys, crossings, + Paths, avenues—nay, if I lost him, now + The folds have fallen from the mystery, + And left all naked, I were lost indeed. + <i>Enter</i> GEOFFREY <i>and</i> ELEANOR. + Geoffrey, the pain thou hast put me to! + [<i>Seeing</i> ELEANOR. + Ha, you! + How came you hither? + + ELEANOR. + Your own child brought me hither! + + GEOFFREY. + You said you couldn't trust Margery, and I watched her and followed + her into the woods, and I lost her and went on and on till I found the + light and the lady, and she says she can make you sleep o' nights. + + ROSAMUND. + How dared you? Know you not this bower is secret, + Of and belonging to the King of England, + More sacred than his forests for the chase? + Nay, nay, Heaven help you; get you hence in haste + Lest worse befall you. + + ELEANOR. + Child, I am mine own self + Of and belonging to the King. The King + Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and belongings, + Almost as many as your true Mussulman— + Belongings, paramours, whom it pleases him + To call his wives; but so it chances, child, + That I am his main paramour, his sultana. + But since the fondest pair of doves will jar, + Ev'n in a cage of gold, we had words of late, + And thereupon he call'd my children bastards. + Do you believe that you are married to him? + + ROSAMUND, + I <i>should</i> believe it. + + ELEANOR. + You must not believe it, + Because I have a wholesome medicine here + Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, beauty! + Do you believe that you are married to him? + + ROSAMUND. + Geoffrey, my boy, I saw the ball you lost in the fork of the great + willow over the brook. Go. See that you do not fall in. Go. + + GEOFFREY. + And leave you alone with the good fairy. She calls you beauty, but I + don't like her looks. Well, you bid me go, and I'll have my ball + anyhow. Shall I find you asleep when I come back? + + ROSAMUND. + Go. [<i>Exit</i> GEOFFREY. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ELEANOR. + + He is easily found again. <i>Do</i> you believe it? + I pray you then to take my sleeping-draught; + But if you should not care to take it—see! + [<i>Draws a dagger</i>. + What! have I scared the red rose from your face + Into your heart. But this will find it there, + And dig it from the root for ever. + + ROSAMUND. + Help! help! + + ELEANOR. + They say that walls have ears; but these, it seems, + Have none! and I have none—to pity thee. + + ROSAMUND. + I do beseech you—my child is so young, + So backward too; I cannot leave him yet. + I am not so happy I could not die myself, + But the child is so young. You have children—his; + And mine is the King's child; so, if you love him— + Nay, if you love him, there is great wrong done + Somehow; but if you do not—there are those + Who say you do not love him—let me go + With my young boy, and I will hide my face, + Blacken and gipsyfy it; none shall know me; + The King shall never hear of me again, + But I will beg my bread along the world + With my young boy, and God will be our guide. + I never meant you harm in any way. + See, I can say no more. + + ELEANOR. + Will you not say you are not married to him? + + ROSAMUND. + Ay, Madam, I can <i>say</i> it, if you will. + + ELEANOR. + Then is thy pretty boy a bastard? + + ROSAMUND. + No. + + ELEANOR. + + And thou thyself a proven wanton? + + ROSAMUND. + No. + I am none such. I never loved but one. + I have heard of such that range from love to love, + Like the wild beast—if you can call it love. + I have heard of such—yea, even among those + Who sit on thrones—I never saw any such, + Never knew any such, and howsoever + You do misname me, match'd with any such, + I am snow to mud. + + ELEANOR. + The more the pity then + That thy true home—the heavens—cry out for thee + Who art too pure for earth. + + <i>Enter</i> FITZURSE. + + FITZURSE. + Give her to me. + + ELEANOR. + The Judas-lover of our passion-play + Hath track'd us hither. + + FITZURSE. + Well, why not? I follow'd + You and the child: he babbled all the way. + Give her to me to make my honeymoon. + + ELEANOR. + Ay, as the bears love honey. Could you keep her + Indungeon'd from one whisper of the wind, + Dark even from a side glance of the moon, + And oublietted in the centre—No! + I follow out my hate and thy revenge. + + FITZURSE. + You bad me take revenge another way— + To bring her to the dust.... Come with me, love, + And I will love thee.... Madam, let her live. + I have a far-off burrow where the King + Would miss her and for ever. + + ELEANOR. + How sayst thou, sweetheart? + Wilt thou go with him? he will marry thee. + + ROSAMUND. + Give me the poison; set me free of him! + [ELEANOR <i>offers the vial</i>. + No, no! I will not have it. + + ELEANOR. + Then this other, + The wiser choice, because my sleeping-draught + May bloat thy beauty out of shape, and make + Thy body loathsome even to thy child; + While this but leaves thee with a broken heart, + A doll-face blanch'd and bloodless, over which + If pretty Geoffrey do not break his own, + It must be broken for him. + + ROSAMUND. + O I see now + Your purpose is to fright me—a troubadour + You play with words. You had never used so many, + Not if you meant it, I am sure. The child.... + No.... mercy! No! (<i>Kneels</i>.) + + ELEANOR. + Play!... that bosom never + Heaved under the King's hand with such true passion + As at this loveless knife that stirs the riot, + Which it will quench in blood! Slave, if he love thee, + Thy life is worth the wrestle for it: arise, + And dash thyself against me that I may slay thee! + The worm! shall I let her go? But ha! what's here? + By very God, the cross I gave the King! + His village darling in some lewd caress + Has wheedled it off the King's neck to her own. + By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same! I warrant + Thou hast sworn on this my cross a hundred times + Never to leave him—and that merits death, + False oath on holy cross—for thou must leave him + To-day, but not quite yet. My good Fitzurse, + The running down the chase is kindlier sport + Ev'n than the death. Who knows but that thy lover + May plead so pitifully, that I may spare thee? + Come hither, man; stand there. (<i>To Rosamund</i>) + Take thy one chance; + Catch at the last straw. Kneel to thy lord Fitzurse; + Crouch even because thou hatest him; fawn upon him + For thy life and thy son's. + + ROSAMUND (<i>rising</i>). + I am a Clifford, + My son a Clifford and Plantagenet. + I am to die then, tho' there stand beside thee + One who might grapple with thy dagger, if he + Had aught of man, or thou of woman; or I + Would bow to such a baseness as would make me + Most worthy of it: both of us will die, + And I will fly with my sweet boy to heaven, + And shriek to all the saints among the stars: + 'Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor of England! + Murder'd by that adulteress Eleanor, + Whose doings are a horror to the east, + A hissing in the west!' Have we not heard + Raymond of Poitou, thine own uncle—nay, + Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own husband's father— + Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Saladdeen— + Strike! + I challenge thee to meet me before God. + Answer me there. + + ELEANOR (<i>raising the dagger</i>). + This in thy bosom, fool, + And after in thy bastard's! + + <i>Enter</i> BECKET <i>from behind. Catches hold of her arm</i>. + + BECKET. + Murderess! + + [<i>The dagger falls; they stare at one another. After a pause</i>. + + ELEANOR. + My lord, we know you proud of your fine hand, + But having now admired it long enough, + We find that it is mightier than it seems— + At least mine own is frailer: you are laming it. + + BECKET. + And lamed and maim'd to dislocation, better + Than raised to take a life which Henry bad me + Guard from the stroke that dooms thee after death + To wail in deathless flame. + + ELEANOR. + Nor you, nor I + Have now to learn, my lord, that our good Henry + Says many a thing in sudden heats, which he + Gainsays by next sunrising—often ready + To tear himself for having said as much. + My lord, Fitzurse— + + BECKET. + He too! what dost thou here? + Dares the bear slouch into the lion's den? + One downward plunge of his paw would rend away + Eyesight and manhood, life itself, from thee. + Go, lest I blast thee with anathema, + And make thee a world's horror. + + FITZURSE. + My lord, I shall + Remember this. + + BECKET. + I <i>do</i> remember thee; + Lest I remember thee to the lion, go. + [<i>Exit</i> FITZURSE. + Take up your dagger; put it in the sheath. + + ELEANOR. + Might not your courtesy stoop to hand it me? + But crowns must bow when mitres sit so high. + Well—well—too costly to be left or lost. + [<i>Picks up the dagger</i>. + I had it from an Arab soldan, who, + When I was there in Antioch, marvell'd at + Our unfamiliar beauties of the west; + But wonder'd more at my much constancy + To the monk-king, Louis, our former burthen, + From whom, as being too kin, you know, my lord, + God's grace and Holy Church deliver'd us. + I think, time given, I could have talk'd him out of + His ten wives into one. Look at the hilt. + What excellent workmanship. In our poor west + We cannot do it so well. + + BECKET. + We can do worse. + Madam, I saw your dagger at her throat; + I heard your savage cry. + + ELEANOR. + Well acted, was it? + A comedy meant to seem a tragedy— + A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you are known + Thro' all the courts of Christendom as one + That mars a cause with over-violence. + You have wrong'd Fitzurse. I speak not of myself. + We thought to scare this minion of the King + Back from her churchless commerce with the King + To the fond arms of her first love, Fitzurse, + Who swore to marry her. You have spoilt the farce. + My savage cry? Why, she—she—when I strove + To work against her license for her good, + Bark'd out at me such monstrous charges, that + The King himself, for love of his own sons, + If hearing, would have spurn'd her; whereupon + I menaced her with this, as when we threaten + A yelper with a stick. Nay, I deny not + That I was somewhat anger'd. Do you hear me? + Believe or no, I care not. You have lost + The ear of the King. I have it.... My lord Paramount, + Our great High-priest, will not your Holiness + Vouchsafe a gracious answer to your Queen? + + BECKET. + Rosamund hath not answer'd you one word; + Madam, I will not answer you one word. + Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee. Leave it, daughter; + Come thou with me to Godstow nunnery, + And live what may be left thee of a life + Saved as by miracle alone with Him + Who gave it. + + <i>Re-enter</i> GEOFFREY. + + GEOFFREY. + Mother, you told me a great fib: it wasn't in the willow. + + BECKET. + Follow us, my son, and we will find it for thee— + Or something manlier. + [<i>Exeunt</i> BECKET, ROSAMUND, <i>and</i> GEOFFREY. + + ELEANOR. + The world hath trick'd her—that's the King; if so, + There was the farce, the feint—not mine. And yet + I am all but sure my dagger was a feint + Till the worm turn'd—not life shot up in blood, + But death drawn in;—<i>(looking at the vial) this</i> was no feint then? + no. + But can I swear to that, had she but given + Plain answer to plain query? nay, methinks + Had she but bow'd herself to meet the wave + Of humiliation, worshipt whom she loathed, + I should have let her be, scorn'd her too much + To harm her. Henry—Becket tells him this— + To take my life might lose him Aquitaine. + Too politic for that. Imprison me? + No, for it came to nothing—only a feint. + Did she not tell me I was playing on her? + I'll swear to mine own self it was a feint. + Why should I swear, Eleanor, who am, or was, + A sovereign power? The King plucks out their eyes + Who anger him, and shall not I, the Queen, + Tear out her heart—kill, kill with knife or venom + One of his slanderous harlots? 'None of such?' + I love her none the more. Tut, the chance gone, + She lives—but not for him; one point is gain'd. + O I, that thro' the Pope divorced King Louis, + Scorning his monkery,—I that wedded Henry, + Honouring his manhood—will he not mock at me + The jealous fool balk'd of her will—with <i>him</i>? + But he and he must never meet again. + Reginald Fitzurse! + + <i>Re-enter</i> FITZURSE. + + FITZURSE. + Here, Madam, at your pleasure. + + ELEANOR. + My pleasure is to have a man about me. + Why did you slink away so like a cur? + + FITZURSE. + + Madam, I am as much man as the King. + Madam, I fear Church-censures like your King. + + ELEANOR. + + He grovels to the Church when he's black-blooded, + But kinglike fought the proud archbishop,—kinglike + Defied the Pope, and, like his kingly sires, + The Normans, striving still to break or bind + The spiritual giant with our island laws + And customs, made me for the moment proud + Ev'n of that stale Church-bond which link'd me with him + To bear him kingly sons. I am not so sure + But that I love him still. Thou as much man! + No more of that; we will to France and be + Beforehand with the King, and brew from out + This Godstow-Becket intermeddling such + A strong hate-philtre as may madden him—madden + Against his priest beyond all hellebore. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT V. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—<i>Castle in Normandy. King's Chamber</i>. + + HENRY, ROGER OF YORK, FOLIOT, JOCELYN OF SALISBURY. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ROGER OF YORK. + Nay, nay, my liege, + He rides abroad with armed followers, + Hath broken all his promises to thyself, + Cursed and anathematised us right and left, + Stirr'd up a party there against your son— + + HENRY. + Roger of York, you always hated him, + Even when you both were boys at Theobald's. + + ROGER OF YORK. + I always hated boundless arrogance. + In mine own cause I strove against him there, + And in thy cause I strive against him now. + + HENRY. + I cannot think he moves against my son, + Knowing right well with what a tenderness + He loved my son. + + ROGER OF YORK. + Before you made him king. + But Becket ever moves against a king. + The Church is all—the crime to be a king. + We trust your Royal Grace, lord of more land + Than any crown in Europe, will not yield + To lay your neck beneath your citizens' heel. + + HENRY. + Not to a Gregory of my throning! No. + + FOLIOT. + My royal liege, in aiming at your love, + It may be sometimes I have overshot + My duties to our Holy Mother Church, + Tho' all the world allows I fall no inch + Behind this Becket, rather go beyond + In scourgings, macerations, mortifyings, + Fasts, disciplines that clear the spiritual eye, + And break the soul from earth. Let all that be. + I boast not: but you know thro' all this quarrel + I still have cleaved to the crown, in hope the crown + Would cleave to me that but obey'd the crown, + Crowning your son; for which our loyal service, + And since we likewise swore to obey the customs, + York and myself, and our good Salisbury here, + Are push'd from out communion of the Church. + + JOCELYN OF SALISBURY. + Becket hath trodden on us like worms, my liege; + Trodden one half dead; one half, but half-alive, + Cries to the King. + + HENRY (<i>aside</i>). + Take care o' thyself, O King. + + JOCELYN OF SALISBURY. + Being so crush'd and so humiliated + We scarcely dare to bless the food we eat + Because of Becket. + + HENRY. + What would ye have me do? + + ROGER OF YORK. + Summon your barons; take their counsel: yet + I know—could swear—as long as Becket breathes, + Your Grace will never have one quiet hour. + + HENRY. + What?... Ay ... but pray you do not work upon me. + I see your drift ... it may be so ... and yet + You know me easily anger'd. Will you hence? + He shall absolve you ... you shall have redress. + I have a dizzying headache. Let me rest. + I'll call you by and by. + + [<i>Exeunt</i> ROGER OF YORK, FOLIOT, <i>and</i> JOCELYN OF SALISBURY. + + Would he were dead! I have lost all love for him. + If God would take him in some sudden way— + Would he were dead. [<i>Lies down</i>. + + PAGE (<i>entering</i>). + My liege, the Queen of England. + + HENRY. + God's eyes! [<i>Starting up</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> ELEANOR. + + ELEANOR. + Of England? Say of Aquitaine. + I am no Queen of England. I had dream'd + I was the bride of England, and a queen. + + HENRY. + And,—while you dream'd you were the bride of England,— + Stirring her baby-king against me? ha! + + ELEANOR. + The brideless Becket is thy king and mine: + I will go live and die in Aquitaine. + + HENRY. + Except I clap thee into prison here, + Lest thou shouldst play the wanton there again. + Ha, you of Aquitaine! O you of Aquitaine! + You were but Aquitaine to Louis—no wife; + You are only Aquitaine to me—no wife. + + ELEANOR. + And why, my lord, should I be wife to one + That only wedded me for Aquitaine? + Yet this no wife—her six and thirty sail + Of Provence blew you to your English throne; + And this no wife has born you four brave sons, + And one of them at least is like to prove + Bigger in our small world than thou art. + + HENRY. + Ay— + Richard, if he <i>be</i> mine—I hope him mine. + But thou art like enough to make him thine. + + ELEANOR. + Becket is like enough to make all his. + + HENRY. + Methought I had recover'd of the Becket, + That all was planed and bevell'd smooth again, + Save from some hateful cantrip of thine own. + + ELEANOR. + I will go live and die in Aquitaine. + I dream'd I was the consort of a king, + Not one whose back his priest has broken. + + HENRY. + What! + Is the end come? You, will you crown my foe + My victor in mid-battle? I will be + Sole master of my house. The end is mine. + What game, what juggle, what devilry are you playing? + Why do you thrust this Becket on me again? + + ELEANOR. + Why? for I <i>am</i> true wife, and have my fears + Lest Becket thrust you even from your throne. + Do you know this cross, my liege? + + HENRY (<i>turning his head</i>). + Away! Not I. + + ELEANOR. + Not ev'n the central diamond, worth, I think, + Half of the Antioch whence I had it. + + HENRY. + That? + + ELEANOR. + I gave it you, and you your paramour; + She sends it back, as being dead to earth, + So dead henceforth to you. + + HENRY. + Dead! you have murder'd her, + Found out her secret bower and murder'd her. + + ELEANOR. + Your Becket knew the secret of your bower. + + HENRY (<i>calling out</i>). + Ho there! thy rest of life is hopeless prison. + + ELEANOR. + And what would my own Aquitaine say to that? + First, free thy captive from <i>her</i> hopeless prison. + + HENRY. + O devil, can I free her from the grave? + + ELEANOR. + You are too tragic: both of us are players + In such a comedy as our court of Provence + Had laugh'd at. That's a delicate Latin lay + Of Walter Map: the lady holds the cleric + Lovelier than any soldier, his poor tonsure + A crown of Empire. Will you have it again? + (<i>Offering the cross. He dashes it down</i>.) + St. Cupid, that is too irreverent. + Then mine once more. (<i>Puts it on</i>.) + Your cleric hath your lady. + Nay, what uncomely faces, could he see you! + Foam at the mouth because King Thomas, lord + Not only of your vassals but amours, + Thro' chastest honour of the Decalogue + Hath used the full authority of his Church + To put her into Godstow nunnery. + + HENRY. + To put her into Godstow nunnery! + He dared not—liar! yet, yet I remember— + I do remember. + He bad me put her into a nunnery— + Into Godstow, into Hellstow, Devilstow! + The Church! the Church! + God's eyes! I would the Church were down in hell! + [<i>Exit</i>. + + ELEANOR. + Aha! + + <i>Enter the four</i> KNIGHTS. + + FITZURSE. + What made the King cry out so furiously? + + ELEANOR. + Our Becket, who will not absolve the Bishops. + I think ye four have cause to love this Becket. + + FITZURSE. + I hate him for his insolence to all. + + DE TRACY. + And I for all his insolence to thee. + + DE BRITO. + I hate him for I hate him is my reason, + And yet I hate him for a hypocrite. + + DE MORVILLE. + I do not love him, for he did his best + To break the barons, and now braves the King. + + ELEANOR. + Strike, then, at once, the King would have him—See! + + <i>Re-enter</i> HENRY. + + HENRY. + No man to love me, honour me, obey me! + Sluggards and fools! + The slave that eat my bread has kick'd his King! + The dog I cramm'd with dainties worried me! + The fellow that on a lame jade came to court, + A ragged cloak for saddle—he, he, he, + To shake my throne, to push into my chamber— + My bed, where ev'n the slave is private—he— + I'll have her out again, he shall absolve + The bishops—they but did my will—not you— + Sluggards and fools, why do you stand and stare? + You are no king's men—you—you—you are Becket's men. + Down with King Henry! up with the Archbishop! + Will no man free me from this pestilent priest? [<i>Exit</i>. + [<i>The</i> KNIGHTS <i>draw their swords</i>. + + ELEANOR. + <i>Are</i> ye king's men? I am king's woman, I. + + THE KNIGHTS. + King's men! King's men! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—<i>A Room in Canterbury Monastery</i>. + + BECKET <i>and</i> JOHN OF SALISBURY. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BECKET. + York said so? + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Yes: a man may take good counsel + Ev'n from his foe. + + BECKET. + York will say anything. + What is he saying now? gone to the King + And taken our anathema with him. York! + Can the King de-anathematise this York? + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Thomas, I would thou hadst return'd to England, + Like some wise prince of this world from his wars, + With more of olive-branch and amnesty + For foes at home—thou hast raised the world against thee. + + BECKET. + Why, John, my kingdom is not of this world. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + If it were more of this world it might be + More of the next. A policy of wise pardon + Wins here as well as there. To bless thine enemies— + + BECKET. + Ay, mine, not Heaven's. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + And may there not be something + Of this world's leaven in thee too, when crying + On Holy Church to thunder out her rights + And thine own wrong so pitilessly. Ah, Thomas, + The lightnings that we think are only Heaven's + Flash sometimes out of earth against the heavens. + The soldier, when he lets his whole self go + Lost in the common good, the common wrong, + Strikes truest ev'n for his own self. I crave + Thy pardon—I have still thy leave to speak. + Thou hast waged God's war against the King; and yet + We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may, + Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites + And private hates with our defence of Heaven. + + [<i>Enter</i> EDWARD GRIM. + + BECKET. + Thou art but yesterday from Cambridge, Grim; + What say ye there of Becket? + + GRIM. + <i>I</i> believe him + The bravest in our roll of Primates down + From Austin—there are some—for there are men + Of canker'd judgment everywhere— + + BECKET. + Who hold + With York, with York against me. + + GRIM. + Well, my lord, + A stranger monk desires access to you. + + BECKET. + York against Canterbury, York against God! + I am open to him. + [<i>Exit</i> GRIM. + + <i>Enter</i> ROSAMUND <i>as a Monk</i>. + + ROSAMUND. + Can I speak with you + Alone, my father? + + BECKET. + Come you to confess? + + ROSAMUND. + Not now. + + BECKET. + Then speak; this is my other self, + Who like my conscience never lets me be. + + ROSAMUND (<i>throwing back the cowl</i>). + I know him; our good John of Salisbury. + + BECKET. + Breaking already from thy noviciate + To plunge into this bitter world again— + These wells of Marah. I am grieved, my daughter. + I thought that I had made a peace for thee. + + ROSAMUND. + Small peace was mine in my noviciate, father. + Thro' all closed doors a dreadful whisper crept + That thou wouldst excommunicate the King. + I could not eat, sleep, pray: I had with me + The monk's disguise thou gavest me for my bower: + I think our Abbess knew it and allow'd it. + I fled, and found thy name a charm to get me + Food, roof, and rest. I met a robber once, + I told him I was bound to see the Archbishop; + 'Pass on,' he said, and in thy name I pass'd + From house to house. In one a son stone-blind + Sat by his mother's hearth: he had gone too far + Into the King's own woods; and the poor mother, + Soon as she learnt I was a friend of thine, + Cried out against the cruelty of the King. + I said it was the King's courts, not the King; + But she would not believe me, and she wish'd + The Church were king: she had seen the Archbishop once, + So mild, so kind. The people love thee, father. + + BECKET. + Alas! when I was Chancellor to the King, + I fear I was as cruel as the King. + + ROSAMUND. + Cruel? Oh, no—it is the law, not he; + The customs of the realm. + + BECKET. + The customs! customs! + + ROSAMUND. + My lord, you have not excommunicated him? + Oh, if you have, absolve him! + + BECKET. + Daughter, daughter, + Deal not with things you know not. + + ROSAMUND. + I know <i>him</i>. + Then you have done it, and I call <i>you</i> cruel. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + No, daughter, you mistake our good Archbishop; + For once in France the King had been so harsh, + He thought to excommunicate him—Thomas, + You could not—old affection master'd you, + You falter'd into tears. + + ROSAMUND. + God bless him for it. + + BECKET. + Nay, make me not a woman, John of Salisbury, + Nor make me traitor to my holy office. + Did not a man's voice ring along the aisle, + 'The King is sick and almost unto death.' + How could I excommunicate him then? + + ROSAMUND. + And wilt thou excommunicate him now? + + BECKET. + Daughter, my time is short, I shall not do it. + And were it longer—well—I should not do it. + + ROSAMUND. + Thanks in this life, and in the life to come. + + BECKET. + Get thee back to thy nunnery with all haste; + Let this be thy last trespass. But one question— + How fares thy pretty boy, the little Geoffrey? + No fever, cough, croup, sickness? + + ROSAMUND. + No, but saved + From all that by our solitude. The plagues + That smite the city spare the solitudes. + + BECKET. + God save him from all sickness of the soul! + Thee too, thy solitude among thy nuns, + May that save thee! Doth he remember me? + + ROSAMUND. + I warrant him. + + BECKET. + He is marvellously like thee. + + ROSAMUND. + Liker the King. + + BECKET. + No, daughter. + + ROSAMUND. + Ay, but wait + Till his nose rises; he will be very king. + + BECKET. + Ev'n so: but think not of the King: farewell! + + ROSAMUND. + My lord, the city is full of armed men. + + BECKET, + Ev'n so: farewell! + + ROSAMUND. + I will but pass to vespers, + And breathe one prayer for my liege-lord the King, + His child and mine own soul, and so return. + + BECKET. + Pray for me too: much need of prayer have I. + [ROSAMUND <i>kneels and goes</i>. + Dan John, how much we lose, we celibates, + Lacking the love of woman and of child. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + More gain than loss; for of your wives you shall + Find one a slut whose fairest linen seems + Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it—one + So charged with tongue, that every thread of thought + Is broken ere it joins—a shrew to boot, + Whose evil song far on into the night + Thrills to the topmost tile—no hope but death; + One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the hearth; + And one that being thwarted ever swoons + And weeps herself into the place of power; + And one an <i>uxor pauperis Ibyci</i>. + So rare the household honey-making bee, + Man's help! but we, we have the Blessed Virgin + For worship, and our Mother Church for bride; + And all the souls we saved and father'd here + Will greet us as our babes in Paradise. + What noise was that? she told us of arm'd men + Here in the city. Will you not withdraw? + + BECKET. + I once was out with Henry in the days + When Henry loved me, and we came upon + A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so still + I reach'd my hand and touch'd; she did not stir; + The snow had frozen round her, and she sat + Stone-dead upon a heap of ice-cold eggs. + Look! how this love, this mother, runs thro' all + The world God made—even the beast—the bird! + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Ay, still a lover of the beast and bird? + But these arm'd men—will you not hide yourself? + Perchance the fierce De Brocs from Saltwood Castle, + To assail our Holy Mother lest she brood + Too long o'er this hard egg, the world, and send + Her whole heart's heat into it, till it break + Into young angels. Pray you, hide yourself. + + BECKET. + There was a little fair-hair'd Norman maid + Lived in my mother's house: if Rosamund is + The world's rose, as her name imports her—she + Was the world's lily. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Ay, and what of her? + + BECKET. + She died of leprosy. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + I know not why + You call these old things back again, my lord. + + BECKET. + The drowning man, they say, remembers all + The chances of his life, just ere he dies. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Ay—but these arm'd men—will <i>you</i> drown <i>yourself?</i> + He loses half the meed of martyrdom + Who will be martyr when he might escape. + + BECKET. + What day of the week? Tuesday? + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Tuesday, my lord, + + BECKET. + On a Tuesday was I born, and on a Tuesday + Baptized; and on a Tuesday did I fly + Forth from Northampton; on a Tuesday pass'd + From England into bitter banishment; + On a Tuesday at Pontigny came to me + The ghostly warning of my martyrdom; + On a Tuesday from mine exile I return'd, + And on a Tuesday— + + [TRACY <i>enters, then</i> FITZURSE, DE BRITO, <i>and</i> + DE MORVILLE. MONKS <i>following</i>. + + —on a Tuesday——Tracy! + + <i>A long silence, broken by</i> FITZURSE <i>saying, contemptuously,</i> + + God help thee! + + JOHN OF SALISBURY (<i>aside</i>). + How the good Archbishop reddens! + He never yet could brook the note of scorn. + + FITZURSE. + My lord, we bring a message from the King + Beyond the water; will you have it alone, + Or with these listeners near you? + + BECKET. + As you will. + + FITZURSE. + Nay, as <i>you</i> will. + + BECKET. + Nay, as <i>you</i> will. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Why then + Better perhaps to speak with them apart. + Let us withdraw. + + [<i>All go out except the four</i> KNIGHTS <i>and</i> BECKET. + + FITZURSE. + We are all alone with him. + Shall I not smite him with his own cross-staff? + + DE MORVILLE. + No, look! the door is open: let him be. + + FITZURSE. + The King condemns your excommunicating—— + + BECKET. + This is no secret, but a public matter. + In here again! + [JOHN OF SALISBURY <i>and</i> MONKS <i>return</i>. + Now, sirs, the King's commands! + + FITZURSE. + The King beyond the water, thro' our voices, + Commands you to be dutiful and leal + To your young King on this side of the water, + Not scorn him for the foibles of his youth. + What! you would make his coronation void + By cursing those who crown'd him. Out upon you! + + BECKET. + Reginald, all men know I loved the Prince. + His father gave him to my care, and I + Became his second father: he had his faults, + For which I would have laid mine own life down + To help him from them, since indeed I loved him, + And love him next after my lord his father. + Rather than dim the splendour of his crown + I fain would treble and quadruple it + With revenues, realms, and golden provinces + So that were done in equity. + + FITZURSE. + You have broken + Your bond of peace, your treaty with the King— + Wakening such brawls and loud disturbances + In England, that he calls you oversea + To answer for it in his Norman courts. + + BECKET. + Prate not of bonds, for never, oh, never again + Shall the waste voice of the bond-breaking sea + Divide me from the mother church of England, + My Canterbury. Loud disturbances! + Oh, ay—the bells rang out even to deafening, + Organ and pipe, and dulcimer, chants and hymns + In all the churches, trumpets in the halls, + Sobs, laughter, cries: they spread their raiment down + Before me—would have made my pathway flowers, + Save that it was mid-winter in the street, + But full mid-summer in those honest hearts. + + FITZURSE. + The King commands you to absolve the bishops + Whom you have excommunicated. + + BECKET. + I? + Not I, the Pope. Ask <i>him</i> for absolution. + + FITZURSE. + But you advised the Pope. + + BECKET. + And so I did. + They have but to submit. + + THE FOUR KNIGHTS. + The King commands you. + We are all King's men. + + BECKET. + King's men at least should know + That their own King closed with me last July + That I should pass the censures of the Church + On those that crown'd young Henry in this realm, + And trampled on the rights of Canterbury. + + FITZURSE. + What! dare you charge the King with treachery? + <i>He</i> sanction thee to excommunicate + The prelates whom he chose to crown his son! + + BECKET. + I spake no word of treachery, Reginald. + But for the truth of this I make appeal + To all the archbishops, bishops, prelates, barons, + Monks, knights, five hundred, that were there and heard. + Nay, you yourself were there: you heard yourself. + + FITZURSE. + I was not there. + + BECKET. + I saw you there. + + FITZURSE. + I was not. + + BECKET. + You were. I never forget anything. + + FITZURSE. + He makes the King a traitor, me a liar. + How long shall we forbear him? + + JOHN OF SALISBURY (<i>drawing</i> BECKET <i>aside</i>). + O my good lord. + Speak with them privately on this hereafter. + You see they have been revelling, and I fear + Are braced and brazen'd up with Christmas wines + For any murderous brawl. + + BECKET. + And yet they prate + Of mine, my brawls, when those, that name themselves + Of the King's part, have broken down our barns, + Wasted our diocese, outraged our tenants, + Lifted our produce, driven our clerics out— + Why they, your friends, those ruffians, the De Brocs, + They stood on Dover beach to murder me, + They slew my stags in mine own manor here, + Mutilated, poor brute, my sumpter-mule, + Plunder'd the vessel full of Gascon wine, + The old King's present, carried off the casks, + Kill'd half the crew, dungeon'd the other half + In Pevensey Castle— + + DE MORVILLE. + Why not rather then, + If this be so, complain to your young King, + Not punish of your own authority? + + BECKET. + Mine enemies barr'd all access to the boy. + They knew he loved me. + Hugh, Hugh, how proudly you exalt your head! + Nay, when they seek to overturn our rights, + I ask no leave of king, or mortal man, + To set them straight again. Alone I do it. + Give to the King the things that are the King's, + And those of God to God. + + FITZURSE. + Threats! threats! ye hear him. + What! will he excommunicate all the world? + + [<i>The</i> KNIGHTS <i>come round</i> BECKET. + + DE TRACY. + He shall not. + + DE BRITO. + Well, as yet—I should be grateful— + He hath not excommunicated <i>me</i>. + + BECKET. + Because thou wast <i>born</i> excommunicate. + I never spied in thee one gleam of grace. + + DE BRITO. + Your Christian's Christian charity! + + BECKET. + By St. Denis—— + + DE BRITO. + Ay, by St. Denis, now will he flame out, + And lose his head as old St. Denis did. + + BECKET. + Ye think to scare me from my loyalty + To God and to the Holy Father. No! + Tho' all the swords in England flash'd above me + Ready to fall at Henry's word or yours— + Tho' all the loud-lung'd trumpets upon earth + Blared from the heights of all the thrones of her kings, + Blowing the world against me, I would stand + Clothed with the full authority of Rome, + Mail'd in the perfect panoply of faith, + First of the foremost of their files, who die + For God, to people heaven in the great day + When God makes up his jewels. Once I fled— + Never again, and you—I marvel at you— + Ye know what is between us. Ye have sworn + Yourselves my men when I was Chancellor— + My vassals—and yet threaten your Archbishop + In his own house. + + KNIGHTS. + Nothing can be between us + That goes against our fealty to the King. + + FITZURSE. + And in his name we charge you that ye keep + This traitor from escaping. + + BECKET. + Rest you easy, + For I am easy to keep. I shall not fly. + Here, here, here will you find me. + + DE MORVILLE. + Know you not + You have spoken to the peril of your life? + + BECKET. + As I shall speak again. + + FITZURSE, DE TRACY, <i>and</i> DE BRITO. + To arms! + + [<i>They rush out,</i> DE MORVILLE <i>lingers</i>. + + BECKET. + De Morville, + I had thought so well of you; and even now + You seem the least assassin of the four. + Oh, do not damn yourself for company! + Is it too late for me to save your soul? + I pray you for one moment stay and speak. + + DE MORVILLE. + Becket, it <i>is</i> too late. [<i>Exit</i>. + + BECKET. + Is it too late? + Too late on earth may be too soon in hell. + + KNIGHTS (<i>in the distance</i>). + Close the great gate—ho, there—upon the town. + + BECKET'S RETAINERS. + Shut the hall-doors. [<i>A pause</i>. + + BECKET. + You hear them, brother John; + Why do you stand so silent, brother John? + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + For I was musing on an ancient saw, + <i>Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re,</i> + Is strength less strong when hand-in-hand with grace? + <i>Gratior in pulchro corpore virtus</i>. Thomas, + Why should you heat yourself for such as these? + + BECKET. + Methought I answer'd moderately enough. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + As one that blows the coal to cool the fire. + My lord, I marvel why you never lean + On any man's advising but your own. + + BECKET. + Is it so, Dan John? well, what should I have done? + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + You should have taken counsel with your friends + Before these bandits brake into your presence. + They seek—you make—occasion for your death. + + BECKET. + My counsel is already taken, John. + I am prepared to die. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY + We are sinners all, + The best of all not all-prepared to die. + + BECKET. + God's will be done! + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Ay, well. God's will be done! + + GRIM (<i>re-entering</i>). + My lord, the knights are arming in the garden + Beneath the sycamore. + + BECKET. + Good! let them arm. + + GRIM. + And one of the De Brocs is with them, Robert, + The apostate monk that was with Randulf here. + He knows the twists and turnings of the place. + + BECKET. + No fear! + + GRIM. + No fear, my lord. + + [<i>Crashes on the hall-doors. The</i> MONKS <i>flee</i>. + + BECKET (<i>rising</i>). + Our dovecote flown! + I cannot tell why monks should all be cowards. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Take refuge in your own cathedral, Thomas. + + BECKET. + Do they not fight the Great Fiend day by day? + Valour and holy life should go together. + Why should all monks be cowards? + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Are they so? + I say, take refuge in your own cathedral. + + BECKET. + Ay, but I told them I would wait them here. + + GRIM. + May they not say you dared not show yourself + In your old place? and vespers are beginning. + [<i>Bell rings for vespers till end of scene</i>. + You should attend the office, give them heart. + They fear you slain: they dread they know not what. + + BECKET. + Ay, monks, not men. + + GRIM. + I am a monk, my lord, + Perhaps, my lord, you wrong us. + Some would stand by you to the death. + + BECKET. + Your pardon. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + He said, 'Attend the office.' + + BECKET. + Attend the office? + Why then—The Cross!—who bears my Cross before me? + Methought they would have brain'd me with it, John. + + [GRIM <i>takes it</i>. + + GRIM. + I! Would that I could bear thy cross indeed! + + BECKET. + The Mitre! + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Will you wear it?—there! + + [BECKET <i>puts on the mitre</i>. + + BECKET. + The Pall! + I go to meet my King! [<i>Puts on the pall</i>. + + GRIM. + To meet the King? + [<i>Crashes on the doors as they go out</i>. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + Why do you move with such a stateliness? + Can you not hear them yonder like a storm, + Battering the doors, and breaking thro' the walls? + + BECKET. + Why do the heathen rage? My two good friends, + What matters murder'd here, or murder'd there? + And yet my dream foretold my martyrdom + In mine own church. It is God's will. Go on. + Nay, drag me not. We must not seem to fly. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE III.—<i>North Transept of Canterbury Cathedral. On the right hand + a flight of steps leading to the Choir, another flight on the left, + leading to the North Aisle. Winter afternoon slowly darkening. Low + thunder now and then of an approaching storm</i>. MONKS <i>heard chanting + the service</i>. ROSAMUND <i>kneeling</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ROSAMUND. + O blessed saint, O glorious Benedict,— + These arm'd men in the city, these fierce faces— + Thy holy follower founded Canterbury— + Save that dear head which now is Canterbury, + Save him, he saved my life, he saved my child, + Save him, his blood would darken Henry's name; + Save him till all as saintly as thyself + He miss the searching flame of purgatory, + And pass at once perfect to Paradise. + [<i>Noise of steps and voices in the cloisters</i>. + Hark! Is it they? Coming! He is not here— + Not yet, thank heaven. O save him! + [<i>Goes up steps leading to choir</i>. + + BECKET (<i>entering, forced along by</i> JOHN OF SALISBURY <i>and</i> GRIM). + No, I tell you! + I cannot bear a hand upon my person, + Why do you force me thus against my will? + + GRIM. + My lord, we force you from your enemies. + + BECKET. + As you would force a king from being crown'd. + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + We must not force the crown of martyrdom. + + [<i>Service stops</i>. MONKS <i>come down from the + stairs that lead to the choir</i>. + + MONKS. + Here is the great Archbishop! He lives! he lives! + Die with him, and be glorified together. + + BECKET. + Together?... get you back! go on with the office. + + MONKS. + Come, then, with us to vespers. + + BECKET. + How can I come + When you so block the entry? Back, I say! + Go on with the office. Shall not Heaven be served + Tho' earth's last earthquake clash'd the minster-bells, + And the great deeps were broken up again, + And hiss'd against the sun? [<i>Noise in the cloisters</i>. + + MONKS. + The murderers, hark! + Let us hide! let us hide! + + BECKET. + What do these people fear? + + MONKS. + Those arm'd men in the cloister. + + BECKET. + Be not such cravens! + I will go out and meet them. + + GRIM <i>and others</i>. + Shut the doors! + We will not have him slain before our face. + [<i>They close the doors of the transept. Knocking</i>. + Fly, fly, my lord, before they burst the doors! + [<i>Knocking</i>. + + BECKET. + Why, these are our own monks who follow'd us! + And will you bolt them out, and have <i>them</i> slain? + Undo the doors: the church is not a castle: + Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are you deaf? + What, have I lost authority among you? + Stand by, make way! + [<i>Opens the doors. Enter</i> MONKS <i>from cloister</i>. + Come in, my friends, come in! + Nay, faster, faster! + + MONKS. + Oh, my lord Archbishop, + A score of knights all arm'd with swords and axes— + To the choir, to the choir! + + [<i>Monks divide, part flying by the stairs on the + right, part by those on the left. The rush of + these last bears</i> BECKET <i>along with them some + way up the steps, where he is left standing alone</i>. + + BECKET. + Shall I too pass to the choir, + And die upon the Patriarchal throne + Of all my predecessors? + + JOHN OF SALISBURY. + No, to the crypt! + Twenty steps down. Stumble not in the darkness, + Lest they should seize thee. + + GRIM. + To the crypt? no—no, + To the chapel of St. Blaise beneath the roof! + + JOHN OF SALISBURY (<i>pointing upward and downward</i>). + That way, or this! Save thyself either way. + + BECKET. + Oh, no, not either way, nor any way + Save by that way which leads thro' night to light. + Not twenty steps, but one. + And fear not I should stumble in the darkness, + Not tho' it be their hour, the power of darkness, + But my hour too, the power of light in darkness! + I am not in the darkness but the light, + Seen by the Church in Heaven, the Church on earth— + The power of life in death to make her free! + + [<i>Enter the four</i> KNIGHTS. JOHN OF SALISBURY + <i>flies to the altar of St. Benedict</i>. + + FITZURSE. + Here, here, King's men! + [Catches hold of the last flying MONK. + Where is the traitor Becket? + + MONK. + I am not he! I am not he, my lord. + I am not he indeed! + + FITZURSE. + Hence to the fiend! + [<i>Pushes him away</i>. + Where is this treble traitor to the King? + + DE TRACY. + Where is the Archbishop, Thomas Becket? + + BECKET. + Here. + No traitor to the King, but Priest of God, + Primate of England. + [<i>Descending into the transept</i>. + I am he ye seek. + What would ye have of me? + + FlTZURSE. + Your life. + + DE TRACY. + Your life. + + DE MORVILLE. + Save that you will absolve the bishops. + + BECKET. + Never,— + Except they make submission to the Church. + You had my answer to that cry before. + + DE MORVILLE. + Why, then you are a dead man; flee! + + BECKET. + I will not. + I am readier to be slain, than thou to slay. + Hugh, I know well thou hast but half a heart + To bathe this sacred pavement with my blood. + God pardon thee and these, but God's full curse + Shatter you all to pieces if ye harm + One of my flock! + + FITZURSE. + Was not the great gate shut? + They are thronging in to vespers—half the town. + We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize him and carry him! + Come with us—nay—thou art our prisoner—come! + + DE MORVILLE. + Ay, make him prisoner, do not harm the man. + + [FITZURSE <i>lays hold of the</i> ARCHBISHOP'S <i>pall</i>. + + BECKET. + Touch me not! + + DE BRITO. + How the good priest gods himself! + He is not yet ascended to the Father. + + FITZURSE. + I will not only touch, but drag thee hence. + + BECKET. + Thou art my man, thou art my vassal. Away! + [<i>Flings him off till he reels, almost to falling</i>. + + DE TRACY (<i>lays hold of the pall</i>). + Come; as he said, thou art our prisoner. + + BECKET. + Down! + [<i>Throws him headlong</i>. + + FITZURSE (<i>advances with drawn sword</i>). + I told thee that I should remember thee! + + BECKET. + Profligate pander! + + FITZURSE. + Do you hear that? strike, strike. + + [<i>Strikes off the</i> ARCHBISHOP'S <i>mitre, and wounds + him in the forehead</i>. + + BECKET (<i>covers his eyes with his hand</i>). + I do commend my cause to God, the Virgin, + St. Denis of France and St. Alphege of England, + And all the tutelar Saints of Canterbury. + [GRIM <i>wraps his arms about the</i> ARCHBISHOP. + Spare this defence, dear brother. + + [TRACY <i>has arisen, and approaches, hesitatingly, + with his sword raised</i>. + + FITZURSE. + Strike him, Tracy! + + ROSAMUND (<i>rushing down steps from the choir)</i>. + No, No, No, No! + + FlTZURSE. + This wanton here. De Morville, + Hold her away. + + DE MORVILLE. + I hold her. + + ROSAMUND (<i>held back by</i> DE MORVILLE, <i>and stretching out her arms)</i>. + Mercy, mercy, + As you would hope for mercy. + + FlTZURSE. + Strike, I say. + + GRIM. + O God, O noble knights, O sacrilege! + Strike our Archbishop in his own cathedral! + The Pope, the King, will curse you—the whole world + Abhor you; ye will die the death of dogs! + Nay, nay, good Tracy. [<i>Lifts his arm</i>. + + FlTZURSE. + Answer not, but strike. + + DE TRACY. + There is my answer then. + + [<i>Sword falls on</i> GRIM'S <i>arm, and glances from it, + wounding</i> BECKET. + + GRIM. + Mine arm is sever'd. + I can no more—fight out the good fight—die + Conqueror. [<i>Staggers into the chapel of St. Benedict</i>. + + BECKET (<i>falling on his knees</i>). + At the right hand of Power— + Power and great glory—for thy Church, O Lord— + Into Thy hands, O Lord—into Thy hands!—— + [<i>Sinks prone</i>. + + DE BRITO. + This last to rid thee of a world of brawls! (<i>Kills him</i>.) + The traitor's dead, and will arise no more. + + FITZURSE. + Nay, have we still'd him? What! the great Archbishop! + Does he breathe? No? + + DE TRACY. + No, Reginald, he is dead. + + (<i>Storm bursts</i>.) [Footnote: <i>A tremendous thunderstorm actually + broke over the Cathedral as the murderers were leaving it.</i>] + + DE MORVILLE. + Will the earth gape and swallow us? + + DE BRITO. + The deed's done— + Away! + + [DE BRITO, DE TRACY, FITZURSE. <i>rush out, crying + 'King's men!'</i> DE MORVILLE <i>follows slowly. + Flashes of lightning thro' the Cathedral</i>. + ROSAMUND <i>seen kneeling by the body of</i> BECKET. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CUP + </h2> + <h3> + A TRAGEDY + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>DRAMATIS PERSONAE</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GALATIANS. + + SYNORIX, <i>an ex-Tetrarch</i>. + SINNATUS, <i>a Tetrarch</i>. + <i>Attendant</i>. + <i>Boy</i>. + <i>Maid</i>. + PHOEBE. + CAMMA, <i>wife of Sinnatus, afterwards Priestess in the Temple of + Artemis</i>. + + ROMANS. + + ANTONIUS, <i>a Roman General</i>. + PUBLIUS. + <i>Nobleman</i>. + <i>Messenger</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE CUP. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT I. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—<i>Distant View of a City of Galatia</i>. + + As the curtain rises, Priestesses are heard singing in the Temple. Boy + discovered on a pathway among Rocks, picking grapes. A party of Roman + Soldiers, guarding a prisoner in chains, come down the pathway and + exeunt. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> SYNORIX (<i>looking round</i>). <i>Singing ceases</i>. + + SYNORIX. + Pine, beech and plane, oak, walnut, apricot, + Vine, cypress, poplar, myrtle, bowering in + The city where she dwells. She past me here + Three years ago when I was flying from + My Tetrarchy to Rome. I almost touch'd her— + A maiden slowly moving on to music + Among her maidens to this Temple—O Gods! + She is my fate—else wherefore has my fate + Brought me again to her own city?—married + Since—married Sinnatus, the Tetrarch here— + But if he be conspirator, Rome will chain, + Or slay him. I may trust to gain her then + When I shall have my tetrarchy restored + By Rome, our mistress, grateful that I show'd her + The weakness and the dissonance of our clans, + And how to crush them easily. Wretched race! + And once I wish'd to scourge them to the bones. + But in this narrow breathing-time of life + Is vengeance for its own sake worth the while, + If once our ends are gain'd? and now this cup— + I never felt such passion for a woman. + [<i>Brings out a cup and scroll from under his cloak</i>. + What have I written to her? + + [<i>Reading the scroll</i>. + + 'To the admired Gamma, wife of Sinnatus, the Tetrarch, one who years + ago, himself an adorer of our great goddess, Artemis, beheld you afar + off worshipping in her Temple, and loved you for it, sends you this + cup rescued from the burning of one of her shrines in a city thro' + which he past with the Roman army: it is the cup we use in our + marriages. Receive it from one who cannot at present write himself + other than 'A GALATIAN SERVING BY FORCE IN THE ROMAN LEGION.' + + [<i>Turns and looks up to Boy</i>. + + Boy, dost thou know the house of Sinnatus? + + BOY. + These grapes are for the house of Sinnatus— + Close to the Temple. + + SYNORIX. + Yonder? + + BOY. + Yes. + + SYNORIX (<i>aside</i>). + That I + With all my range of women should yet shun + To meet her face to face at once! My boy, + [<i>Boy comes down rocks to him</i>. + Take thou this letter and this cup to Camma, + The wife of Sinnatus. + + BOY. + Going or gone to-day + To hunt with Sinnatus. + + SYNORIX. + That matters not. + Take thou this cup and leave it at her doors. + [<i>Gives the cup and scroll to the Boy</i>. + + BOY. + I will, my lord. [<i>Takes his basket of grapes and exit</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> ANTONIUS. + + ANTONIUS (<i>meeting the Boy as he goes out</i>). + Why, whither runs the boy? + Is that the cup you rescued from the fire? + + SYNORIX. + I send it to the wife of Sinnatus, + One half besotted in religious rites. + You come here with your soldiers to enforce + The long-withholden tribute: you suspect + This Sinnatus of playing patriotism, + Which in your sense is treason. You have yet + No proof against him: now this pious cup + Is passport to their house, and open arms + To him who gave it; and once there I warrant + I worm thro' all their windings. + + ANTONIUS. + If you prosper, + Our Senate, wearied of their tetrarchies, + Their quarrels with themselves, their spites at Rome, + Is like enough to cancel them, and throne + One king above them all, who shall be true + To the Roman: and from what I heard in Rome, + This tributary crown may fall to you. + + SYNORIX. + The king, the crown! their talk in Rome? is it so? + [ANTONIUS <i>nods</i>. + Well—I shall serve Galatia taking it, + And save her from herself, and be to Rome + More faithful than a Roman. + [<i>Turns and sees</i> CAMMA <i>coming</i>. + Stand aside, + Stand aside; here she comes! + [<i>Watching</i> CAMMA <i>as she enters with her Maid</i>. + + GAMMA (<i>to Maid</i>). + Where is he, girl? + + MAID. + You know the waterfall + That in the summer keeps the mountain side, + But after rain o'erleaps a jutting rock + And shoots three hundred feet. + + CAMMA. + The stag is there? + + MAID. + Seen in the thicket at the bottom there + But yester-even. + + GAMMA. + Good then, we will climb + The mountain opposite and watch the chase. + [<i>They descend the rocks and exeunt</i>. + + SYNORIX (<i>watching her</i>). + (<i>Aside</i>.) The bust of Juno and the brows and eyes + Of Venus; face and form unmatchable! + + ANTONIUS. + Why do you look at her so lingeringly? + + SYNORIX. + To see if years have changed her. + + ANTONIUS (<i>sarcastically</i>). + Love her, do you? + + SYNORIX. + I envied Sinnatus when he married her. + + ANTONIUS. + She knows it? Ha! + + SYNORIX. + She—no, nor ev'n my face. + + ANTONIUS. + Nor Sinnatus either? + + SYNORIX. + No, nor Sinnatus. + + ANTONIUS. + Hot-blooded! I have heard them say in Rome. + That your own people cast you from their bounds, + For some unprincely violence to a woman, + As Rome did Tarquin. + + SYNORIX. + Well, if this were so, + I here return like Tarquin—for a crown. + + ANTONIUS. + And may be foil'd like Tarquin, if you follow + Not the dry light of Rome's straight-going policy, + But the fool-fire of love or lust, which well + May make you lose yourself, may even drown you + In the good regard of Rome. + + SYNORIX. + Tut—fear me not; + I ever had my victories among women. + I am most true to Rome. + + ANTONIUS (<i>aside</i>). + I hate the man! + What filthy tools our Senate works with! Still + I must obey them. (<i>Aloud</i>.) Fare you well. [<i>Going</i>. + + SYNORIX. + Farewell! + + ANTONIUS (<i>stopping</i>). + A moment! If you track this Sinnatus + In any treason, I give you here an order + [<i>Produces a paper</i>. + To seize upon him. Let me sign it. (<i>Signs it</i>.) There + 'Antonius leader of the Roman Legion.' + [<i>Hands the paper to</i> SYNORIX. <i>Goes up pathway and exit</i>. + + SYNORIX. + Woman again!—but I am wiser now. + No rushing on the game—the net,—the net. + [<i>Shouts of</i> 'Sinnatus! Sinnatus!' <i>Then horn. Looking off + stage</i>.] + He comes, a rough, bluff, simple-looking fellow. + If we may judge the kernel by the husk, + Not one to keep a woman's fealty when + Assailed by Craft and Love. I'll join with him: + I may reap something from him—come upon <i>her</i> + Again, perhaps, to-day—<i>her</i>. Who are with him? + I see no face that knows me. Shall I risk it? + I am a Roman now, they dare not touch me. + I will. + + <i>Enter</i> SINNATUS, HUNTSMEN <i>and hounds</i>. + + Fair Sir, a happy day to you! + You reck but little of the Roman here, + While you can take your pastime in the woods. + + SlNNATUS. + Ay, ay, why not? What would you with me, man? + + SYNORIX. + I am a life-long lover of the chase, + And tho' a stranger fain would be allow'd + To join the hunt. + + SlNNATUS. + Your name? + + SYNORIX. + Strato, my name. + + SlNNATUS. + No Roman name? + + SYNORIX. + A Greek, my lord; you know + That we Galatians are both Greek and Gaul. + [<i>Shouts and horns in the distance</i> + + SINNATUS. + Hillo, the stag! (<i>To</i> SYNORIX.) What, you are all unfurnish'd? + Give him a bow and arrows—follow—follow. + [<i>Exit, followed by Huntsmen</i>. + + SYNORIX. + Slowly but surely—till I see my way. + It is the one step in the dark beyond + Our expectation, that amazes us. + [<i>Distant shouts and horns</i>. + Hillo! Hillo! + [<i>Exit</i> SYNORIX. <i>Shouts and horns</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—<i>A Room in the Tetrarch's House</i>. + + Frescoed figures on the walls. Evening. Moonlight outside. A couch + with cushions on it. A small table with flagon of wine, cups, plate of + grapes, etc., also the cup of Scene I. A chair with drapery on it. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CAMMA <i>enters, and opens' curtains of window</i>. + + CAMMA. + No Sinnatus yet—and there the rising moon. + [<i>Takes up a cithern and sits on couch. Plays and sings</i>. + + 'Moon on the field and the foam, + Moon on the waste and the wold, + Moon bring him home, bring him home + Safe from the dark and the cold, + Home, sweet moon, bring him home, + Home with the flock to the fold— + Safe from the wolf'—— + + (<i>Listening</i>.) Is he coming? I thought I heard + A footstep. No not yet. They say that Rome + Sprang from a wolf. I fear my dear lord mixt + With some conspiracy against the wolf. + This mountain shepherd never dream'd of Rome. + (<i>Sings</i>.) 'Safe from the wolf to the fold'—— + And that great break of precipice that runs + Thro' all the wood, where twenty years ago + Huntsman, and hound, and deer were all neck-broken! + Nay, here he comes. + + <i>Enter</i> SINNATUS <i>followed by</i> SYNORIX. + + SINNATUS (<i>angrily</i>). + I tell thee, my good fellow, + My arrow struck the stag. + + SYNORIX. + But was it so? + Nay, you were further off: besides the wind + Went with <i>my</i> arrow. + + SINNATUS. + I am sure <i>I</i> struck him. + + SYNORIX. + And I am just as sure, my lord, <i>I</i> struck him. + (<i>Aside</i>.) And I may strike your game when you are gone. + + CAMMA. + Come, come, we will not quarrel about the stag. + I have had a weary day in watching you. + Yours must have been a wearier. Sit and eat, + And take a hunter's vengeance on the meats. + + SINNATUS. + No, no—we have eaten—we are heated. Wine! + + CAMMA. + Who is our guest? + + SINNATUS. + Strato he calls himself. + + [CAMMA <i>offers wine to</i> SYNORIX, <i>while</i> SINNATUS <i>helps + himself</i>. + + SINNATUS. + I pledge you, Strato. [<i>Drinks</i>. + + SYNORIX. + And I you, my lord. [<i>Drinks</i>. + + SINNATUS (<i>seeing the cup sent to</i> CAMMA). + What's here? + + CAMMA. + A strange gift sent to me to-day. + A sacred cup saved from a blazing shrine + Of our great Goddess, in some city where + Antonius past. I had believed that Rome + Made war upon the peoples not the Gods. + + SYNORIX. + Most like the city rose against Antonius, + Whereon he fired it, and the sacred shrine + By chance was burnt along with it. + + SINNATUS. + Had you then + No message with the cup? + + CAMMA. + Why, yes, see here. + [<i>Gives him the scroll</i>. + + SINNATUS (<i>reads</i>). + 'To the admired Camma,—beheld you afar off—loved you—sends you this + cup—the cup we use in our marriages—cannot at present write himself + other than + 'A GALATIAN SERVING BY FORCE IN THE ROMAN LEGION.' + + Serving by force! Were there no boughs to hang on, + Rivers to drown in? Serve by force? No force + Could make me serve by force. + + SYNORIX. + How then, my lord? + The Roman is encampt without your city— + The force of Rome a thousand-fold our own. + Must all Galatia hang or drown herself? + And you a Prince and Tetrarch in this province— + + SINNATUS. + Province! + + SYNORIX. + Well, well, they call it so in Rome. + + SINNATUS (<i>angrily</i>). + Province! + + SYNORIX. + A noble anger! but Antonius + To-morrow will demand your tribute—you, + Can you make war? Have you alliances? + Bithynia, Pontus, Paphlagonia? + We have had our leagues of old with Eastern kings. + There is my hand—if such a league there be. + What will you do? + + SINNATUS. + Not set myself abroach + And run my mind out to a random guest + Who join'd me in the hunt. You saw my hounds + True to the scent; and we have two-legg'd dogs + Among us who can smell a true occasion, + And when to bark and how. + + SYNORIX. + My good Lord Sinnatus, + I once was at the hunting of a lion. + Roused by the clamour of the chase he woke, + Came to the front of the wood—his monarch mane + Bristled about his quick ears—he stood there + Staring upon the hunter. A score of dogs + Gnaw'd at his ankles: at the last he felt + The trouble of his feet, put forth one paw, + Slew four, and knew it not, and so remain'd + Staring upon the hunter: and this Rome + Will crush you if you wrestle with her; then + Save for some slight report in her own Senate + Scarce know what she has done. + (<i>Aside</i>.) Would I could move him, + Provoke him any way! (<i>Aloud</i>.) The Lady Camma, + Wise I am sure as she is beautiful, + Will close with me that to submit at once + Is better than a wholly-hopeless war, + Our gallant citizens murder'd all in vain, + Son, husband, brother gash'd to death in vain, + And the small state more cruelly trampled on + Than had she never moved. + + CAMMA. + Sir, I had once + A boy who died a babe; but were he living + And grown to man and Sinnatus will'd it, I + Would set him in the front rank of the fight + With scarce a pang. (<i>Rises</i>.) Sir, if a state submit + At once, she may be blotted out at once + And swallow'd in the conqueror's chronicle. + Whereas in wars of freedom and defence + The glory and grief of battle won or lost + Solders a race together—yea—tho' they fail, + The names of those who fought and fell are like + A bank'd-up fire that flashes out again + From century to century, and at last + May lead them on to victory—I hope so— + Like phantoms of the Gods. + + SINNATUS. + Well spoken, wife. + + SYNORIX (<i>bowing</i>). + Madam, so well I yield. + + SINNATUS. + I should not wonder + If Synorix, who has dwelt three years in Rome + And wrought his worst against his native land. + Returns with this Antonius. + + SYNORIX. + What is Synorix? + + SINNATUS. + Galatian, and not know? This Synorix + Was Tetrarch here, and tyrant also—did + Dishonour to our wives. + + SYNORIX. + Perhaps you judge him + With feeble charity: being as you tell me + Tetrarch, there might be willing wives enough + To feel dishonour, honour. + + CAMMA. + Do not say so. + I know of no such wives in all Galatia. + There may be courtesans for aught I know + Whose life is one dishonour. + + <i>Enter</i> ATTENDANT. + + ATTENDANT (<i>aside</i>). + My lord, the men! + + SINNATUS (<i>aside</i>). + Our anti-Roman faction? + + ATTENDANT (<i>aside</i>). + Ay, my lord. + + SYNORIX (<i>overhearing</i>). + (<i>Aside</i>.) I have enough—their anti-Roman faction. + + SINNATUS (<i>aloud</i>). + Some friends of mine would speak with me without. + You, Strato, make good cheer till I return. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + SYNORIX. + I have much to say, no time to say it in. + First, lady, know myself am that Galatian + Who sent the cup. + + CAMMA. + I thank you from my heart. + + SYNORIX. + Then that I serve with Rome to serve Galatia. + That is my secret: keep it, or you sell me + To torment and to death. [<i>Coming closer</i>. + For your ear only— + I love you—for your love to the great Goddess. + The Romans sent me here a spy upon you, + To draw you and your husband to your doom. + I'd sooner die than do it. + [<i>Takes out paper given him by Antonius</i>. + This paper sign'd + Antonius—will you take it, read it? there! + + CAMMA. + (<i>Reads</i>.) 'You are to seize on Sinnatus,—if——' + + SYNORIX. (<i>Snatches paper</i>.) + No more. + What follows is for no wife's eyes. O Camma, + Rome has a glimpse of this conspiracy; + Rome never yet hath spar'd conspirator. + Horrible! flaying, scourging, crucifying——— + + CAMMA. + I am tender enough. Why do you practise on me? + + SYNORIX. + Why should I practise on you? How you wrong me! + I am sure of being every way malign'd. + And if you should betray me to your husband——— + + CAMMA. + Will <i>you</i> betray him by this order? + + SYNORIX. + See, + I tear it all to pieces, never dream'd + Of acting on it. [<i>Tears the paper</i>. + + CAMMA. + I owe you thanks for ever. + + SYNORIX. + Hath Sinnatus never told you of this plot? + + CAMMA. + What plot? + + SYNORIX. + A child's sand-castle on the beach + For the next wave—all seen,—all calculated, + All known by Rome. No chance for Sinnatus. + + CAMMA. + Why said you not as much to my brave Sinnatus? + + SYNORIX. + Brave—ay—too brave, too over-confident, + Too like to ruin himself, and you, and me! + Who else, with this black thunderbolt of Rome + Above him, would have chased the stag to-day + In the full face of all the Roman camp? + A miracle that they let him home again, + Not caught, maim'd, blinded him. + + [CAMMA <i>shudders</i>. + + (<i>Aside</i>.) I have made her tremble. + (<i>Aloud</i>.) I know they mean to torture him to death. + I dare not tell him how I came to know it; + I durst not trust him with—my serving Rome + To serve Galatia: you heard him on the letter. + Not say as much? I all but said as much. + I am sure I told him that his plot was folly. + I say it to you—you are wiser—Rome knows all, + But you know not the savagery of Rome. + + CAMMA. + O—have you power with Rome? use it for him! + + SYNORIX. + Alas! I have no such power with Rome. All that + Lies with Antonius. + + [<i>As if struck by a sudden thought. Comes over to her</i>. + + He will pass to-morrow + In the gray dawn before the Temple doors. + You have beauty,—O great beauty,—and Antonius, + So gracious toward women, never yet + Flung back a woman's prayer. Plead to him, + I am sure you will prevail. + + CAMMA. + Still—I should tell + My husband. + + SYNORIX. + Will he let you plead for him + To a Roman? + + CAMMA. + I fear not. + + SYNORIX. + Then do not tell him. + Or tell him, if you will, when you return, + When you have charm'd our general into mercy, + And all is safe again. O dearest lady, + + [<i>Murmurs of</i> 'Synorix! Synorix!' <i>heard outside</i>. + + Think,—torture,—death,—and come. + + CAMMA. + I will, I will. + And I will not betray you. + + SYNORIX (<i>aside</i>). + (<i>As</i> SINNATUS <i>enters</i>.) Stand apart. + + <i>Enter</i> SINNATUS <i>and</i> ATTENDANT. + + SINNATUS. + Thou art that Synorix! One whom thou hast wrong'd + Without there, knew thee with Antonius. + They howl for thee, to rend thee head from limb. + + SYNORIX. + I am much malign'd. I thought to serve Galatia. + + SINNATUS. + Serve thyself first, villain! They shall not harm + My guest within my house. There! (<i>points to door</i>) there! this door + Opens upon the forest! Out, begone! + Henceforth I am thy mortal enemy. + + SYNORIX. + However I thank thee (<i>draws his sword</i>); thou hast + saved my life. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + SINNATUS. (<i>To Attendant</i>.) + Return and tell them Synorix is not here. [<i>Exit Attendant</i>. + What did that villain Synorix say to you? + + GAMMA. + Is <i>he—that</i>—Synorix? + + SINNATUS. + Wherefore should you doubt it? + One of the men there knew him. + + CAMMA. + Only one, + And he perhaps mistaken in the face. + + SINNATUS. + Come, come, could he deny it? What did he say? + + CAMMA. + What <i>should</i> he say? + + SINNATUS. + What <i>should</i> he say, my wife! + He should say this, that being Tetrarch once + His own true people cast him from their doors + Like a base coin. + + CAMMA. + Not kindly to them? + + SINNATUS. + Kindly? + O the most kindly Prince in all the world! + Would clap his honest citizens on the back, + Bandy their own rude jests with them, be curious + About the welfare of their babes, their wives, + O ay—their wives—their wives. What should he say? + He should say nothing to my wife if I + Were by to throttle him! He steep'd himself + In all the lust of Rome. How should <i>you</i> guess + What manner of beast it is? + + CAMMA. + Yet he seem'd kindly, + And said he loathed the cruelties that Rome + Wrought on her vassals. + + SINNATUS. + Did he, <i>honest</i> man? + + CAMMA. + And you, that seldom brook the stranger here, + Have let him hunt the stag with you to-day. + + SINNATUS. + I warrant you now, he said <i>he</i> struck the stag. + + CAMMA. + Why no, he never touch'd upon the stag. + + SINNATUS. + Why so I said, <i>my</i> arrow. Well, to sleep. + [<i>Goes to close door</i>. + + CAMMA. + Nay, close not yet the door upon a night + That looks half day. + + SINNATUS. + True; and my friends may spy him + And slay him as he runs. + + CAMMA. + He is gone already. + Oh look,—yon grove upon the mountain,—white + In the sweet moon as with a lovelier snow! + But what a blotch of blackness underneath! + Sinnatus, you remember—yea, you must, + That there three years ago—the vast vine-bowers + Ran to the summit of the trees, and dropt + Their streamers earthward, which a breeze of May + Took ever and anon, and open'd out + The purple zone of hill and heaven; there + You told your love; and like the swaying vines— + Yea,—with our eyes,—our hearts, our prophet hopes + Let in the happy distance, and that all + But cloudless heaven which we have found together + In our three married years! You kiss'd me there + For the first time. Sinnatus, kiss me now. + + SINNATUS. + First kiss. (<i>Kisses her</i>.) There then. You talk almost as if it + Might be the last. + + CAMMA. + Will you not eat a little? + + SINNATUS. + No, no, we found a goat-herd's hut and shared + His fruits and milk. Liar! You will believe + Now that he never struck the stag—a brave one + Which you shall see to-morrow. + + CAMMA. + I rise to-morrow + In the gray dawn, and take this holy cup + To lodge it in the shrine of Artemis. + + SINNATUS. + Good! + + CAMMA. + If I be not back in half an hour, + Come after me. + + SINNATUS. + What! is there danger? + + CAMMA. + Nay, + None that I know: 'tis but a step from here + To the Temple. + + SINNATUS. + All my brain is full of sleep. + Wake me before you go, I'll after you— + After <i>me</i> now! [<i>Closes door and exit</i>. + + CAMMA (<i>drawing curtains</i>). + Your shadow. Synorix— + His face was not malignant, and he said + That men malign'd him. Shall I go? Shall I go? + Death, torture— + 'He never yet flung back a woman's prayer'— + I go, but I will have my dagger with me. + + [<i>Exit</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE III.—<i>Same as Scene I. Dawn</i>. + + Music and Singing in the Temple. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> SYNORIX <i>watchfully, after him</i> PUBLIUS <i>and</i> SOLDIERS. + + SYNORIX. + Publius! + + PUBLIUS. + Here! + + SYNORIX. + Do you remember what + I told you? + + PUBLIUS. + When you cry 'Rome, Rome,' to seize + On whomsoever may be talking with you, + Or man, or woman, as traitors unto Rome. + + SYNORIX. + Right. Back again. How many of you are there? + + PUBLIUS. + Some half a score. + [<i>Exeunt Soldiers and Publius</i>. + + SYNORIX. + I have my guard about me. + I need not fear the crowd that hunted me + Across the woods, last night. I hardly gain'd + The camp at midnight. Will she come to me + Now that she knows me Synorix? Not if Sinnatus + Has told her all the truth about me. Well, + I cannot help the mould that I was cast in. + I fling all that upon my fate, my star. + I know that I am genial, I would be + Happy, and make all others happy so + They did not thwart me. Nay, she will not come. + Yet if she be a true and loving wife + She may, perchance, to save this husband. Ay! + See, see, my white bird stepping toward the snare. + Why now I count it all but miracle, + That this brave heart of mine should shake me so, + As helplessly as some unbearded boy's + When first he meets his maiden in a bower. + + <i>Enter</i> CAMMA (<i>with cup</i>). + + SYNORIX. + The lark first takes the sunlight on his wing, + But you, twin sister of the morning star, + Forelead the sun. + + CAMMA. + Where is Antonius? + + SYNORIX. + Not here as yet. You are too early for him. + [<i>She crosses towards Temple</i>. + + SYNORIX. + Nay, whither go you now? + + CAMMA. + To lodge this cup + Within the holy shrine of Artemis, + And so return. + + SYNORIX. + To find Antonius here. + + [<i>She goes into the Temple, he looks after her</i>. + + The loveliest life that ever drew the light + From heaven to brood upon her, and enrich + Earth with her shadow! I trust she <i>will</i> return. + These Romans dare not violate the Temple. + No, I must lure my game into the camp. + A woman I could live and die for. What! + Die for a woman, what new faith is this? + I am not mad, not sick, not old enough + To doat on one alone. Yes, mad for her, + Camma the stately, Camma the great-hearted, + So mad, I fear some strange and evil chance + Coming upon me, for by the Gods I seem + Strange to myself. + + <i>Re-enter</i> CAMMA. + + CAMMA. + Where is Antonius? + + SYNORIX. + Where? As I said before, you are still too early. + + CAMMA. + Too early to be here alone with thee; + For whether men malign thy name, or no, + It bears an evil savour among women. + Where is Antonius? (<i>Loud</i>.) + + SYNORIX. + Madam, as you know + The camp is half a league without the city; + If you will walk with me we needs must meet + Antonius coming, or at least shall find him + There in the camp. + + CAMMA. + No, not one step with thee. + Where is Antonius? (<i>Louder</i>.) + + SYNORIX (<i>advancing towards her</i>). + Then for your own sake, + Lady, I say it with all gentleness, + And for the sake of Sinnatus your husband, + I must compel you. + + CAMMA (<i>drawing her dagger</i>). + Stay!—too near is death. + + SYNORIX (<i>disarming her</i>). + Is it not easy to disarm a woman? + + <i>Enter</i> SINNATUS (<i>seizes him from behind by the throat</i>). + + SYNORIX (<i>throttled and scarce audible</i>). + Rome! Rome! + + SINNATUS. + Adulterous dog! + + SYNORIX (<i>stabbing him with</i> CAMMA'S <i>dagger</i>). + What! will you have it? + + [CAMMA <i>utters a cry and runs to</i> SINNATUS. + + SINNATUS (<i>falls backward</i>). + I have it in my heart—to the Temple—fly— + For <i>my</i> sake—or they seize on thee. Remember! + Away—farewell! [<i>Dies</i>. + + CAMMA (<i>runs up the steps into the Temple, looking back</i>). + Farewell! + + SYNORIX (<i>seeing her escape</i>). + The women of the Temple drag her in. + Publius! Publius! No, + Antonius would not suffer me to break + Into the sanctuary. She hath escaped. + [<i>Looking down at</i> SINNATUS. + 'Adulterous dog!' that red-faced rage at me! + Then with one quick short stab—eternal peace. + So end all passions. Then what use in passions? + To warm the cold bounds of our dying life + And, lest we freeze in mortal apathy, + Employ us, heat us, quicken us, help us, keep us + From seeing all too near that urn, those ashes + Which all must be. Well used, they serve us well. + I heard a saying in Egypt, that ambition + Is like the sea wave, which the more you drink, + The more you thirst—yea—drink too much, as men + Have done on rafts of wreck—it drives you mad. + I will be no such wreck, am no such gamester + As, having won the stake, would dare the chance + Of double, or losing all. The Roman Senate, + For I have always play'd into their hands, + Means me the crown. And Camma for my bride— + The people love her—if I win her love, + They too will cleave to me, as one with her. + There then I rest, Rome's tributary king. + [<i>Looking down on</i> SINNATUS. + Why did I strike him?—having proof enough + Against the man, I surely should have left + That stroke to Rome. He saved my life too. Did he? + It seem'd so. I have play'd the sudden fool. + And that sets her against me—for the moment. + Camma—well, well, I never found the woman + I could not force or wheedle to my will. + She will be glad at last to wear my crown. + And I will make Galatia prosperous too, + And we will chirp among our vines, and smile + At bygone things till that (<i>pointing to</i> SINNATUS) eternal peace. + Rome! Rome! + + <i>Enter</i> PUBLIUS <i>and</i> SOLDIERS. + + Twice I cried Rome. Why came ye not before? + + PUBLIUS. + Why come we now? Whom shall we seize upon? + + SYNORIX (<i>pointing to the body of</i> SINNATUS). + The body of that dead traitor Sinnatus. + Bear him away. + + <i>Music and Singing in Temple</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT II +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE.—<i>Interior of the Temple of Artemis</i>. Small gold gates on + platform in front of the veil before the colossal statue of the + Goddess, and in the centre of the Temple a tripod altar, on which is a + lighted lamp. Lamps (lighted) suspended between each pillar. Tripods, + vases, garlands of flowers, etc., about stage. Altar at back close to + Goddess, with two cups. Solemn music. Priestesses decorating the + Temple. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (<i>The Chorus of</i> PRIESTESSES <i>sing as they enter</i>.) + + Artemis, Artemis, hear us, O Mother, hear us, and bless us! + Artemis, thou that art life to the wind, to the wave, to the glebe, + to the fire! + Hear thy people who praise thee! O help us from all that oppress us! + Hear thy priestesses hymn thy glory! O yield them all their desire! + + PRIESTESS. + Phoebe, that man from Synorix, who has been + So oft to see the Priestess, waits once more + Before the Temple. + + PHOEBE. + We will let her know. + [<i>Signs to one of the Priestesses, who goes out</i>. + Since Camma fled from Synorix to our Temple, + And for her beauty, stateliness, and power, + Was chosen Priestess here, have you not mark'd + Her eyes were ever on the marble floor? + To-day they are fixt and bright—they look straight out. + Hath she made up her mind to marry him? + + PRIESTESS. + To marry him who stabb'd her Sinnatus. + You will not easily make me credit that. + + PHOEBE. + Ask her. + + <i>Enter</i> CAMMA <i>as Priestess (in front of the curtains</i>). + + PRIESTESS. + You will not marry Synorix? + + CAMMA. + My girl, I am the bride of Death, and only + Marry the dead. + + PRIESTESS. + Not Synorix then? + + CAMMA. + + My girl, + At times this oracle of great Artemis + Has no more power than other oracles + To speak directly. + + PHOEBE. + Will you speak to him, + The messenger from Synorix who waits + Before the Temple? + + CAMMA. + Why not? Let him enter. + [<i>Comes forward on to step by tripod. + + Enter a</i> MESSENGER. + + MESSENGER (<i>kneels</i>). + Greeting and health from Synorix! More than once + You have refused his hand. When last I saw you, + You all but yielded. He entreats you now + For your last answer. When he struck at Sinnatus— + As I have many a time declared to you— + He knew not at the moment who had fasten'd + About his throat—he begs you to forget it. + As scarce his act:—a random stroke: all else + Was love for you: he prays you to believe him. + + CAMMA. + I pray him to believe—that I believe him. + + MESSENGER. + Why that is well. You mean to marry him? + + CAMMA. + I mean to marry him—if that be well. + + MESSENGER. + This very day the Romans crown him king + For all his faithful services to Rome. + He wills you then this day to marry him, + And so be throned together in the sight + Of all the people, that the world may know + You twain are reconciled, and no more feuds + Disturb our peaceful vassalage to Rome. + + CAMMA. + To-day? Too sudden. I will brood upon it. + When do they crown him? + + MESSENGER. + Even now. + + CAMMA. + And where? + + MESSENGER. + Here by your temple. + + CAMMA. + + Come once more to me + Before the crowning,—I will answer you. + + [<i>Exit Messenger</i>. + + PHOEBE. + Great Artemis! O Camma, can it be well, + Or good, or wise, that you should clasp a hand + Red with the sacred blood of Sinnatus? + + CAMMA. + Good! mine own dagger driven by Synorix found + All good in the true heart of Sinnatus, + And quench'd it there for ever. Wise! + Life yields to death and wisdom bows to Fate, + Is wisest, doing so. Did not this man + Speak well? We cannot fight imperial Rome, + But he and I are both Galatian-born, + And tributary sovereigns, he and I + Might teach this Rome—from knowledge of our people— + Where to lay on her tribute—heavily here + And lightly there. Might I not live for that, + And drown all poor self-passion in the sense + Of public good? + + PHOEBE. + I am sure you will not marry him. + + CAMMA. + Are you so sure? I pray you wait and see. + + [<i>Shouts (from the distance</i>), 'Synorix! Synorix!' + + CAMMA. + Synorix, Synorix! So they cried Sinnatus + Not so long since—they sicken me. The One + Who shifts his policy suffers something, must + Accuse himself, excuse himself; the Many + Will feel no shame to give themselves the lie. + + PHOEBE. + Most like it was the Roman soldier shouted. + + CAMMA. + Their shield-borne patriot of the morning star + Hang'd at mid-day, their traitor of the dawn + The clamour'd darling of their afternoon! + And that same head they would have play'd at ball with + And kick'd it featureless—they now would crown. + + [<i>Flourish of trumpets</i>. + + <i>Enter a Galatian</i> NOBLEMAN <i>with crown on a cushion</i>. + + NOBLE (<i>kneels</i>). + Greeting and health from Synorix. He sends you + This diadem of the first Galatian Queen, + That you may feed your fancy on the glory of it, + And join your life this day with his, and wear it + Beside him on his throne. He waits your answer. + + CAMMA. + Tell him there is one shadow among the shadows, + One ghost of all the ghosts—as yet so new, + So strange among them—such an alien there, + So much of husband in it still—that if + The shout of Synorix and Camma sitting + Upon one throne, should reach it, <i>it</i> would rise + <i>He!</i>... HE, with that red star between the ribs, + And my knife there—and blast the king and me, + And blanch the crowd with horror. I dare not, sir! + Throne him—and then the marriage—ay and tell him + That I accept the diadem of Galatia— + [<i>All are amazed</i>. + Yea, that ye saw me crown myself withal. + [<i>Puts on the crown</i>. + I wait him his crown'd queen. + + NOBLE. + So will I tell him. + + [<i>Exit</i>. + + Music. Two Priestesses go up the steps before the shrine, draw the + curtains on either side (discovering the Goddess), then open the gates + and remain on steps, one on either side, and kneel. A priestess goes + off and returns with a veil of marriage, then assists Phoebe to veil + Camma. At the same time Priestesses enter and stand on either side of + the Temple. Camma and all the Priestesses kneel, raise their hands to + the Goddess, and bow down. + + [<i>Shouts</i>, 'Synorix! Synorix!' <i>All rise</i>. + + CAMMA. + Fling wide the doors, and let the new-made children + Of our imperial mother see the show. + + [<i>Sunlight pours through the doors</i>. + + I have no heart to do it. (<i>To Phoebe</i>). Look for me! + + [<i>Crouches</i>. PHOEBE <i>looks out</i>. + + [<i>Shouts</i>, 'Synorix! Synorix!' + + PHOEBE. + He climbs the throne. Hot blood, ambition, pride + So bloat and redden his face—O would it were + His third last apoplexy! O bestial! + O how unlike our goodly Sinnatus. + + CAMMA (<i>on the ground</i>). + You wrong him surely; far as the face goes + A goodlier-looking man than Sinnatus. + + PHOEBE (<i>aside</i>). + How dare she say it? I could hate her for it + But that she is distracted. [<i>A flourish of trumpets</i>. + + CAMMA. + Is he crown'd? + + PHOEBE. + Ay, there they crown him. + + [<i>Crowd without shout</i>, 'Synorix! Synorix!' + + [<i>A Priestess brings a box of spices to</i> CAMMA, + <i>who throws them on the altar-flame</i>. + + CAMMA. + Rouse the dead altar-flame, fling in the spices, + Nard, Cinnamon, amomum, benzoin. + Let all the air reel into a mist of odour, + As in the midmost heart of Paradise. + Lay down the Lydian carpets for the king. + The king should pace on purple to his bride, + And music there to greet my lord the king. [<i>Music</i>. + (<i>To Phoebe</i>). Dost thou remember when I wedded Sinnatus? + Ay, thou wast there—whether from maiden fears + Or reverential love for him I loved, + Or some strange second-sight, the marriage cup + Wherefrom we make libation to the Goddess + So shook within my hand, that the red wine + Ran down the marble and lookt like blood, like blood. + + PHOEBE. + I do remember your first-marriage fears. + + CAMMA. + I have no fears at this my second marriage. + See here—I stretch my hand out—hold it there. + How steady it is! + + PHOEBE. + Steady enough to stab him! + + CAMMA. + O hush! O peace! This violence ill becomes + The silence of our Temple. Gentleness, + Low words best chime with this solemnity. + + <i>Enter a procession of Priestesses and Children bearing + garlands and golden goblets, and strewing flowers</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> SYNORIX (<i>as King, with gold laurel-wreath crown + and purple robes), followed by</i> ANTONIUS, PUBLIUS, + <i>Noblemen, Guards, and the Populace</i>. + + CAMMA. + + Hail, King! + + SYNORIX. + + Hail, Queen! + The wheel of Fate has roll'd me to the top. + I would that happiness were gold, that I + Might cast my largess of it to the crowd! + I would that every man made feast to-day + Beneath the shadow of our pines and planes! + For all my truer life begins to-day. + The past is like a travell'd land now sunk + Below the horizon—like a barren shore + That grew salt weeds, but now all drown'd in love + And glittering at full tide—the bounteous bays + And havens filling with a blissful sea. + Nor speak I now too mightily, being King + And happy! happiest, Lady, in my power + To make you happy. + + CAMMA. + Yes, sir. + + SYNORIX. + Our Antonius, + Our faithful friend of Rome, tho' Rome may set + A free foot where she will, yet of his courtesy + Entreats he may be present at our marriage. + + CAMMA. + Let him come—a legion with him, if he will. + (<i>To</i> ANTONIUS.) Welcome, my lord Antonius, to our Temple. + (<i>To</i> SYNORIX.) You on this side the altar. + (<i>To</i> ANTONIUS.) You on that. + Call first upon the Goddess, Synorix. + + [<i>All face the Goddess. Priestesses, Children, Populace, + and Guards kneel—the others remain standing</i>. + + SYNORIX. + O Thou, that dost inspire the germ with life, + The child, a thread within the house of birth, + And give him limbs, then air, and send him forth + The glory of his father—Thou whose breath + Is balmy wind to robe our hills with grass, + And kindle all our vales with myrtle-blossom, + And roll the golden oceans of our grain, + And sway the long grape-bunches of our vines, + And fill all hearts with fatness and the lust + Of plenty—make me happy in my marriage! + + CHORUS (<i>chanting</i>). + + Artemis, Artemis, hear him, Ionian Artemis! + + CAMMA. + O Thou that slayest the babe within the womb + Or in the being born, or after slayest him + As boy or man, great Goddess, whose storm-voice + Unsockets the strong oak, and rears his root + Beyond his head, and strows our fruits, and lays + Our golden grain, and runs to sea and makes it + Foam over all the fleeted wealth of kings + And peoples, hear. + Whose arrow is the plague—whose quick flash splits + The mid-sea mast, and rifts the tower to the rock, + And hurls the victor's column down with him + That crowns it, hear. + Who causest the safe earth to shudder and gape, + And gulf and flatten in her closing chasm + Domed cities, hear. + Whose lava-torrents blast and blacken a province + To a cinder, hear. + Whose winter-cataracts find a realm and leave it + A waste of rock and ruin, hear. I call thee + To make my marriage prosper to my wish! + + CHORUS. + Artemis, Artemis, hear her, Ephesian Artemis! + + CAMMA. + Artemis, Artemis, hear me, Galatian Artemis! + I call on our own Goddess in our own Temple. + + CHORUS. + + Artemis, Artemis, hear her, Galatian Artemis! + + [<i>Thunder. All rise</i>. + + SYNORIX (<i>aside</i>). + Thunder! Ay, ay, the storm was drawing hither + Across the hills when I was being crown'd. + I wonder if I look as pale as she? + + CAMMA. + Art thou—still bent—on marrying? + + SYNORIX. + Surely—yet + These are strange words to speak to Artemis. + + CAMMA. + Words are not always what they seem, my King. + I will be faithful to thee till thou die. + + SYNORIX. + I thank thee, Camma,—I thank thee. + + CAMMA (<i>turning to</i> ANTONIUS). + Antonius, + Much graced are we that our Queen Rome in you + Deigns to look in upon our barbarisms. + + [<i>Turns, goes up steps to altar before the Goddess. + Takes a cup from off the altar. Holds it towards</i> + ANTONIUS. ANTONIUS <i>goes up to the foot of the + steps, opposite to</i> SYNORIX. + + You see this cup, my lord. [<i>Gives it to him</i>. + + ANTONIUS. + Most curious! + The many-breasted mother Artemis + Emboss'd upon it. + + CAMMA. + It is old, I know not + How many hundred years. Give it me again. + It is the cup belonging our own Temple. + + [<i>Puts it back on altar, and takes up the cup + of Act I. Showing it to</i> ANTONIUS. + + Here is another sacred to the Goddess, + The gift of Synorix; and the Goddess, being + For this most grateful, wills, thro' me her Priestess, + In honour of his gift and of our marriage, + That Synorix should drink from his own cup. + + SYNORIX. + I thank thee, Camma,—I thank thee. + + CAMMA. + For—my lord— + It is our ancient custom in Galatia + That ere two souls be knit for life and death, + They two should drink together from one cup, + In symbol of their married unity, + Making libation to the Goddess. Bring me + The costly wines we use in marriages. + + [<i>They bring in a large jar of wine</i>. + CAMMA <i>pours wine into cup</i>. + + (<i>To</i> SYNORIX.) See here, I fill it. + (<i>To</i> ANTONIUS.) Will you drink, my lord? + + ANTONIUS. + I? Why should I? I am not to be married. + + CAMMA. + But that might bring a Roman blessing on us. + + ANTONIUS (<i>refusing cup</i>). + Thy pardon, Priestess! + + CAMMA. + Thou art in the right. + This blessing is for Synorix and for me. + See first I make libation to the Goddess, + [<i>Makes libation</i>. + And now I drink. [<i>Drinks and fills the cup again</i>. + Thy turn, Galatian King. + Drink and drink deep—our marriage will be fruitful. + Drink and drink deep, and thou wilt make me happy. + + [SYNORIX <i>goes up to her. She hands him the cup. He drinks</i>. + + SYNORIX. + There, Gamma! I have almost drain'd the cup— + A few drops left. + + CAMMA. + Libation to the Goddess. + + [<i>He throws the remaining drops on the altar + and gives</i> CAMMA <i>the cup</i>. + + CAMMA (<i>placing the cup on the altar</i>). + Why then the Goddess hears. + [<i>Comes down and forward to tripod</i>. ANTONIUS <i>follows</i>. + Antonius, + Where wast thou on that morning when I came + To plead to thee for Sinnatus's life, + Beside this temple half a year ago? + + ANTONIUS. + I never heard of this request of thine. + + SYNORIX (<i>coming forward hastily to foot of tripod steps</i>). + I sought him and I could not find him. Pray you, + Go on with the marriage rites. + + CAMMA. + Antonius—— + 'Camma!' who spake? + + ANTONIUS. + Not I. + + PHOEBE. + Nor any here. + + CAMMA. + I am all but sure that some one spake. Antonius, + If you had found him plotting against Rome, + Would you have tortured Sinnatus to death? + + ANTONIUS. + No thought was mine of torture or of death, + But had I found him plotting, I had counsell'd him + To rest from vain resistance. Rome is fated + To rule the world. Then, if he had not listen'd, + I might have sent him prisoner to Rome. + + SYNORIX. + Why do you palter with the ceremony? + Go on with the marriage rites. + + CAMMA. + They are finish'd. + + SYNORIX. + How! + + CAMMA. + Thou hast drunk deep enough to make me happy. + Dost thou not feel the love I bear to thee + Glow thro' thy veins? + + SYNORIX. + The love I bear to thee + Glows thro' my veins since first I look'd on thee. + But wherefore slur the perfect ceremony? + The sovereign of Galatia weds his Queen. + Let all be done to the fullest in the sight + Of all the Gods. + Nay, rather than so clip + The flowery robe of Hymen, we would add + Some golden fringe of gorgeousness beyond + Old use, to make the day memorial, when + Synorix, first King, Camma, first Queen o' the Realm, + Drew here the richest lot from Fate, to live + And die together. + This pain—what is it?—again? + I had a touch of this last year—in—Rome. + Yes, yes. (<i>To</i> ANTONIUS.) Your arm—a moment—It will pass. + I reel beneath the weight of utter joy— + This all too happy day, crown—queen at once. + [<i>Staggers</i>. + O all ye Gods—Jupiter!—Jupiter! [<i>Falls backward</i>. + + CAMMA. + Dost thou cry out upon the Gods of Rome? + Thou art Galatian-born. Our Artemis + Has vanquish'd their Diana. + + SYNORIX (<i>on the ground</i>). + I am poison'd. + She—close the Temple door. Let her not fly. + + CAMMA (<i>leaning on tripod</i>). + Have I not drunk of the same cup with thee? + + SYNORIX. + Ay, by the Gods of Rome and all the world, + She too—she too—the bride! the Queen! and I— + Monstrous! I that loved her. + + CAMMA. + I loved <i>him</i>. + + SYNORIX. + O murderous mad-woman! I pray you lift me + And make me walk awhile. I have heard these poisons + May be walk'd down. + [ANTONIUS <i>and</i> PUBLIUS <i>raise him up</i>. + My feet are tons of lead, + They will break in the earth—I am sinking—hold me— + Let me alone. + [<i>They leave him; he sinks down on ground</i>. + Too late—thought myself wise— + A woman's dupe. Antonius, tell the Senate + I have been most true to Rome—would have been true + To <i>her</i>—if—if—— [<i>Falls as if dead</i>. + + CAMMA (<i>coming and leaning over him</i>). + So falls the throne of an hour. + + SYNORIX (<i>half rising</i>). + Throne? is it thou? the Fates are throned, not we— + Not guilty of ourselves—thy doom and mine— + Thou—coming my way too—Camma—good-night. + [<i>Dies</i>. + + CAMMA (<i>upheld by weeping Priestesses</i>). + Thy way? poor worm, crawl down thine own black hole + To the lowest Hell. Antonius, is he there? + I meant thee to have follow'd—better thus. + Nay, if my people must be thralls of Rome, + He is gentle, tho' a Roman. + [<i>Sinks back into the arms of the Priestesses</i>. + + ANTONIUS. + Thou art one + With thine own people, and tho' a Roman I + Forgive thee, Camma. + + CAMMA (<i>raising herself</i>). + 'CAMMA!'—why there again + I am most sure that some one call'd. O women, + Ye will have Roman masters. I am glad + I shall not see it. Did not some old Greek + Say death was the chief good? He had my fate for it, + Poison'd. (<i>Sinks back again</i>.) Have I the crown on? I will go + To meet him, crown'd! crown'd victor of my will— + On my last voyage—but the wind has fail'd— + Growing dark too—but light enough to row. + Row to the blessed Isles! the blessed Isles!— + Sinnatus! + Why comes he not to meet me? It is the crown + Offends him—and my hands are too sleepy + To lift it off. [PHOEBE <i>takes the crown off</i>. + Who touch'd me then? I thank you. + [<i>Rises, with outspread arms</i>. + There—league on league of ever-shining shore + Beneath an ever-rising sun—I see him— + 'Camma, Camma!' Sinnatus, Sinnatus! [<i>Dies</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FALCON + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DRAMATIS PERSONAE. + + The Count Federigo Degli Alberighi. + Filippo, <i>Count's foster-brother</i>. + The lady Giovanna. + Elisabetta, <i>the Count's nurse</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE FALCON +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE.—<i>An Italian Cottage. Castle and Mountains seen through + Window</i>. + + Elisabetta discovered seated on stool in window darning. The Count + with Falcon on his hand comes down through the door at back. A + withered wreath on the wall. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ELISABETTA. + So, my lord, the Lady Giovanna, who hath been away so long, came back + last night with her son to the castle. + + COUNT. + Hear that, my bird! Art thou not jealous of her? + My princess of the cloud, my plumed purveyor, + My far-eyed queen of the winds—thou that canst soar + Beyond the morning lark, and howsoe'er + Thy quarry wind and wheel, swoop down upon him + Eagle-like, lightning-like—strike, make his feathers + Glance in mid heaven. [<i>Crosses to chair</i>. + I would thou hadst a mate! + Thy breed will die with thee, and mine with me: + I am as lone and loveless as thyself. [<i>Sits in chair</i>. + Giovanna here! Ay, ruffle thyself—<i>be</i> jealous! + Thou should'st be jealous of her. Tho' I bred thee + The full-train'd marvel of all falconry, + And love thee and thou me, yet if Giovanna + Be here again—No, no! Buss me, my bird! + The stately widow has no heart for me. + Thou art the last friend left me upon earth— + No, no again to that. [<i>Rises and turns</i>. + My good old nurse, + I had forgotten thou wast sitting there. + + ELISABETTA. + Ay, and forgotten thy foster-brother too. + + COUNT. + Bird-babble for my falcon! Let it pass. + What art thou doing there? + + ELISABETTA. + Darning your lordship. + We cannot flaunt it in new feathers now: + Nay, if we <i>will</i> buy diamond necklaces + To please our lady, we must darn, my lord. + This old thing here (<i>points to necklace round her neck</i>), + they are but blue beads—my Piero, + God rest his honest soul, he bought 'em for me, + Ay, but he knew I meant to marry him. + How couldst thou do it, my son? How couldst thou do it? + + COUNT. + She saw it at a dance, upon a neck + Less lovely than her own, and long'd for it. + + ELISABETTA. + She told thee as much? + + COUNT. + No, no—a friend of hers. + + ELISABETTA. + Shame on her that she took it at thy hands, + She rich enough to have bought it for herself! + + COUNT. + She would have robb'd me then of a great pleasure. + + ELISABETTA. + But hath she yet return'd thy love? + + COUNT. + Not yet! + + ELISABETTA. + She should return thy necklace then. + + COUNT. + Ay, if + She knew the giver; but I bound the seller + To silence, and I left it privily + At Florence, in her palace. + + ELISABETTA. + And sold thine own + To buy it for her. She not know? She knows + There's none such other—— + + COUNT. + Madman anywhere. + Speak freely, tho' to call a madman mad + Will hardly help to make him sane again. + + <i>Enter</i> FILIPPO. + + FILIPPO. + Ah, the women, the women! Ah, Monna Giovanna, you here again! you that + have the face of an angel and the heart of a—that's too positive! You + that have a score of lovers and have not a heart for any of them— + that's positive-negative: you that have <i>not</i> the head of a toad, and + <i>not</i> a heart like the jewel in it—that's too negative; you that have + a cheek like a peach and a heart like the stone in it—that's positive + again—that's better! + + ELISABETTA. + Sh—sh—Filippo! + + FILIPPO (<i>turns half round</i>). + Here has our master been a-glorifying and a-velveting and a-silking + himself, and a-peacocking and a-spreading to catch her eye for a dozen + year, till he hasn't an eye left in his own tail to flourish among the + peahens, and all along o' you, Monna Giovanna, all along o' you! + + ELISABETTA. + Sh—sh—Filippo! Can't you hear that you are saying behind his back + what you see you are saying afore his face? + + COUNT. + Let him—he never spares me to my face! + + FILIPPO. + No, my lord, I never spare your lordship to your lordship's face, nor + behind your lordship's back, nor to right, nor to left, nor to round + about and back to your lordship's face again, for I'm honest, your + lordship. + + COUNT. + Come, come, Filippo, what is there in the larder? + [ELISABETTA <i>crosses to fireplace and puts on wood</i>. + + FILIPPO. + Shelves and hooks, shelves and hooks, and when I see the shelves I am + like to hang myself on the hooks. + + COUNT. + No bread? + + FILIPPO. + Half a breakfast for a rat! + + COUNT, + Milk? + + FILIPPO. + Three laps for a cat! + + COUNT. + Cheese? + + FILIPPO. + A supper for twelve mites. + + COUNT. + Eggs? + + FILIPPO. + One, but addled. + + COUNT. + No bird? + + FILIPPO. + Half a tit and a hern's bill. + + COUNT. + Let be thy jokes and thy jerks, man! Anything or nothing? + + FILIPPO. + Well, my lord, if all-but-nothing be anything, and one plate of dried + prunes be all-but-nothing, then there is anything in your lordship's + larder at your lordship's service, if your lordship care to call for + it. + + COUNT. + Good mother, happy was the prodigal son, + For he return'd to the rich father; I + But add my poverty to thine. And all + Thro' following of my fancy. Pray thee make + Thy slender meal out of those scraps and shreds + Filippo spoke of. As for him and me, + There sprouts a salad in the garden still. + (<i>To the Falcon</i>?) Why didst thou miss thy quarry yester-even? + To-day, my beauty, thou must dash us down + Our dinner from the skies. Away, Filippo! + [<i>Exit, followed by</i> FILIPPO. + + ELISABETTA. + I knew it would come to this. She has beggared him. I always knew it + would come to this! (<i>Goes up to table as if to resume darning, and + looks out of window</i>.) Why, as I live, there is Monna Giovanna coming + down the hill from the castle. Stops and stares at our cottage. Ay, + ay! stare at it: it's all you have left us. Shame upon you! She + beautiful! sleek as a miller's mouse! Meal enough, meat enough, well + fed; but beautiful—bah! Nay, see, why she turns down the path + through our little vineyard, and I sneezed three times this morning. + Coming to visit my lord, for the first time in her life too! Why, + bless the saints! I'll be bound to confess her love to him at last. I + forgive her, I forgive her! I knew it would come to this—I always + knew it must come to this! (<i>Going up to door during latter part of + speech and opens it</i>.) Come in, Madonna, come in. (<i>Retires to front + of table and curtseys as the</i> LADY GIOVANNA <i>enters, then moves chair + towards the hearth</i>.) Nay, let me place this chair for your ladyship. + + [LADY GIOVANNA <i>moves slowly down stage, then crosses + to chair, looking about her, bows as she sees the + Madonna over fireplace, then sits in chair</i>. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Can I speak with the Count? + + ELISABETTA. + Ay, my lady, but won't you speak with the old woman first, and tell + her all about it and make her happy? for I've been on my knees every + day for these half-dozen years in hope that the saints would send us + this blessed morning; and he always took you so kindly, he always took + the world so kindly. When he was a little one, and I put the bitters + on my breast to wean him, he made a wry mouth at it, but he took it so + kindly, and your ladyship has given him bitters enough in this world, + and he never made a wry mouth at you, he always took you so kindly— + which is more than I did, my lady, more than I did—and he so + handsome—and bless your sweet face, you look as beautiful this + morning as the very Madonna her own self—and better late than never— + but come when they will—then or now—it's all for the best, come when + they will—they are made by the blessed saints—these marriages. + [<i>Raises her hands</i>. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Marriages? I shall never marry again! + + ELISABETTA (<i>rises and turns</i>). + Shame on her then! + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Where is the Count? + + ELISABETTA. + Just gone + To fly his falcon. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Call him back and say + I come to breakfast with him. + + ELISABETTA. + Holy mother! + To breakfast! Oh sweet saints! one plate of prunes! + Well, Madam, I will give your message to him. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + His falcon, and I come to ask for his falcon, + The pleasure of his eyes—boast of his hand— + Pride of his heart—the solace of his hours— + His one companion here—nay, I have heard + That, thro' his late magnificence of living + And this last costly gift to mine own self, + [<i>Shows diamond necklace</i>. + He hath become so beggar'd, that his falcon + Ev'n wins his dinner for him in the field. + That must be talk, not truth, but truth or talk, + How can I ask for his falcon? + [<i>Rises and moves as she speaks</i>. + O my sick boy! + My daily fading Florio, it is thou + Hath set me this hard task, for when I say + What can I do—what can I get for thee? + He answers, 'Get the Count to give me his falcon, + And that will make me well.' Yet if I ask, + He loves me, and he knows I know he loves me! + Will he not pray me to return his love— + To marry him?—(<i>pause</i>)—I can never marry him. + His grandsire struck my grandsire in a brawl + At Florence, and my grandsire stabb'd him there. + The feud between our houses is the bar + I cannot cross; I dare not brave my brother, + Break with my kin. My brother hates him, scorns + The noblest-natured man alive, and I— + Who have that reverence for him that I scarce + Dare beg him to receive his diamonds back— + How can I, dare I, ask him for his falcon? + [<i>Puts diamonds in her casket</i>. + + <i>Re-enter</i> COUNT <i>and</i> FILIPPO. COUNT <i>turns to</i> FILIPPO. + + COUNT. + Do what I said; I cannot do it myself. + + FILIPPO. + Why then, my lord, we are pauper'd out and out. + + COUNT. + Do what I said! [<i>Advances and bows low</i>. + Welcome to this poor cottage, my dear lady. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + And welcome turns a cottage to a palace. + + COUNT. + 'Tis long since we have met! + + LADY GIOVANNA. + To make amends + I come this day to break my fast with you. + + COUNT. + + I am much honour'd—yes— [<i>Turns to</i> FILIPPO. + Do what I told thee. Must I do it myself? + + FlLIPPO. + I will, I will. (<i>Sighs</i>.) Poor fellow! + [<i>Exit</i>. + + COUNT. + Lady, you bring your light into my cottage + Who never deign'd to shine into my palace. + My palace wanting you was but a cottage; + My cottage, while you grace it, is a palace. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + In cottage or in palace, being still + Beyond your fortunes, you are still the king + Of courtesy and liberality. + + COUNT. + I trust I still maintain my courtesy; + My liberality perforce is dead + Thro' lack of means of giving. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Yet I come + To ask a gift. [<i>Moves toward him a little</i>. + + COUNT. + It will be hard, I fear, + To find one shock upon the field when all + The harvest has been carried. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + But my boy— + (<i>Aside</i>.) No, no! not yet—I cannot! + + COUNT. + Ay, how is he, + That bright inheritor of your eyes—your boy? + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Alas, my Lord Federigo, he hath fallen + Into a sickness, and it troubles me. + + COUNT. + Sick! is it so? why, when he came last year + To see me hawking, he was well enough: + And then I taught him all our hawking-phrases. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Oh yes, and once you let him fly your falcon. + + COUNT. + How charm'd he was! what wonder?—A gallant boy, + A noble bird, each perfect of the breed. + + LADY GIOVANNA (<i>sinks in chair</i>). + What do you rate her at? + + COUNT. + My bird? a hundred + Gold pieces once were offer'd by the Duke. + I had no heart to part with her for money. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + No, not for money. + [COUNT <i>turns away and sighs</i>. + Wherefore do you sigh? + + COUNT. + I have lost a friend of late. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + I could sigh with you + For fear of losing more than friend, a son; + And if he leave me—all the rest of life— + That wither'd wreath were of more worth to me. + [<i>Looking at wreath on wall</i>. + + COUNT. + That wither'd wreath is of more worth to me + Than all the blossom, all the leaf of this + New-wakening year. [<i>Goes and takes down wreath</i>. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + And yet I never saw + The land so rich in blossom as this year. + + COUNT (<i>holding wreath toward her</i>). + Was not the year when this was gather'd richer? + + LADY GIOVANNA. + + How long ago was that? + + COUNT. + Alas, ten summers! + A lady that was beautiful as day + Sat by me at a rustic festival + With other beauties on a mountain meadow, + And she was the most beautiful of all; + Then but fifteen, and still as beautiful. + The mountain flowers grew thickly round about. + I made a wreath with some of these; I ask'd + A ribbon from her hair to bind it with; + I whisper'd, Let me crown you Queen of Beauty, + And softly placed the chaplet on her head. + A colour, which has colour'd all my life, + Flush'd in her face; then I was call'd away; + And presently all rose, and so departed. + Ah! she had thrown my chaplet on the grass, + And there I found it. + [<i>Lets his hands fall, holding wreath despondingly</i>. + + LADY GIOVANNA (<i>after pause</i>). + How long since do you say? + + COUNT. + That was the very year before you married. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + When I was married you were at the wars. + + COUNT. + Had she not thrown my chaplet on the grass, + It may be I had never seen the wars. + [<i>Replaces wreath whence he had taken it</i>. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Ah, but, my lord, there ran a rumour then + That you were kill'd in battle. I can tell you + True tears that year were shed for you in Florence. + + COUNT. + It might have been as well for me. Unhappily + I was but wounded by the enemy there + And then imprison'd. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Happily, however, + I see you quite recover'd of your wound. + + COUNT. + No, no, not quite, Madonna, not yet, not yet. + + <i>Re-enter</i> FILIPPO. + + FILIPPO. + My lord, a word with you. + + COUNT. + Pray, pardon me! + + [LADY GIOVANNA <i>crosses, and passes behind chair and + takes down wreath; then goes to chair by table</i>. + + COUNT (<i>to</i> FILIPPO). + What is it, Filippo? + + FILIPPO. + Spoons, your lordship. + + COUNT. + Spoons! + + FILIPPO. + Yes, my lord, for wasn't my lady born with a golden spoon in her + ladyship's mouth, and we haven't never so much as a silver one for the + golden lips of her ladyship. + + COUNT. + Have we not half a score of silver spoons? + + FILIPPO. + Half o' one, my lord! + + COUNT. + How half of one? + + FILIPPO. + I trod upon him even now, my lord, in my hurry, and broke him. + + COUNT. + And the other nine? + + FILIPPO. + Sold! but shall I not mount with your lordship's leave to her + ladyship's castle, in your lordship's and her ladyship's name, and + confer with her ladyship's seneschal, and so descend again with some + of her ladyship's own appurtenances? + + COUNT. + Why—no, man. Only see your cloth be clean. + + [<i>Exit</i> FILIPPO. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Ay, ay, this faded ribbon was the mode + In Florence ten years back. What's here? a scroll + Pinned to the wreath. + My lord, you have said so much + Of this poor wreath that I was bold enough + To take it down, if but to guess what flowers + Had made it; and I find a written scroll + That seems to run in rhymings. Might I read? + + COUNT. + + Ay, if you will. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + It should be if you can. + (<i>Reads</i>.) 'Dead mountain.' Nay, for who could trace a hand + So wild and staggering? + + COUNT. + This was penn'd, Madonna, + Close to the grating on a winter morn + In the perpetual twilight of a prison, + When he that made it, having his right hand + Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his left. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + O heavens! the very letters seem to shake + With cold, with pain perhaps, poor prisoner! Well, + Tell me the words—or better—for I see + There goes a musical score along with them, + Repeat them to their music. + + COUNT. + You can touch + No chord in me that would not answer you + In music. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + That is musically said. + + [COUNT <i>takes guitar</i>. LADY GIOVANNA <i>sits listening + with wreath in her hand, and quietly removes + scroll and places it on table at the end of the song</i>. + + COUNT (<i>sings, playing guitar</i>). + + 'Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow flowers, + Dearer than when you made your mountain gay, + Sweeter than any violet of to-day, + Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May, + To me, tho' all your bloom has died away, + You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers.' + + <i>Enter</i> ELISABETTA <i>with cloth</i>. + + ELISABETTA. + A word with you, my lord! + + COUNT (<i>singing</i>). + 'O mountain flowers!' + + ELISABETTA. + A word, my lord! (<i>Louder</i>). + + COUNT (<i>sings</i>). + 'Dead flowers!' + + ELISABETTA. + A word, my lord! (<i>Louder</i>). + + COUNT. + I pray you pardon me again! + + [LADY GIOVANNA <i>looking at wreath</i>. + + (COUNT <i>to</i> ELISABETTA.) + What is it? + + ELISABETTA. + My lord, we have but one piece of earthenware to + serve the salad in to my lady, and that cracked! + + COUNT. + Why then, that flower'd bowl my ancestor + Fetch'd from the farthest east—we never use it + For fear of breakage—but this day has brought + A great occasion. You can take it, nurse! + + ELISABETTA. + I did take it, my lord, but what with my lady's + coming that had so flurried me, and what with the + fear of breaking it, I did break it, my lord: it is + broken! + + COUNT. + My one thing left of value in the world! + No matter! see your cloth be white as snow! + + ELISABETTA (<i>pointing thro' window</i>). + White? I warrant thee, my son, as the snow yonder + on the very tip-top o' the mountain. + + COUNT. + And yet to speak white truth, my good old mother, + I have seen it like the snow on the moraine. + + ELISABETTA: + How can your lordship say so? There my lord! + [<i>Lays cloth</i>. + O my dear son, be not unkind to me. + And one word more. [<i>Going—returns</i>. + + COUNT (<i>touching guitar</i>). + Good! let it be but one. + + ELISABETTA. + Hath she return'd thy love? + + COUNT. + Not yet! + + ELISABETTA. + And will she? + + COUNT (<i>looking at</i> LADY GIOVANNA). + I scarce believe it! + + ELISABETTA. + Shame upon her then! [<i>Exit</i>. + + COUNT (<i>sings</i>). + + 'Dead mountain flowers'—— + Ah well, my nurse has broken + The thread of my dead flowers, as she has broken + My china bowl. My memory is as dead. + [<i>Goes and replaces guitar</i>. + Strange that the words at home with me so long + Should fly like bosom friends when needed most. + So by your leave if you would hear the rest, + The writing. + + LADY GIOVANNA (<i>holding wreath toward him</i>). + There! my lord, you are a poet, + And can you not imagine that the wreath, + Set, as you say, so lightly on her head, + Fell with her motion as she rose, and she, + A girl, a child, then but fifteen, however + Flutter'd or flatter'd by your notice of her, + Was yet too bashful to return for it? + + COUNT. + Was it so indeed? was it so? was it so? + + [<i>Leans forward to take wreath, and touches</i> LADY + GIOVANNA'S <i>hand, which she withdraws hastily; + he places wreath on corner of chair</i>. + + LADY GIOVANNA (<i>with dignity</i>). + I did not say, my lord, that it was so; + I said you might imagine it was so. + + <i>Enter</i> FILIPPO <i>with bowl of salad, which he places on table</i>. + + FILIPPO. + Here's a fine salad for my lady, for tho' we have been a soldier, and + ridden by his lordship's side, and seen the red of the battle-field, + yet are we now drill-sergeant to his lordship's lettuces, and profess + to be great in green things and in garden-stuff. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + I thank thee, good Filippo. [<i>Exit</i> FILIPPO. + + <i>Enter</i> ELISABETTA <i>with bird on a dish which she places on + table</i>. + + ELISABETTA (close to table). + Here's a fine fowl for my lady; I had scant time to do him in. I hope + he be not underdone, for we be undone in the doing of him. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + I thank you, my good nurse. + + FILIPPO (<i>re-entering with plate of prunes</i>). + And here are fine fruits for my lady—prunes, my lady, from the tree + that my lord himself planted here in the blossom of his boyhood—and + so I, Filippo, being, with your ladyship's pardon, and as your + ladyship knows, his lordship's own foster-brother, would commend them + to your ladyship's most peculiar appreciation. + [<i>Puts plate on table</i>. + + ELISABETTA. + Filippo! + + LADY GIOVANNA (COUNT <i>leads her to table</i>). + Will you not eat with me, my lord? + + COUNT. + I cannot, + Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have broken + My fast already. I will pledge you. Wine! + Filippo, wine! + + [<i>Sits near table</i>; FILIPPO <i>brings flask, fills + the</i> COUNT'S <i>goblet, then</i> LADY GIOVANNA'S; + ELISABETTA <i>stands at the back of</i> LADY + GIOVANNA'S <i>chair</i>. + + COUNT. + It is but thin and cold, + Not like the vintage blowing round your castle. + We lie too deep down in the shadow here. + Your ladyship lives higher in the sun. + + [<i>They pledge each other and drink</i>. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + If I might send you down a flask or two + Of that same vintage? There is iron in it. + It has been much commended as a medicine. + I give it my sick son, and if you be + Not quite recover'd of your wound, the wine + Might help you. None has ever told me yet + The story of your battle and your wound. + + FILIPPO (<i>coming forward</i>). + I can tell you, my lady, I can tell you. + + ELISABETTA. + Filippo! will you take the word out of your master's own mouth? + + FILIPPO. + Was it there to take? Put it there, my lord. + + COUNT. + Giovanna, my dear lady, in this same battle + We had been beaten—they were ten to one. + The trumpets of the fight had echo'd down, + I and Filippo here had done our best, + And, having passed unwounded from the field, + Were seated sadly at a fountain side, + Our horses grazing by us, when a troop, + Laden with booty and with a flag of ours + Ta'en in the fight—— + + FILIPPO. + Ay, but we fought for it back, + And kill'd—— + + ELISABETTA. + Filippo! + + COUNT. + A troop of horse—— + + FILIPPO. + Five hundred! + + COUNT. + Say fifty! + + FILIPPO. + And we kill'd 'em by the score! + + ELISABETTA. + Filippo! + + FILIPPO. + Well, well, well! I bite my tongue. + + COUNT. + We may have left their fifty less by five. + However, staying not to count how many, + But anger'd at their flaunting of our flag, + We mounted, and we dash'd into the heart of 'em. + I wore the lady's chaplet round my neck; + It served me for a blessed rosary. + I am sure that more than one brave fellow owed + His death to the charm in it. + + ELISABETTA. + Hear that, my lady! + + COUNT. + I cannot tell how long we strove before + Our horses fell beneath us; down we went + Crush'd, hack'd at, trampled underfoot. The night, + As some cold-manner'd friend may strangely do us + The truest service, had a touch of frost + That help'd to check the flowing of the blood. + My last sight ere I swoon'd was one sweet face + Crown'd with the wreath. <i>That</i> seem'd to come and go. + They left us there for dead! + + ELISABETTA. + Hear that, my lady! + + FILIPPO. + Ay, and I left two fingers there for dead. See, my lady! + (<i>Showing his hand</i>.) + + LADY GIOVANNA. + I see, Filippo! + + FILIPPO. + And I have small hope of the gentleman gout in my great toe. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + And why, Filippo? [<i>Smiling absently</i>. + + FILIPPO. + I left him there for dead too! + + ELISABETTA. + She smiles at him—how hard the woman is! + My lady, if your ladyship were not + Too proud to look upon the garland, you + Would find it stain'd—— + + COUNT (<i>rising</i>). + Silence, Elisabetta! + + ELISABETTA. + Stain'd with the blood of the best heart that ever + Beat for one woman. [<i>Points to wreath on chair</i>. + + LADY GIOVANNA (<i>rising slowly</i>). + I can eat no more! + + COUNT. + You have but trifled with our homely salad, + But dallied with a single lettuce-leaf; + Not eaten anything. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Nay, nay, I cannot. + You know, my lord, I told you I was troubled. + My one child Florio lying still so sick, + I bound myself, and by a solemn vow, + That I would touch no flesh till he were well + Here, or else well in Heaven, where all is well. + + [ELISABETTA <i>clears table of bird and salad</i>; FILIPPO <i>snatches + up the plate of prunes and holds them to</i> LADY GIOVANNA. + + FILIPPO. + But the prunes, my lady, from the tree that his lordship—— + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Not now, Filippo. My lord Federigo, + Can I not speak with you once more alone? + + COUNT. + You hear, Filippo? My good fellow, go! + + FILIPPO. + But the prunes that your lordship—— + + ELISABETTA. + Filippo! + + COUNT. + Ay, prune our company of thine own and go! + + ELISABETTA. + Filippo! + + FILIPPO (<i>turning</i>). + Well, well! the women! + [Exit. + + COUNT. + And thou too leave us, my dear nurse, alone. + + ELISABETTA (<i>folding up cloth and going</i>). + + And me too! Ay, the dear nurse will leave you alone; + but, for all that, she that has eaten the yolk is scarce + like to swallow the shell. + + [<i>Turns and curtseys stiffly to</i> LADY GIOVANNA, <i>then + exit</i>. LADY GIOVANNA <i>takes out diamond necklace from casket</i>. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + I have anger'd your good nurse; these old-world servants + Are all but flesh and blood with those they serve. + My lord, I have a present to return you, + And afterwards a boon to crave of you. + + COUNT. + No, my most honour'd and long-worshipt lady, + Poor Federigo degli Alberighi + Takes nothing in return from you except + Return of his affection—can deny + Nothing to you that you require of him. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Then I require you to take back your diamonds— + [<i>Offering necklace</i>. + I doubt not they are yours. No other heart + Of such magnificence in courtesy + Beats—out of heaven. They seem'd too rich a prize + To trust with any messenger. I came + In person to return them. [<i>Count draws back</i>. + If the phrase + 'Return' displease you, we will say—exchange them + For your—for your—— + + COUNT (<i>takes a step toward her and then back</i>). + For mine—and what of mine? + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Well, shall we say this wreath and your sweet rhymes? + + COUNT. + But have you ever worn my diamonds? + + LADY GIOVANNA. + No! + For that would seem accepting of your love. + I cannot brave my brother—but be sure + That I shall never marry again, my lord! + + COUNT. + Sure? + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Yes! + + COUNT. + Is this your brother's order? + + LADY GIOVANNA. + No! + For he would marry me to the richest man + In Florence; but I think you know the saying— + 'Better a man without riches, than riches without a man.' + + COUNT. + A noble saying—and acted on would yield + A nobler breed of men and women. Lady, + I find you a shrewd bargainer. The wreath + That once you wore outvalues twentyfold + The diamonds that you never deign'd to wear. + But lay them there for a moment! + + [<i>Points to table</i>. LADY GIOVANNA <i>places necklace on table</i>. + + And be you + Gracious enough to let me know the boon + By granting which, if aught be mine to grant, + I should be made more happy than I hoped + Ever to be again. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Then keep your wreath, + But you will find me a shrewd bargainer still. + I cannot keep your diamonds, for the gift + I ask for, to my mind and at this present + Outvalues all the jewels upon earth. + + COUNT. + It should be love that thus outvalues all. + You speak like love, and yet you love me not. + I have nothing in this world but love for you. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + + Love? it <i>is</i> love, love for my dying boy, + Moves me to ask it of you. + + COUNT. + What? my time? + Is it my time? Well, I can give my time + To him that is a part of you, your son. + Shall I return to the castle with you? Shall I + Sit by him, read to him, tell him my tales, + Sing him my songs? You know that I can touch + The ghittern to some purpose. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + No, not that! + I thank you heartily for that—and you, + I doubt not from your nobleness of nature, + Will pardon me for asking what I ask. + + COUNT. + Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I that once + The wildest of the random youth of Florence + Before I saw you—all my nobleness + Of nature, as you deign to call it, draws + From you, and from my constancy to you. + No more, but speak. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + I will. You know sick people, + More specially sick children, have strange fancies, + Strange longings; and to thwart them in their mood + May work them grievous harm at times, may even + Hasten their end. I would you had a son! + It might be easier then for you to make + Allowance for a mother—her—who comes + To rob you of your one delight on earth. + How often has my sick boy yearn'd for this! + I have put him off as often; but to-day + I dared not—so much weaker, so much worse + For last day's journey. I was weeping for him: + He gave me his hand: 'I should be well again + If the good Count would give me—— + + COUNT. + Give me. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + His falcon. + + COUNT (<i>starts back</i>). + My falcon! + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Yes, your falcon, Federigo! + + COUNT. + Alas, I cannot! + + LADY GIOVANNA. + Cannot? Even so! + I fear'd as much. O this unhappy world! + How shall I break it to him? how shall I tell him? + The boy may die: more blessed were the rags + Of some pale beggar-woman seeking alms + For her sick son, if he were like to live, + Than all my childless wealth, if mine must die. + I was to blame—the love you said you bore me— + My lord, we thank you for your entertainment, + [<i>With a stately curtsey</i>. + And so return—Heaven help him!—to our son. + [<i>Turns—</i> + + COUNT (<i>rushes forward</i>). + Stay, stay, I am most unlucky, most unhappy. + You never had look'd in on me before, + And when you came and dipt your sovereign head + Thro' these low doors, you ask'd to eat with me. + I had but emptiness to set before you, + No not a draught of milk, no not an egg, + Nothing but my brave bird, my noble falcon, + My comrade of the house, and of the field. + She had to die for it—she died for you. + Perhaps I thought with those of old, the nobler + The victim was, the more acceptable + Might be the sacrifice. I fear you scarce + Will thank me for your entertainment now. + + LADY GIOVANNA (<i>returning</i>). + I bear with him no longer. + + COUNT. + No, Madonna! + And he will have to bear with it as he may. + + LADY GIOVANNA. + I break with him for ever! + + COUNT. + Yes, Giovanna, + But he will keep his love to you for ever! + + LADY GIOVANNA. + You? you? not you! My brother! my hard brother! + O Federigo, Federigo, I love you! + Spite of ten thousand brothers, Federigo. + [<i>falls at his feet</i>. + + COUNT (<i>impetuously</i>). + Why then the dying of my noble bird + Hath served me better than her living—then + [<i>Takes diamonds from table</i>. + These diamonds are both yours and mine—have won + Their value again—beyond all markets—there + I lay them for the first time round your neck. + [<i>Lays necklace round her neck</i>. + And then this chaplet—No more feuds, but peace, + Peace and conciliation! I will make + Your brother love me. See, I tear away + The leaves were darken'd by the battle— + [<i>Pulls leaves off and throws them down</i>. + —crown you + Again with the same crown my Queen of Beauty. + [<i>Places wreath on her head</i>. + Rise—I could almost think that the dead garland + Will break once more into the living blossom. + Nay, nay, I pray you rise. + [<i>Raises her with both hands</i>. + We two together + Will help to heal your son—your son and mine— + We shall do it—we shall do it. [<i>Embraces her</i>. + The purpose of my being is accomplish'd, + And I am happy! + + LADY GIOVANNA. + And I too, Federigo. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROMISE OF MAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'A surface man of theories, true to none.' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>DRAMATIS PERSONAE.</i> + + FARMER DOBSON. + Mr. PHILIP EDGAR (<i>afterwards</i> Mr. HAROLD). + FARMER STEER (DORA <i>and</i> EVA'S <i>Father</i>). + Mr. WILSON (<i>a Schoolmaster</i>). + HIGGINS | + JAMES | + DAN SMITH | <i>Farm Labourers</i>. + JACKSON | + ALLEN | + DORA STEER. + EVA STEER. + SALLY ALLEN | + MILLY | <i>Farm Servants</i>. + + <i>Farm Servants, Labourers, etc</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE PROMISE OF MAY +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT I. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE.—<i>Before Farmhouse</i>. + + Farming Men and Women. Farming Men carrying forms, &c., Women carrying + baskets of knives and forks, &c. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1ST FARMING MAN. + Be thou a-gawin' to the long barn? + + 2ND FARMING MAN. + Ay, to be sewer! Be thou? + + 1ST FARMING MAN. + Why, o' coorse, fur it be the owd man's birthdaäy. He be heighty this + very daäy, and 'e telled all on us to be i' the long barn by one + o'clock, fur he'll gie us a big dinner, and haäfe th' parish'll be + theer, an' Miss Dora, an' Miss Eva, an' all! + + 2ND FARMING MAN. + Miss Dora be coomed back, then? + + 1ST FARMING MAN. + Ay, haäfe an hour ago. She be in theer, now. (<i>Pointing to house</i>.) + Owd Steer wur afeärd she wouldn't be back i' time to keep his + birthdaäy, and he wur in a tew about it all the murnin'; and he sent + me wi' the gig to Littlechester to fetch 'er; and 'er an' the owd man + they fell a kissin' o' one another like two sweet-'arts i' the poorch + as soon as he clapt eyes of 'er. + + 2ND FARMING MAN. + Foälks says he likes Miss Eva the best. + + 1ST FARMING MAN. + Naäy, I knaws nowt o' what foälks says, an' I caäres nowt neither. + Foälks doesn't hallus knaw thessens; but sewer I be, they be two o' + the purtiest gels ye can see of a summer murnin'. + + 2ND FARMING MAN. + Beänt Miss Eva gone off a bit of 'er good looks o' laäte? + + 1ST FARMING MAN. + Noä, not a bit. + + 2ND FARMING MAN. + Why coöm awaäy, then, to the long barn. + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + + DORA <i>looks out of window. Enter</i> DOBSON. + + DORA (<i>singing</i>). + + The town lay still in the low sun-light, + The hen cluckt late by the white farm gate, + The maid to her dairy came in from the cow, + The stock-dove coo'd at the fall of night, + The blossom had open'd on every bough; + O joy for the promise of May, of May, + O joy for the promise of May. + + (<i>Nodding at</i> DOBSON.) I'm coming down, Mr. Dobson. I haven't seen Eva + yet. Is she anywhere in the garden? + + DOBSON. + Noä, Miss. I ha'n't seed 'er neither. + + DORA (<i>enters singing</i>). + + But a red fire woke in the heart of the town, + And a fox from the glen ran away with the hen, + And a cat to the cream, and a rat to the cheese; + And the stock-dove coo'd, till a kite dropt down, + And a salt wind burnt the blossoming trees; + O grief for the promise of May, of May, + O grief for the promise of May. + + I don't know why I sing that song; I don't love it. + + DOBSON. + Blessings on your pretty voice, Miss Dora. Wheer did they larn ye + that? + + DORA. + In Cumberland, Mr. Dobson. + + DOBSON. + An' how did ye leäve the owd uncle i' Coomberland? + + DORA. + Getting better, Mr. Dobson. But he'll never be the same man again. + + DOBSON. + An' how d'ye find the owd man 'ere? + + DORA. + As well as ever. I came back to keep his birthday. + + DOBSON. + Well, I be coomed to keep his birthdaäy an' all. The owd man be + heighty to-daäy, beänt he? + + DORA. + Yes, Mr. Dobson. And the day's bright like a friend, but the wind east + like an enemy. Help me to move this bench for him into the sun. (<i>They + move bench</i>.) No, not that way—here, under the apple tree. Thank you. + Look how full of rosy blossom it is. + [<i>Pointing to apple tree</i>. + + DOBSON. + Theer be redder blossoms nor them, Miss Dora. + + DORA. + Where do they blow, Mr. Dobson? + + DOBSON. + Under your eyes, Miss Dora. + + DORA. + Do they? + + DOBSON. + And your eyes be as blue as—— + + DORA. + What, Mr. Dobson? A butcher's frock? + + DOBSON. + Noä, Miss Dora; as blue as—— + + DORA. + Bluebell, harebell, speedwell, bluebottle, succory, forget-me-not? + + DOBSON. + Noä, Miss Dora; as blue as—— + + DORA. + The sky? or the sea on a blue day? + + DOBSON. + Naäy then. I meän'd they be as blue as violets. + + DORA. + Are they? + + DOBSON. + Theer ye goäs ageän, Miss, niver believing owt I says to ye—hallus + a-fobbing ma off, tho' ye knaws I love ye. I warrants ye'll think moor + o' this young Squire Edgar as ha' coomed among us—the Lord knaws how + —ye'll think more on 'is little finger than hall my hand at the + haltar. + + DORA. + Perhaps, Master Dobson. I can't tell, for I have never seen him. But + my sister wrote that he was mighty pleasant, and had no pride in him. + + DOBSON. + He'll be arter you now, Miss Dora. + + DORA. + Will he? How can I tell? + + DOBSON. + He's been arter Miss Eva, haän't he? + + DORA. + Not that I know. + + DOBSON. + Didn't I spy 'em a-sitting i' the woodbine harbour togither? + + DORA. + What of that? Eva told me that he was taking her likeness. He's an + artist. + + DOBSON. + What's a hartist? I doänt believe he's iver a 'eart under his + waistcoat. And I tells ye what, Miss Dora: he's no respect for the + Queen, or the parson, or the justice o' peace, or owt. I ha' heärd 'im + a-gawin' on 'ud make your 'air—God bless it!—stan' on end. And wuss + nor that. When theer wur a meeting o' farmers at Littlechester t'other + daäy, and they was all a-crying out at the bad times, he cooms up, and + he calls out among our oän men, 'The land belongs to the + people!' + + DORA. + And what did <i>you</i> say to that? + + DOBSON. + Well, I says, s'pose my pig's the land, and you says it belongs to the + parish, and theer be a thousand i' the parish, taäkin' in the women + and childer; and s'pose I kills my pig, and gi'es it among 'em, why + there wudn't be a dinner for nawbody, and I should ha' lost the pig. + + DORA. + And what did he say to that? + + DOBSON. + Nowt—what could he saäy? But I taäkes 'im fur a bad lot and a burn + fool, and I haätes the very sight on him. + + DORA. (<i>Looking at</i> DOBSON.) + Master Dobson, you are a comely man to look at. + + DOBSON. + I thank you for that, Miss Dora, onyhow. + + DORA. + Ay, but you turn right ugly when you're in an ill temper; and I + promise you that if you forget yourself in your behaviour to this + gentleman, my father's friend, I will never change word with you + again. + + <i>Enter</i> FARMING MAN <i>from barn</i>. + + FARMING MAN. + Miss, the farming men 'ull hev their dinner i' the long barn, and the + master 'ud be straänge an' pleased if you'd step in fust, and see that + all be right and reg'lar fur 'em afoor he coöm. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + DORA. + I go. Master Dobson, did you hear what I said? + + DOBSON. + Yeas, yeas! I'll not meddle wi' 'im if he doänt meddle wi' meä. + (<i>Exit</i> DORA.) Coomly, says she. I niver thowt o' mysen i' that waäy; + but if she'd taäke to ma i' that waäy, or ony waäy, I'd slaäve out my + life fur 'er. 'Coomly to look at,' says she—but she said it + spiteful-like. To look at—yeas, 'coomly'; and she mayn't be so fur out + theer. But if that be nowt to she, then it be nowt to me. (<i>Looking off + stage</i>.) Schoolmaster! Why if Steer han't haxed schoolmaster to + dinner, thaw 'e knaws I was hallus ageän heving schoolmaster i' the + parish! fur him as be handy wi' a book bean't but haäfe a hand at a + pitchfork. + + <i>Enter</i> WILSON. + + Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow o' thine i' the pinfold ageän as I + wur a-coomin' 'ere. + + WILSON. + Very likely, Mr. Dobson. She <i>will</i> break fence. + I can't keep her in order. + + DOBSON. + An' if tha can't keep thy one cow i' horder, how can tha keep all thy + scholards i' horder? But let that goä by. What dost a knaw o' this Mr. + Hedgar as be a-lodgin' wi' ye? I coom'd upon 'im t'other daäy lookin' + at the coontry, then a-scrattin upon a bit o' paäper, then a-lookin' + ageän; and I taäked 'im fur soom sort of a land-surveyor—but a beänt. + + WILSON. + He's a Somersetshire man, and a very civil-spoken gentleman. + + DOBSON. + Gentleman! What be he a-doing here ten mile an' moor fro' a raäil? We + laäys out o' the waäy fur gentlefoälk altogither—leastwaäys they + niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i' our beck, fur they be knaw'd as + far as Littlechester. But 'e doänt fish neither. + + WILSON. + Well, it's no sin in a gentleman not to fish. + + DOBSON. + Noa, but I haätes 'im. + + WILSON. + Better step out of his road, then, for he's walking to us, and with a + book in his hand. + + DOBSON. + An' I haätes booöks an' all, fur they puts foälk off the owd waäys. + + <i>Enter</i> EDGAR, <i>reading—not seeing</i> DOBSON <i>and</i> WILSON. + + EDGAR. + This author, with his charm of simple style + And close dialectic, all but proving man + An automatic series of sensations, + Has often numb'd me into apathy + Against the unpleasant jolts of this rough road + That breaks off short into the abysses—made me + A Quietist taking all things easily. + + DOBSON. (<i>Aside</i>.) + There mun be summut wrong theer, Wilson, fur I doänt understan' it. + + WILSON. (<i>Aside</i>.) + Nor I either, Mr. Dobson. + + DOBSON. (<i>Scornfully</i>.) + An' thou doänt understan' it neither—and thou schoolmaster an' all. + + EDGAR. + What can a man, then, live for but sensations, + Pleasant ones? men of old would undergo + Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones + Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties waiting + To clasp their lovers by the golden gates. + For me, whose cheerless Houris after death + Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones—the while— + If possible, here! to crop the flower and pass. + + DOBSON. + Well, I never 'eard the likes o' that afoor. + + WILSON. (<i>Aside</i>.) + But I have, Mr. Dobson. It's the old Scripture text, 'Let us eat and + drink, for to-morrow we die.' I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he never + comes to church, I thought better of him. + + EDGAR. + 'What are we,' says the blind old man in Lear? + 'As flies to the Gods; they kill us for their sport.' + + DOBSON. (<i>Aside</i>.) + Then the owd man i' Lear should be shaämed of hissen, but noän o' the + parishes goä's by that naäme 'ereabouts. + + EDGAR. + The Gods! but they, the shadows of ourselves, + Have past for ever. It is Nature kills, + And not for <i>her</i> sport either. She knows nothing. + Man only knows, the worse for him! for why + Cannot <i>he</i> take his pastime like the flies? + And if my pleasure breed another's pain, + Well—is not that the course of Nature too, + From the dim dawn of Being—her main law + Whereby she grows in beauty—that her flies + Must massacre each other? this poor Nature! + + DOBSON. + Natur! Natur! Well, it be i' <i>my</i> natur to knock 'im o' the 'eäd now; + but I weänt. + + EDGAR. + A Quietist taking all things easily—why— + Have I been dipping into this again + To steel myself against the leaving her? + (<i>Closes book, seeing</i> WILSON.) + Good day! + + WILSON. + Good day, sir. + + (DOBSON <i>looks hard at</i> EDGAR.) + + EDGAR. (<i>To</i> DOBSON.) + Have I the pleasure, friend, of knowing you? + + DOBSON. + Dobson. + + EDGAR. + Good day, then, Dobson. [<i>Exit</i>. + + DOBSON. + 'Good daäy then, Dobson!' Civil-spoken i'deed! Why, Wilson, tha 'eärd + 'im thysen—the feller couldn't find a Mister in his mouth fur me, as + farms five hoonderd haäcre. + + WILSON. + You never find one for me, Mr. Dobson. + + DOBSON. + Noä, fur thou be nobbut schoolmaster; but I taäkes 'im fur a Lunnun + swindler, and a burn fool. + + WILSON. + He can hardly be both, and he pays me regular + every Saturday. + + DOBSON. + Yeas; but I haätes 'im. + + <i>Enter</i> STEER, FARM MEN <i>and</i> WOMEN. + + STEER. (<i>Goes and sits under apple tree</i>.) + Hev' ony o' ye seen Eva? + + DOBSON. + Noä, Mr. Steer. + + STEER. + Well, I reckons they'll hev' a fine cider-crop to-year if the blossom + 'owds. Good murnin', neighbours, and the saäme to you, my men. I + taäkes it kindly of all o' you that you be coomed—what's the + newspaäper word, Wilson?—celebrate—to celebrate my birthdaäy i' this + fashion. Niver man 'ed better friends, and I will saäy niver master + 'ed better men: fur thaw I may ha' fallen out wi' ye sometimes, the + fault, mebbe, wur as much mine as yours; and, thaw I says it mysen, + niver men 'ed a better master—and I knaws what men be, and what + masters be, fur I wur nobbut a laäbourer, and now I be a landlord— + burn a plowman, and now, as far as money goäs, I be a gentleman, thaw + I beänt naw scholard, fur I 'ednt naw time to maäke mysen a scholard + while I wur maäkin' mysen a gentleman, but I ha taäen good care to + turn out boäth my darters right down fine laädies. + + DOBSON. + An' soä they be. + + 1ST FARMING MAN. + Soä they be! soä they be! + + 2ND FARMING MAN. + The Lord bless boäth on 'em! + + 3RD FARMING MAN. + An' the saäme to you, Master. + + 4TH FARMING MAN. + And long life to boäth on 'em. An' the saäme to you, Master Steer, + likewise. + + STEER. + Thank ye! + + <i>Enter</i> EVA. + Wheer 'asta been? + + EVA. (<i>Timidly</i>.) + Many happy returns of the day, father. + + STEER. + They can't be many, my dear, but I 'oäpes they'll be 'appy. + + DOBSON. + Why, tha looks haäle anew to last to a hoonderd. + + STEER. + An' why shouldn't I last to a hoonderd? Haäle! why shouldn't I be + haäle? fur thaw I be heighty this very daäy, I niver 'es sa much as + one pin's prick of paäin; an' I can taäke my glass along wi' the + youngest, fur I niver touched a drop of owt till my oän wedding-daäy, + an' then I wur turned huppads o' sixty. Why shouldn't I be haäle? I + ha' plowed the ten-aäcre—it be mine now—afoor ony o' ye wur burn—ye + all knaws the ten-aäcre—I mun ha' plowed it moor nor a hoonderd + times; hallus hup at sunrise, and I'd drive the plow straäit as a line + right i' the faäce o' the sun, then back ageän, a-follering my oän + shadder—then hup ageän i' the faäce o' the sun. Eh! how the sun 'ud + shine, and the larks 'ud sing i' them daäys, and the smell o' the + mou'd an' all. Eh! if I could ha' gone on wi' the plowin' nobbut the + smell o' the mou'd 'ud ha' maäde ma live as long as Jerusalem. + + EVA. + Methusaleh, father. + + STEER. + Ay, lass, but when thou be as owd as me thou'll put one word fur + another as I does. + + DOBSON. + But, Steer, thaw thou be haäle anew I seed tha a-limpin' up just now + wi' the roomatics i' the knee. + + STEER. + Roomatics! Noä; I laäme't my knee last night running arter a thief. + Beänt there house-breäkers down i' Littlechester, Dobson—doänt ye + hear of ony? + + DOBSON. + Ay, that there be. Immanuel Goldsmiths was broke into o' Monday night, + and ower a hoonderd pounds worth o' rings stolen. + + STEER. + So I thowt, and I heärd the winder—that's the winder at the end o' + the passage, that goäs by thy chaumber. (<i>Turning to</i> EVA.) Why, lass, + what maäakes tha sa red? Did 'e git into thy chaumber? + + EVA. + Father! + + STEER. + Well, I runned arter thief i' the dark, and fell ageän coalscuttle and + my kneeä gev waäy or I'd ha' cotched 'im, but afoor I coomed up he got + thruff the winder ageän. + + EVA. + Got thro' the window again? + + STEER. + Ay, but he left the mark of 'is foot i' the flowerbed; now theer be + noän o' my men, thinks I to mysen, 'ud ha' done it 'cep' it were Dan + Smith, fur I cotched 'im once a-stealin' coäls an' I sent fur 'im, an' + I measured his foot wi' the mark i' the bed, but it wouldn't fit— + seeäms to me the mark wur maäde by a Lunnun boot. (<i>Looks at</i> EVA.) + Why, now, what maäkes tha sa white? + + EVA. + Fright, father! + + STEER. + Maäke thysen eäsy. I'll hev the winder naäiled up, and put Towser + under it. + + EVA. (<i>Clasping her hands</i>.) + No, no, father! Towser'll tear him all to pieces. + + STEER. + Let him keep awaäy, then; but coom, coom! let's be gawin. They ha' + broached a barrel of aäle i' the long barn, and the fiddler be theer, + and the lads and lasses 'ull hev a dance. + + EVA. (<i>Aside</i>.) + Dance! small heart have I to dance. I should seem to be dancing upon a + grave. + + STEER. + Wheer be Mr. Edgar? about the premises? + + DOBSON. + Hallus about the premises! + + STEER. + So much the better, so much the better. I likes 'im, and Eva likes + 'im. Eva can do owt wi' 'im; look for 'im, Eva, and bring 'im to the + barn. He 'ant naw pride in 'im, and we'll git 'im to speechify for us + arter dinner. + + EVA. + Yes, father! [<i>Exit</i>. + + STEER. + Coom along then, all the rest o' ye! Churchwarden be a coomin, thaw me + and 'im we niver 'grees about the tithe; and Parson mebbe, thaw he + niver mended that gap i' the glebe fence as I telled 'im; and + Blacksmith, thaw he niver shoes a herse to my likings; and Baäker, + thaw I sticks to hoäm-maäde—but all on 'em welcome, all on 'em + welcome; and I've hed the long barn cleared out of all the machines, + and the sacks, and the taäters, and the mangles, and theer'll be room + anew for all o' ye. Foller me. + + ALL. + Yeas, yeas! Three cheers for Mr. Steer! + [<i>All exeunt except</i> DOBSON <i>into barn</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> EDGAR. + + DOBSON (<i>who is going, turns</i>). + Squire!—if so be you be a squire. + + EDGAR. + Dobbins, I think. + + DOBSON. + Dobbins, you thinks; and I thinks ye weärs a Lunnun boot. + + EDGAR. + Well? + + DOBSON. + And I thinks I'd like to taäke the measure o' your foot. + + EDGAR. + Ay, if you'd like to measure your own length upon the grass. + + DOBSON. + Coom, coom, that's a good un. Why, I could throw four o' ye; but I + promised one of the Misses I wouldn't meddle wi' ye, and I weänt. + [<i>Exit into barn</i>. + + EDGAR. + Jealous of me with Eva! Is it so? + Well, tho' I grudge the pretty jewel, that I + Have worn, to such a clod, yet that might be + The best way out of it, if the child could keep + Her counsel. I am sure I wish her happy. + But I must free myself from this entanglement. + I have all my life before me—so has she— + Give her a month or two, and her affections + Will flower toward the light in some new face. + Still I am half-afraid to meet her now. + She will urge marriage on me. I hate tears. + Marriage is but an old tradition. I hate + Traditions, ever since my narrow father, + After my frolic with his tenant's girl, + Made younger elder son, violated the whole + Tradition of our land, and left his heir, + Born, happily, with some sense of art, to live + By brush and pencil. By and by, when Thought + Comes down among the crowd, and man perceives that + The lost gleam of an after-life but leaves him + A beast of prey in the dark, why then the crowd + May wreak my wrongs upon my wrongers. Marriage! + That fine, fat, hook-nosed uncle of mine, old Harold, + Who leaves me all his land at Littlechester, + He, too, would oust me from his will, if I + Made such a marriage. And marriage in itself— + The storm is hard at hand will sweep away + Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, customs, marriage + One of the feeblest! Then the man, the woman, + Following their best affinities, will each + Bid their old bond farewell with smiles, not tears; + Good wishes, not reproaches; with no fear + Of the world's gossiping clamour, and no need + Of veiling their desires. + Conventionalism, + Who shrieks by day at what she does by night, + Would call this vice; but one time's vice may be + The virtue of another; and Vice and Virtue + Are but two masks of self; and what hereafter + Shall mark out Vice from Virtue in the gulf + Of never-dawning darkness? + + <i>Enter</i> EVA. + + My sweet Eva, + Where have you lain in ambush all the morning? + They say your sister, Dora, has return'd, + And that should make you happy, if you love her! + But you look troubled. + + EVA. + Oh, I love her so, + I was afraid of her, and I hid myself. + We never kept a secret from each other; + She would have seen at once into my trouble, + And ask'd me what I could not answer. Oh, Philip, + Father heard you last night. Our savage mastiff, + That all but kill'd the beggar, will be placed + Beneath the window, Philip. + + EDGAR. + Savage, is he? + What matters? Come, give me your hand and kiss me + This beautiful May-morning. + + EVA. + The most beautiful + May we have had for many years! + + EDGAR. + And here + Is the most beautiful morning of this May. + Nay, you must smile upon me! There—you make + The May and morning still more beautiful, + You, the most beautiful blossom of the May. + + EVA. + Dear Philip, all the world is beautiful + If we were happy, and could chime in with it. + + EDGAR. + True; for the senses, love, are for the world; + That for the senses. + + EVA. + Yes. + + EDGAR. + And when the man, + The child of evolution, flings aside + His swaddling-bands, the morals of the tribe, + He, following his own instincts as his God, + Will enter on the larger golden age; + No pleasure then taboo'd: for when the tide + Of full democracy has overwhelm'd + This Old world, from that flood will rise the New, + Like the Love-goddess, with no bridal veil, + Ring, trinket of the Church, but naked Nature + In all her loveliness. + + EVA. + What are you saying? + + EDGAR. + That, if we did not strain to make ourselves + Better and higher than Nature, we might be + As happy as the bees there at their honey + In these sweet blossoms. + + EVA. + Yes; how sweet they smell! + + EDGAR. + There! let me break some off for you. + [<i>Breaking branch off</i>. + + EVA. + My thanks. + But, look, how wasteful of the blossom you are! + One, two, three, four, five, six—you have robb'd poor father + Of ten good apples. Oh, I forgot to tell you + He wishes you to dine along with us, + And speak for him after—you that are so clever! + + EDGAR. + I grieve I cannot; but, indeed— + + EVA. + What is it? + + EDGAR. + Well, business. I must leave you, love, to-day. + + EVA. + Leave me, to-day! And when will you return? + + EDGAR. + I cannot tell precisely; but— + + EVA. + But what? + + EDGAR. + I trust, my dear, we shall be always friends. + + EVA. + After all that has gone between us—friends! + What, only friends? [<i>Drops branch</i>. + + EDGAR. + All that has gone between us + Should surely make us friends. + + EVA. + But keep us lovers. + + EDGAR. + Child, do you love me now? + + EVA. + Yes, now and ever. + + EDGAR. + Then you should wish us both to love for ever. + But, if you <i>will</i> bind love to one for ever, + Altho' at first he take his bonds for flowers, + As years go on, he feels them press upon him, + Begins to flutter in them, and at last + Breaks thro' them, and so flies away for ever; + While, had you left him free use of his wings, + Who knows that he had ever dream'd of flying? + + EVA. + But all that sounds so wicked and so strange; + 'Till death us part'—those are the only words, + The true ones—nay, and those not true enough, + For they that love do not believe that death + Will part them. Why do you jest with me, and try + To fright me? Tho' you are a gentleman, + I but a farmer's daughter— + + EDGAR. + Tut! you talk + Old feudalism. When the great Democracy + Makes a new world— + + EVA. + And if you be not jesting, + Neither the old world, nor the new, nor father, + Sister, nor you, shall ever see me more. + + EDGAR (<i>moved</i>). + Then—(<i>aside</i>) Shall I say it?—(<i>aloud</i>) fly with me to-day. + + EVA. + No! Philip, Philip, if you do not marry me, + I shall go mad for utter shame and die. + + EDGAR. + Then, if we needs must be conventional, + When shall your parish-parson bawl our banns + Before your gaping clowns? + + EVA. + Not in our church— + I think I scarce could hold my head up there. + Is there no other way? + + EDGAR. + Yes, if you cared + To fee an over-opulent superstition, + Then they would grant you what they call a licence + To marry. Do you wish it? + + EVA. + <i>Do</i> I wish it? + + EDGAR. + In London. + + EVA. + You will write to me? + + EDGAR. + I will. + + EVA. + And I will fly to you thro' the night, the storm— + Yes, tho' the fire should run along the ground, + As once it did in Egypt. Oh, you see, + I was just out of school, I had no mother— + My sister far away—and you, a gentleman, + Told me to trust you: yes, in everything— + <i>That</i> was the only <i>true</i> love; and I trusted— + Oh, yes, indeed, I would have died for you. + How could you—Oh, how could you?—nay, how could I? + But now you will set all right again, and I + Shall not be made the laughter of the village, + And poor old father not die miserable. + + DORA (<i>singing in the distance</i>). + + 'O joy for the promise of May, of May, + O joy for the promise of May.' + + EDGAR. + Speak not so loudly; that must be your sister. + You never told her, then, of what has past + Between us. + + EVA. + Never! + + EDGAR. + Do not till I bid you. + + EVA. + No, Philip, no. [<i>Turns away</i>. + + EDGAR (<i>moved</i>). + How gracefully there she stands + Weeping—the little Niobe! What! we prize + The statue or the picture all the more + When we have made them ours! Is she less loveable, + Less lovely, being wholly mine? To stay— + Follow my art among these quiet fields, + Live with these honest folk— + And play the fool! + No! she that gave herself to me so easily + Will yield herself as easily to another. + + EVA. + Did you speak, Philip? + + EDGAR. + Nothing more, farewell. + + [<i>They embrace</i>. + + DORA (<i>coming nearer</i>). + + 'O grief for the promis May, of May, + O grief for the promise of May.' + + EDGAR (<i>still embracing her</i>). + Keep up your heart until we meet again. + + EVA. + If that should break before we meet again? + + EDGAR. + Break! nay, but call for Philip when you will, + And he returns. + + EVA. + Heaven hears you, Philip Edgar! + + EDGAR (<i>moved</i>). + And <i>he</i> would hear you even from the grave. + Heaven curse him if he come not at your call! + [<i>Exit</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> DORA. + + DORA. + Well, Eva! + + EVA. + Oh, Dora, Dora, how long you have been away from home! Oh, how often I + have wished for you! It seemed to me that we were parted for ever. + + DORA. + For ever, you foolish child! What's come over you? We parted like the + brook yonder about the alder island, to come together again in a + moment and to go on together again, till one of us be married. But + where is this Mr. Edgar whom you praised so in your first letters? You + haven't even mentioned him in your last? + + EVA. + He has gone to London. + + DORA. + Ay, child; and you look thin and pale. Is it for his absence? Have you + fancied yourself in love with him? That's all nonsense, you know, such + a baby as you are. But you shall tell me all about it. + + EVA. + Not now—presently. Yes, I have been in trouble, but I am happy—I + think, quite happy now. + + DORA (<i>taking EVA'S hand</i>). + Come, then, and make them happy in the long barn, for father is in + his glory, and there is a piece of beef like a house-side, and a + plum-pudding as big as the round haystack. But see they are coming + out for the dance already. Well, my child, let us join them. + + <i>Enter all from barn laughing</i>. EVA <i>sits reluctantly + under apple tree</i>. STEER <i>enters smoking, sits by</i> EVA. + + <i>Dance</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT II. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Five years have elapsed between Acts I. and II. + + SCENE.—<i>A meadow. On one side a pathway going over + a rustic bridge. At back the farmhouse among + trees. In the distance a church spire</i>. + + DOBSON <i>and</i> DORA. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DOBSON. + So the owd uncle i' Coomberland be deäd, Miss Dora, beänt he? + + DORA. + Yes, Mr. Dobson, I've been attending on his death-bed and his burial. + + DOBSON. + It be five year sin' ye went afoor to him, and it seems to me nobbut + t'other day. Hesn't he left ye nowt? + + DORA. + No, Mr. Dobson. + + DOBSON. + But he were mighty fond o' ye, warn't he? + + DORA. + Fonder of poor Eva—like everybody else. + + DOBSON (<i>handing</i> DORA <i>basket of roses</i>). + Not like me, Miss Dora; and I ha' browt these roses to ye—I forgits + what they calls 'em, but I hallus gi'ed soom on 'em to Miss Eva at + this time o' year. Will ya taäke 'em? fur Miss Eva, she set the bush + by my dairy winder afoor she went to school at Littlechester—so I + allus browt soom on 'em to her; and now she be gone, will ye taäke + 'em, Miss Dora? + + DORA. + I thank you. They tell me that yesterday you mentioned her name too + suddenly before my father. See that you do not do so again! + + DOBSON. + Noä; I knaws a deal better now. I seed how the owd man wur vext. + + DORA. + I take them, then, for Eva's sake. + [<i>Takes basket, places some in her dress</i>. + + DOBSON. + Eva's saäke. Yeas. Poor gel, poor gel! I can't abeär to think on 'er + now, fur I'd ha' done owt fur 'er mysen; an' ony o' Steer's men, an' + ony o' my men 'ud ha' done owt fur 'er, an' all the parish 'ud ha' + done owt fur 'er, fur we was all on us proud on 'er, an' them theer be + soom of her oän roses, an' she wur as sweet as ony on 'em—the Lord + bless 'er—'er oän sen; an' weänt ye taäke 'em now, Miss Dora, fur 'er + saäke an' fur my saäke an' all? + + DORA. + Do you want them back again? + + DOBSON. + Noä, noä! Keep 'em. But I hed a word to saäy to ye. + + DORA. + Why, Farmer, you should be in the hayfield looking after your men; you + couldn't have more splendid weather. + + DOBSON. + I be a going theer; but I thowt I'd bring tha them roses fust. The + weather's well anew, but the glass be a bit shaäky. S'iver we've led + moäst on it. + + DORA. + Ay! but you must not be too sudden with it either, as you were last + year, when you put it in green, and your stack caught fire. + + DOBSON. + I were insured, Miss, an' I lost nowt by it. But I weänt be too sudden + wi' it; and I feel sewer, Miss Dora, that I ha' been noän too sudden + wi' you, fur I ha' sarved for ye well nigh as long as the man sarved + for 'is sweet'art i' Scriptur'. Weänt ye gi'e me a kind answer at + last? + + DORA. + I have no thought of marriage, my friend. We have been in such grief + these five years, not only on my sister's account, but the ill success + of the farm, and the debts, and my father's breaking down, and his + blindness. How could I think of leaving him? + + DOBSON. + Eh, but I be well to do; and if ye would nobbut hev me, I would taäke + the owd blind man to my oän fireside. You should hev him allus wi' ye. + + DORA. + You are generous, but it cannot be. I cannot love you; nay, I think I + never can be brought to love any man. It seems to me that I hate men, + ever since my sister left us. Oh, see here. (<i>Pulls out a letter</i>.) I + wear it next my heart. Poor sister, I had it five years ago. 'Dearest + Dora,—I have lost myself, and am lost for ever to you and my poor + father. I thought Mr. Edgar the best of men, and he has proved himself + the worst. Seek not for me, or you may find me at the bottom of the + river.—EVA.' + + DOBSON. + Be that my fault? + + DORA. + No; but how should I, with this grief still at my heart, take to the + milking of your cows, the fatting of your calves, the making of your + butter, and the managing of your poultry? + + DOBSON. + Naä'y, but I hev an owd woman as 'ud see to all that; and you should + sit i' your oän parlour quite like a laädy, ye should! + + DORA. + It cannot be. + + DOBSON. + And plaäy the pianner, if ye liked, all daäy long, like a laädy, ye + should an' all. + + DORA. + It cannot be. + + DOBSON. + And I would loove tha moor nor ony gentleman 'ud I loove tha. + + DORA. + No, no; it cannot be. + + DOBSON. + And p'raps ye hears 'at I soomtimes taäkes a drop too much; but that + be all along o' you, Miss, because ye weänt hev me; but, if ye would, + I could put all that o' one side eäsy anew. + + DORA. + Cannot you understand plain words, Mr. Dobson? I tell you, it cannot + be. + + DOBSON. + Eh, lass! Thy feyther eddicated his darters to marry gentlefoälk, and + see what's coomed on it. + + DORA. + That is enough, Farmer Dobson. You have shown me that, though fortune + had born <i>you</i> into the estate of a gentleman, you would still have + been Farmer Dobson. You had better attend to your hayfield. Good + afternoon. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + DOBSON. + 'Farmer Dobson'! Well, I be Farmer Dobson; but I thinks Farmer + Dobson's dog 'ud ha' knaw'd better nor to cast her sister's misfortin + inter 'er teeth arter she'd been a-readin' me the letter wi' 'er voice + a-shaäkin', and the drop in 'er eye. Theer she goäs! Shall I foller + 'er and ax 'er to maäke it up? Noä, not yet. Let 'er cool upon it; I + likes 'er all the better fur taäkin' me down, like a laädy, as she be. + Farmer Dobson! I be Farmer Dobson, sewer anew; but if iver I cooms + upo' Gentleman Hedgar ageän, and doänt laäy my cartwhip athurt 'is + shou'ders, why then I beänt Farmer Dobson, but summun else—blaäme't + if I beänt! + + <i>Enter</i> HAYMAKERS <i>with a load of hay</i>. + + The last on it, eh? + + 1ST HAYMAKER. + Yeas. + + DOBSON. + Hoäm wi' it, then. [<i>Exit surlily</i>. + + 1ST HAYMAKER. + Well, it be the last loäd hoäm. + + 2ND HAYMAKER. + Yeas, an' owd Dobson should be glad on it. What maäkes 'im allus sa + glum? + + SALLY ALLEN. + Glum! he be wus nor glum. He coom'd up to me yisterdaäy i' the + haäyfield, when meä and my sweet'art was a workin' along o' one side + wi' one another, and he sent 'im awaäy to t'other end o' the field; + and when I axed 'im why, he telled me 'at sweet'arts niver worked well + togither; and I telled <i>'im</i> 'at sweet'arts allus worked best + togither; and then he called me a rude naäme, and I can't abide 'im. + + JAMES. + Why, lass, doänt tha knaw he be sweet upo' Dora Steer, and she weänt + sa much as look at 'im? And wheniver 'e sees two sweet'arts togither + like thou and me, Sally, he be fit to bust hissen wi' spites and + jalousies. + + SALLY. + Let 'im bust hissen, then, for owt <i>I</i> cares. + + 1ST HAYMAKER. + Well but, as I said afoor, it be the last loäd hoäm; do thou and thy + sweet'art sing us hoäm to supper—'The Last Loäd Hoäm.' + + ALL. + Ay! 'The Last Loäd Hoäm.' + + <i>Song</i>. + + What did ye do, and what did ye saäy, + Wi' the wild white rose, an' the woodbine sa gaä'y, + An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue— + What did ye saäy, and what did ye do, + When ye thowt there were nawbody watchin' o' you, + And you an' your Sally was forkin' the haäy, + At the end of the daäy, + For the last loäd hoäm? + + What did we do, and what did we saäy, + Wi' the briar sa green, an' the willer sa graäy, + An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue— + Do ye think I be gawin' to tell it to you, + What we mowt saäy, and what we mowt do, + When me an' my Sally was forkin' the haäy, + At the end of the daäy, + For the last loäd hoäm? + + But what did ye saäy, and what did ye do, + Wi' the butterflies out, and the swallers at plaä'y, + An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue? + Why, coom then, owd feller, I'll tell it to you; + For me an' my Sally we swear'd to be true, + To be true to each other, let 'appen what maäy, + Till the end of the daäy + And the last loäd hoäm. + + ALL. + Well sung! + + JAMES. + Fanny be the naäme i' the song, but I swopt it fur <i>she</i>. + [<i>Pointing to</i> SALLY. + + SALLY. + Let ma aloän afoor foälk, wilt tha? + + 1ST HAYMAKER. + Ye shall sing that ageän to-night, fur owd Dobson'll gi'e us a bit o' + supper. + + SALLY. + I weänt goä to owd Dobson; he wur rude to me i' tha haäyfield, and + he'll be rude to me ageän to-night. Owd Steer's gotten all his grass + down and wants a hand, and I'll goä to him. + + 1ST HAYMAKER. + Owd Steer gi'es nubbut cowd tea to '<i>is</i> men, and owd Dobson gi'es + beer. + + SALLY. + But I'd like owd Steer's cowd tea better nor Dobson's beer. Good-bye. + [Going. + + JAMES. + Gi'e us a buss fust, lass. + + SALLY. + I tell'd tha to let ma aloän! + + JAMES. + Why, wasn't thou and me a-bussin' o' one another t'other side o' the + haäycock, when owd Dobson coom'd upo' us? I can't let tha aloän if I + would, Sally. + [Offering to kiss her. + + SALLY. + Git along wi' ye, do! [<i>Exit</i>. + [<i>All laugh; exeunt singing</i>. + + 'To be true to each other, let 'appen what maäy, + Till the end o' the daä'y + An' the last loäd hoäm.' + + <i>Enter</i> HAROLD. + + HAROLD. + Not Harold! 'Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar!' + Her phantom call'd me by the name she loved. + I told her I should hear her from the grave. + Ay! yonder is her casement. I remember + Her bright face beaming starlike down upon me + Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. Since I left her + Here weeping, I have ranged the world, and sat + Thro' every sensual course of that full feast + That leaves but emptiness. + + <i>Song</i>. + + 'To be true to each other, let 'appen what maäy, + To the end o' the daä'y + An' the last loäd hoäm.' + + HAROLD. + Poor Eva! O my God, if man be only + A willy-nilly current of sensations— + Reaction needs must follow revel—yet— + Why feel remorse, he, knowing that he must have + Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny? + Remorse then is a part of Destiny, + Nature a liar, making us feel guilty + Of her own faults. + My grandfather—of him + They say, that women— + O this mortal house, + Which we are born into, is haunted by + The ghosts of the dead passions of dead men; + And these take flesh again with our own flesh, + And bring us to confusion. + He was only + A poor philosopher who call'd the mind + Of children a blank page, a tabula rasa. + There, there, is written in invisible inks + 'Lust, Prodigality, Covetousness, Craft, + Cowardice, Murder'—and the heat and fire + Of life will bring them out, and black enough, + So the child grow to manhood: better death + With our first wail than life— + + Song (further off). + + 'Till the end o' the daäy + An' the last loäd hoäm, + Load hoäm.' + + This bridge again! (Steps on the bridge.) + How often have I stood + With Eva here! The brook among its flowers! + Forget-me-not, meadowsweet, willow-herb. + I had some smattering of science then, + Taught her the learned names, anatomized + The flowers for her—and now I only wish + This pool were deep enough, that I might plunge + And lose myself for ever. + + <i>Enter</i> DAN SMITH (<i>singing</i>). + + Gee oop! whoä! Gee oop! whoä! + Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goä + Thruf slush an' squad + When roäds was bad, + But hallus ud stop at the Vine-an'-the-Hop, + Fur boäth on 'em knaw'd as well as mysen + That beer be as good fur 'erses as men. + Gee oop! whoä! Gee oop! whoä! + Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goä. + + The beer's gotten oop into my 'eäd. S'iver I mun git along back to the + farm, fur she tell'd ma to taäke the cart to Littlechester. + + <i>Enter</i> DORA. + + Half an hour late! why are you loitering here? Away with you at once. + + [<i>Exit</i> DAN SMITH. + (<i>Seeing</i> HAROLD <i>on bridge</i>.) + + Some madman, is it, Gesticulating there upon the bridge? I am half + afraid to pass. + + HAROLD. + Sometimes I wonder, + When man has surely learnt at last that all + His old-world faith, the blossom of his youth, + Has faded, falling fruitless—whether then + All of us, all at once, may not be seized + With some fierce passion, not so much for Death + As against Life! all, all, into the dark— + No more!—and science now could drug and balm us + Back into nescience with as little pain + As it is to fall asleep. + This beggarly life, + This poor, flat, hedged-in field—no distance—this + Hollow Pandora-box, + With all the pleasures flown, not even Hope + Left at the bottom! + Superstitious fool, + What brought me here? To see her grave? her ghost? + Her ghost is everyway about me here. + + DORA (<i>coming forward</i>). + Allow me, sir, to pass you. + + HAROLD. + Eva! + + DORA. + Eva! + + HAROLD. + What are you? Where do you come from? + + DORA. + From the farm + Here, close at hand. + + HAROLD. + Are you—you are—that Dora, + The sister. I have heard of you. The likeness + Is very striking. + + DORA. + You knew Eva, then? + + HAROLD. + Yes—I was thinking of her when—O yes, + Many years back, and never since have met + Her equal for pure innocence of nature, + And loveliness of feature. + + DORA. + No, nor I. + + HAROLD. + Except, indeed, I have found it once again + In your own self. + + DORA. + You flatter me. Dear Eva + Was always thought the prettier. + + HAROLD. + And <i>her</i> charm + Of voice is also yours; and I was brooding + Upon a great unhappiness when you spoke. + + DORA. + Indeed, you seem'd in trouble, sir. + + HAROLD. + And you + Seem my good angel who may help me from it. + + DORA (<i>aside</i>). + How worn he looks, poor man! who is it, I wonder. + How can I help him? (<i>Aloud</i>.) Might I ask your name? + + HAROLD. + Harold. + + DORA. + I never heard her mention you. + + HAROLD. + I met her first at a farm in Cumberland— + Her uncle's. + + DORA. + She was there six years ago. + + HAROLD. + And if she never mention'd me, perhaps + The painful circumstances which I heard— + I will not vex you by repeating them— + Only last week at Littlechester, drove me + From out her memory. She has disappear'd, + They told me, from the farm—and darker news. + + DORA. + She has disappear'd, poor darling, from the world— + Left but one dreadful line to say, that we + Should find her in the river; and we dragg'd + The Littlechester river all in vain: + Have sorrow'd for her all these years in vain. + And my poor father, utterly broken down + By losing her—she was his favourite child— + Has let his farm, all his affairs, I fear, + But for the slender help that I can give, + Fall into ruin. Ah! that villain, Edgar, + If he should ever show his face among us, + Our men and boys would hoot him, stone him, hunt him + With pitchforks off the farm, for all of them + Loved her, and she was worthy of all love. + + HAROLD. + They say, we should forgive our enemies. + + DORA. + Ay, if the wretch were dead I might forgive him; + We know not whether he be dead or living. + + HAROLD. + What Edgar? + + DORA. + Philip Edgar of Toft Hall + In Somerset. Perhaps you know him? + + HAROLD. + Slightly. + (<i>Aside</i>.) Ay, for how slightly have I known myself. + + DORA. + This Edgar, then, is living? + + HAROLD. + Living? well— + One Philip Edgar of Toft Hall in Somerset + Is lately dead. + + DORA. + Dead!—is there more than one? + + HAROLD. + Nay—now—not one, (<i>aside</i>) for I am Philip Harold. + + DORA. + That one, is he then—dead! + + HAROLD. + (<i>Aside</i>.) My father's death, + Let her believe it mine; this, for the moment, + Will leave me a free field. + + DORA. + Dead! and this world + Is brighter for his absence as that other + Is darker for his presence. + + HAROLD. + Is not this + To speak too pitilessly of the dead? + + DORA. + My five-years' anger cannot die at once, + Not all at once with death and him. I trust + I shall forgive him—by-and-by—not now. + O sir, you seem to have a heart; if you + Had seen us that wild morning when we found + Her bed unslept in, storm and shower lashing + Her casement, her poor spaniel wailing for her, + That desolate letter, blotted with her tears, + Which told us we should never see her more— + Our old nurse crying as if for her own child, + My father stricken with his first paralysis, + And then with blindness—had you been one of us + And seen all this, then you would know it is not + So easy to forgive—even the dead. + + HAROLD. + But sure am I that of your gentleness + You will forgive him. She, you mourn for, seem'd + A miracle of gentleness—would not blur + A moth's wing by the touching; would not crush + The fly that drew her blood; and, were she living, + Would not—if penitent—have denied him <i>her</i> + Forgiveness. And perhaps the man himself, + When hearing of that piteous death, has suffer'd + More than we know. But wherefore waste your heart + In looking on a chill and changeless Past? + Iron will fuse, and marble melt; the Past + Remains the Past. But you are young, and—pardon me— + As lovely as your sister. Who can tell + What golden hours, with what full hands, may be + Waiting you in the distance? Might I call + Upon your father—I have seen the world— + And cheer his blindness with a traveller's tales? + + DORA. + Call if you will, and when you will. I cannot + Well answer for my father; but if you + Can tell me anything of our sweet Eva + When in her brighter girlhood, I at least + Will bid you welcome, and will listen to you. + Now I must go. + + HAROLD. + But give me first your hand: + I do not dare, like an old friend, to shake it. + I kiss it as a prelude to that privilege + When you shall know me better. + + DORA. + (<i>Aside</i>.) How beautiful + His manners are, and how unlike the farmer's! + You are staying here? + + HAROLD. + Yes, at the wayside inn + Close by that alder-island in your brook, + 'The Angler's Home.' + + DORA. + Are <i>you</i> one? + + HAROLD. + No, but I + Take some delight in sketching, and the country + Has many charms, altho' the inhabitants + Seem semi-barbarous. + + DORA. + I am glad it pleases you; + Yet I, born here, not only love the country, + But its inhabitants too; and you, I doubt not, + Would take to them as kindly, if you cared + To live some time among them. + + HAROLD. + If I did, + Then one at least of its inhabitants + Might have more charm for me than all the country. + + DORA. + That one, then, should be grateful for your preference. + + HAROLD. + I cannot tell, tho' standing in her presence. + (<i>Aside</i>.) She colours! + + DORA. + Sir! + + HAROLD. + Be not afraid of me, + For these are no conventional flourishes. + I do most earnestly assure you that + Your likeness— + [<i>Shouts and cries without</i>. + + DORA. + What was that? my poor blind father— + + <i>Enter</i> FARMING MAN. + + FARMING MAN. + Miss Dora, Dan Smith's cart hes runned ower a laädy i' the holler + laäne, and they ha' ta'en the body up inter your chaumber, and they be + all a-callin' for ye. + + DORA. + The body!—Heavens! I come! + + HAROLD. + But you are trembling. + Allow me to go with you to the farm. [<i>Exeunt</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> DOBSON. + + DOBSON. + What feller wur it as 'a' been a-talkin' fur haäfe an hour wi' my + Dora? (<i>Looking after him</i>.) Seeäms I ommost knaws the back on 'im— + drest like a gentleman, too. Damn all gentlemen, says I! I should ha' + thowt they'd hed anew o' gentlefoälk, as I telled 'er to-daäy when she + fell foul upo' me. + + Minds ma o' summun. I could sweär to that; but that be all one, fur I + haätes 'im afoor I knaws what 'e be. Theer! he turns round. Philip + Hedgar o' Soomerset! Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset!—Noä—yeas—thaw the + feller's gone and maäde such a litter of his faäce. + + Eh lad, if it be thou, I'll Philip tha! a-plaäyin' the saäme gaäme wi' + my Dora—I'll Soomerset tha. + + I'd like to drag 'im thruff the herse-pond, and she to be a-lookin' at + it. I'd like to leather 'im black and blue, and she to be a-laughin' + at it. I'd like to fell 'im as deäd as a bullock! (<i>Clenching his + fist</i>.) But what 'ud she saäy to that? She telled me once not to + meddle wi' 'im, and now she be fallen out wi' ma, and I can't coom at + 'er. + + It mun be <i>him</i>. Noä! Fur she'd niver 'a been talkin' haäfe an hour + wi' the divil 'at killed her oän sister, or she beänt Dora Steer. + + Yeas! Fur she niver knawed 'is faäce when 'e wur 'ere afoor; but I'll + maäke 'er knaw! I'll maäke 'er knaw! + + <i>Enter</i> HAROLD. + + Naäy, but I mun git out on 'is waäy now, or I shall be the death on + 'im. [<i>Exit</i>. + + HAROLD. + How the clown glared at me! that Dobbins, is it, + With whom I used to jar? but can he trace me + Thro' five years' absence, and my change of name, + The tan of southern summers and the beard? + I may as well avoid him. + Ladylike! + Lilylike in her stateliness and sweetness! + How came she by it?—a daughter of the fields, + This Dora! + She gave her hand, unask'd, at the farm-gate; + I almost think she half return'd the pressure + Of mine. What, I that held the orange blossom + Dark as the yew? but may not those, who march + Before their age, turn back at times, and make + Courtesy to custom? and now the stronger motive, + Misnamed free-will—the crowd would call it conscience— + Moves me—to what? I am dreaming; for the past + Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes thro' her's— + A spell upon me! Surely I loved Eva + More than I knew! or is it but the past + That brightens in retiring? Oh, last night, + Tired, pacing my new lands at Littlechester, + I dozed upon the bridge, and the black river + Flow'd thro' my dreams—if dreams they were. She rose + From the foul flood and pointed toward the farm, + And her cry rang to me across the years, + 'I call you, Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar! + Come, you will set all right again, and father + Will not die miserable.' I could make his age + A comfort to him—so be more at peace + With mine own self. Some of my former friends + Would find my logic faulty; let them. Colour + Flows thro' my life again, and I have lighted + On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must + Move in the line of least resistance when + The stronger motive rules. + But she hates Edgar. + May not this Dobbins, or some other, spy + Edgar in Harold? Well then, I must make her + Love Harold first, and then she will forgive + Edgar for Harold's sake. She said herself + She would forgive him, by-and-by, not now— + For her own sake <i>then</i>, if not for mine—not now— + But by-and-by. + + <i>Enter</i> DOBSON <i>behind</i>. + + DOBSON. + By-and-by—eh, lad, dosta knaw this paäper? Ye dropt it upo' the road. + 'Philip Edgar, Esq.' Ay, you be a pretty squire. I ha' fun' ye out, I + hev. Eh, lad, dosta knaw what tha meäns wi' by-and-by? Fur if ye be + goin' to sarve our Dora as ye sarved our Eva—then, by-and-by, if she + weänt listen to me when I be a-tryin' to saäve 'er—if she weänt—look + to thysen, for, by the Lord, I'd think na moor o' maäkin' an end o' + tha nor a carrion craw—noä—thaw they hanged ma at 'Size fur it. + + HAROLD. + Dobbins, I think! + + DOBSON. + I beänt Dobbins. + + HAROLD. + Nor am I Edgar, my good fellow. + + DOBSON. + Tha lies! What hasta been saäyin' to <i>my</i> Dora? + + HAROLD. + I have been telling her of the death of one Philip Edgar of Toft Hall, + Somerset. + + DOBSON. + Tha lies! + + HAROLD (<i>pulling out a newspaper</i>). + Well, my man, it seems that you can read. Look there—under the deaths. + + DOBSON. + 'O' the 17th, Philip Edgar, o' Toft Hall, Soomerset.' How coom thou to + be sa like 'im, then? + + HAROLD. + Naturally enough; for I am closely related to the dead man's family. + + DOBSON. + An 'ow coom thou by the letter to 'im? + + HAROLD. + Naturally again; for as I used to transact all his business for him, I + had to look over his letters. Now then, see these (<i>takes out + letters</i>). Half a score of them, all directed to me—Harold. + + DOBSON. + 'Arold! 'Arold! 'Arold, so they be. + + HAROLD. + My name is Harold! Good day, Dobbins! + [<i>Exit</i>. + DOBSON. + 'Arold! The feller's cleän daäzed, an' maäzed, an' maäted, an' muddled + ma. Deäd! It mun be true, fur it wur i' print as black as owt. Naäay, + but 'Good daäy, Dobbins.' Why, that wur the very twang on 'im. Eh, + lad, but whether thou be Hedgar, or Hedgar's business man, thou hesn't + naw business 'ere wi' <i>my</i> Dora, as I knaws on, an' whether thou calls + thysen Hedgar or Harold, if thou stick to she I'll stick to thee— + stick to tha like a weasel to a rabbit, I will. Ay! and I'd like to + shoot tha like a rabbit an' all. 'Good daäy, Dobbins.' Dang tha! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT III. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE.—<i>A room in</i> STEER'S <i>House. Door leading into bedroom at the + back</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + DORA (<i>ringing a handbell</i>). + Milly! + + <i>Enter</i> MILLY. + + MILLY. + The little 'ymn? Yeäs, Miss; but I wur so ta'en up wi' leädin' the owd + man about all the blessed murnin' 'at I ha' nobbut larned mysen haäfe + on it. + + 'O man, forgive thy mortal foe, + Nor ever strike him blow for blow; + For all the souls on earth that live + To be forgiven must forgive. + Forgive him seventy times and seven: + For all the blessed souls in Heaven + Are both forgivers and forgiven.' + + But I'll git the book ageän, and larn mysen the rest, and saäy it to + ye afoor dark; ye ringed fur that, Miss, didn't ye? + + DORA. + No, Milly; but if the farming-men be come for their wages, to send + them up to me. + + MILLY. + Yeäs, Miss. [<i>Exit.</i> + + DORA (<i>sitting at desk counting money</i>). + Enough at any rate for the present. (<i>Enter</i> FARMING MEN.) Good + afternoon, my friends. I am sorry Mr. Steer still continues too unwell + to attend to you, but the schoolmaster looked to the paying you your + wages when I was away, didn't he? + + MEN. + Yeäs; and thanks to ye. + + DORA. + Some of our workmen have left us, but he sent me an alphabetical list + of those that remain, so, Allen, I may as well begin with you. + + ALLEN (<i>with his hand to his ear</i>). + Halfabitical! Taäke one o' the young 'uns fust, Miss, fur I be a bit + deaf, and I wur hallus scaäred by a big word; leästwaäys, I should be + wi' a lawyer. + + DORA. + I spoke of your names, Allen, as they are arranged here (<i>shows + book</i>)—according to their first letters. + + ALLEN. + Letters! Yeas, I sees now. Them be what they larns the childer' at + school, but I were burn afoor schoolin-time. + + DORA. + But, Allen, tho' you can't read, you could whitewash that cottage of + yours where your grandson had the fever. + + ALLEN. + I'll hev it done o' Monday. + + DORA. + Else if the fever spread, the parish will have to thank you for it. + + ALLEN. + Meä? why, it be the Lord's doin', noän o' mine; d'ye think <i>I'd</i> gi'e + 'em the fever? But I thanks ye all the saäme, Miss. (<i>Takes money</i>.) + + DORA (<i>calling out names</i>). + Higgins, Jackson, Luscombe, Nokes, Oldham, Skipworth! (<i>All take + money</i>.) Did you find that you worked at all the worse upon the cold + tea than you would have done upon the beer? + + HIGGINS. + Noä, Miss; we worked naw wuss upo' the cowd tea; but we'd ha' worked + better upo' the beer. + + DORA. + Come, come, you worked well enough, and I am much obliged to all of + you. There's for you, and you, and you. Count the money and see if + it's all right. + + MEN. + All right, Miss; and thank ye kindly. + + [<i>Exeunt</i> LUSCOMBE, NOKES, OLDHAM, SKIPWORTH. + + DORA. + Dan Smith, my father and I forgave you stealing our coals. + + [DAN SMITH <i>advances to</i> DORA. + + DAN SMITH (<i>bellowing</i>). + Whoy, O lor, Miss! that wur sa long back, and the walls sa thin, and + the winders brokken, and the weather sa cowd, and my missus a-gittin' + ower 'er lyin'-in. + + DORA. + Didn't I say that we had forgiven you? But, Dan Smith, they tell me + that you—and you have six children—spent all your last Saturday's + wages at the ale-house; that you were stupid drunk all Sunday, and so + ill in consequence all Monday, that you did not come into the + hayfield. Why should I pay you your full wages? + + DAN SMITH. + I be ready to taäke the pledge. + + DORA. + And as ready to break it again. Besides it was you that were driving + the cart—and I fear you were tipsy then, too—when you lamed the lady + in the hollow lane. + + DAN SMITH (<i>bellowing</i>). + O lor, Miss! noä, noä, noä! Ye sees the holler laäne be hallus sa dark + i' the arternoon, and wheere the big eshtree cuts athurt it, it gi'es + a turn like, and 'ow should I see to laäme the laädy, and meä coomin' + along pretty sharp an' all? + + DORA. + Well, there are your wages; the next time you waste them at a pothouse + you get no more from me. (<i>Exit</i> DAN SMITH.) Sally Allen, you worked + for Mr. Dobson, didn't you? + + SALLY (<i>advancing</i>). + Yeäs, Miss; but he wur so rough wi' ma, I couldn't abide 'im. + + DORA. + Why should he be rough with you? You are as good as a man in the + hayfield. What's become of your brother? + + SALLY. + 'Listed for a soädger, Miss, i' the Queen's Real Hard Tillery. + + DORA. + And your sweetheart—when are you and he to be married? + + SALLY. + At Michaelmas, Miss, please God. + + DORA. + You are an honest pair. I will come to your wedding. + + SALLY. + An' I thanks ye fur that, Miss, moor nor fur the waäge. + + (<i>Going—returns</i>.) + + 'A cotched ma about the waäist, Miss, when 'e wur 'ere afoor, an' axed + ma to be 'is little sweet-art, an soä I knaw'd 'im when I seed 'im + ageän an I telled feyther on 'im. + + DORA. + What is all this, Allen? + + ALLEN. + Why, Miss Dora, meä and my maätes, us three, we wants to hev three + words wi' ye. + + HIGGINS. + That be 'im, and meä, Miss. + + JACKSON. + An' meä, Miss. + + ALLEN. + An' we weänt mention naw naämes, we'd as lief talk o' the Divil afoor + ye as 'im, fur they says the master goäs cleän off his 'eäd when he + 'eärs the naäme on 'im; but us three, arter Sally'd telled us on 'im, + we fun' 'im out a-walkin' i' West Field wi' a white 'at, nine o'clock, + upo' Tuesday murnin', and all on us, wi' your leave, we wants to + leather 'im. + + DORA. + Who? + + ALLEN. + Him as did the mischief here, five year' sin'. + + DORA. + Mr. Edgar? + + ALLEN. + Theer, Miss! You ha' naämed 'im—not me. + + DORA. + He's dead, man—dead; gone to his account—dead and buried. + + ALLEN. + I beä'nt sa sewer o' that, fur Sally knaw'd 'im; Now then? + + DORA. + Yes; it was in the Somersetshire papers. + + ALLEN. + Then yon mun be his brother, an'—we'll leather '<i>im</i>. + + DORA. + I never heard that he had a brother. Some foolish mistake of Sally's; + but what! would you beat a man for his brother's fault? That were a + wild justice indeed. Let bygones be bygones. Go home.' Goodnight! + (<i>All exeunt</i>.) I have once more paid them all. The work of the farm + will go on still, but for how long? We are almost at the bottom of the + well: little more to be drawn from it—and what then? Encumbered as we + are, who would lend us anything? We shall have to sell all the land, + which Father, for a whole life, has been getting together, again, and + that, I am sure, would be the death of him. What am I to do? Farmer + Dobson, were I to marry him, has promised to keep our heads above + water; and the man has doubtless a good heart, and a true and lasting + love for me: yet—though I can be sorry for him—as the good Sally + says, 'I can't abide him'—almost brutal, and matched with my Harold + is like a hedge thistle by a garden rose. But then, he, too—will he + ever be of one faith with his wife? which is my dream of a true + marriage. Can I fancy him kneeling with me, and uttering the same + prayer; standing up side by side with me, and singing the same hymn? I + fear not. Have I done wisely, then, in accepting him? But may not a + girl's love-dream have too much romance in it to be realised all at + once, or altogether, or anywhere but in Heaven? And yet I had once a + vision of a pure and perfect marriage, where the man and the woman, + only differing as the stronger and the weaker, should walk hand in + hand together down this valley of tears, as they call it so truly, to + the grave at the bottom, and lie down there together in the darkness + which would seem but for a moment, to be wakened again together by the + light of the resurrection, and no more partings for ever and for ever. + (<i>Walks up and down. She sings</i>.) + + 'O happy lark, that warblest high + Above thy lowly nest, + O brook, that brawlest merrily by + Thro' fields that once were blest, + O tower spiring to the sky, + O graves in daisies drest, + O Love and Life, how weary am I, + And how I long for rest.' + + There, there, I am a fool! Tears! I have sometimes been moved to tears + by a chapter of fine writing in a novel; but what have I to do with + tears now? All depends on me—Father, this poor girl, the farm, + everything; and they both love me—I am all in all to both; and he + loves me too, I am quite sure of that. Courage, courage! and all will + go well. (<i>Goes to bedroom door; opens it</i>.) How dark your room is! + Let me bring you in here where there is still full daylight. (<i>Brings</i> + EVA <i>forward</i>.) Why, you look better. + + EVA. + And I feel so much better that I trust I may be able by-and-by to help + you in the business of the farm; but I must not be known yet. Has + anyone found me out, Dora? + + DORA. + Oh, no; you kept your veil too close for that when they carried you + in; since then, no one has seen you but myself. + + EVA. + Yes—this Milly. + + DORA. + Poor blind Father's little guide, Milly, who came to us three years + after you were gone, how should she know you? But now that you have + been brought to us as it were from the grave, dearest Eva, and have + been here so long, will you not speak with Father today? + + EVA. + Do you think that I may? No, not yet. I am not equal to it yet. + + DORA. + Why? Do you still suffer from your fall in the hollow lane? + + EVA. + Bruised; but no bones broken. + + DORA. + I have always told Father that the huge old ashtree there would cause + an accident some day; but he would never cut it down, because one of + the Steers had planted it there in former times. + + EVA. + If it had killed one of the Steers there the other day, it might have + been better for her, for him, and for you. + + DORA. + Come, come, keep a good heart! Better for me! That's good. How better + for me? + + EVA. + You tell me you have a lover. Will he not fly from you if he learn the + story of my shame and that I am still living? + + DORA. + No; I am sure that when we are married he will be willing that you and + Father should live with us; for, indeed, he tells me that he met you + once in the old times, and was much taken with you, my dear. + + EVA. + Taken with me; who was he? Have you told him I am here? + + DORA. + No; do you wish it? + + EVA. + See, Dora; you yourself are ashamed of me (<i>weeps</i>), and I do not + wonder at it. + + DORA. + But I should wonder at myself if it were so. Have we not been all in + all to one another from the time when we first peeped into the bird's + nest, waded in the brook, ran after the butterflies, and prattled to + each other that we would marry fine gentlemen, and played at being + fine ladies? + + EVA. + That last was my Father's fault, poor man. And this lover of yours— + this Mr. Harold—is a gentleman? + + DORA. + That he is, from head to foot. I do believe I lost my heart to him the + very first time we met, and I love him so much— + + EVA. + Poor Dora! + + DORA. + That I dare not tell him how much I love him. + + EVA. + Better not. Has he offered you marriage, this gentleman? + + DORA + Could I love him else? + + EVA. + And are you quite sure that after marriage this gentleman will not be + shamed of his poor farmer's daughter among the ladies in his + drawing-room? + + DORA. + Shamed of me in a drawing-room! Wasn't Miss Vavasour, our + schoolmistress at Littlechester, a lady born? Were not our + fellow-pupils all ladies? Wasn't dear mother herself at least by one + side a lady? Can't I speak like a lady; pen a letter like a lady; talk + a little French like a lady; play a little like a lady? Can't a girl + when she loves her husband, and he her, make herself anything he + wishes her to be? Shamed of me in a drawing-room, indeed! See here! 'I + hope your Lordship is quite recovered of your gout?' (<i>Curtsies</i>.) + 'Will your Ladyship ride to cover to-day? (<i>Curtsies</i>.) I can + recommend our Voltigeur.' 'I am sorry that we could not attend your + Grace's party on the 10th!' (<i>Curtsies</i>.) There, I am glad my nonsense + has made you smile! + + EVA. + I have heard that 'your Lordship,' and 'your Ladyship,' and 'your + Grace' are all growing old-fashioned! + + DORA. + But the love of sister for sister can never be old-fashioned. I have + been unwilling to trouble you with questions, but you seem somewhat + better to-day. We found a letter in your bedroom torn into bits. I + couldn't make it out. What was it? + + EVA. + From him! from him! He said we had been most happy together, and he + trusted that some time we should meet again, for he had not forgotten + his promise to come when I called him. But that was a mockery, you + know, for he gave me no address, and there was no word of marriage; + and, O Dora, he signed himself 'Yours gratefully'—fancy, Dora, + 'gratefully'! 'Yours gratefully'! + + DORA. + Infamous wretch! (<i>Aside</i>.) Shall I tell her he is dead? No; she is + still too feeble. + + EVA. + Hark! Dora, some one is coming. I cannot and I will not see anybody. + + DORA. + It is only Milly. + + <i>Enter</i> MILLY, <i>with basket of roses</i>. + + DORA. + Well, Milly, why do you come in so roughly? The sick lady here might + have been asleep. + + MILLY. + Pleäse, Miss, Mr. Dobson telled me to saäy he's browt some of Miss + Eva's roses for the sick laädy to smell on. + + DORA. + Take them, dear. Say that the sick lady thanks him! Is he here? + + MILLY. + Yeäs, Miss; and he wants to speäk to ye partic'lar, + + DORA. + Tell him I cannot leave the sick lady just yet. + + MILLY. + Yea's, Miss; but he says he wants to tell ye summut very partic'lar. + + DORA. + Not to-day. What are you staying for? + + MILLY. + Why, Miss, I be afeard I shall set him a-sweäring like onythink. + + DORA. + And what harm will that do you, so that you do not copy his bad + manners? Go, child. (<i>Exit</i> MILLY.) But, Eva, why did you write 'Seek + me at the bottom of the river'? + + EVA. + Why? because I meant it!—that dreadful night! that lonely walk to + Littlechester, the rain beating in my face all the way, dead midnight + when I came upon the bridge; the river, black, slimy, swirling under + me in the lamplight, by the rotten wharfs—but I was so mad, that I + mounted upon the parapet— + + DORA. + You make me shudder! + + EVA. + To fling myself over, when I heard a voice, 'Girl, what are you doing + there? It was a Sister of Mercy, come from the death-bed of a pauper, + who had died in his misery blessing God, and the Sister took me to her + house, and bit by bit—for she promised secrecy—I told her all. + + DORA. + And what then? + + EVA. + She would have persuaded me to come back here, but I couldn't. Then + she got me a place as nursery governess, and when the children grew + too old for me, and I asked her once more to help me, once more she + said, 'Go home;' but I hadn't the heart or face to do it. And then— + what would Father say? I sank so low that I went into service—the + drudge of a lodging-house—and when the mistress died, and I appealed + to the Sister again, her answer—I think I have it about me—yes, + there it is! + + DORA (<i>reads</i>). + 'My dear Child,—I can do no more for you. I + have done wrong in keeping your secret; your Father + must be now in extreme old age. Go back to him and + ask his forgiveness before he dies.—SISTER AGATHA.' + Sister Agatha is right. Don't you long for Father's + forgiveness? + + EVA. + I would almost die to have it! + + DORA. + And he may die before he gives it; may drop off any day, any hour. You + must see him at once. (<i>Rings bell. Enter</i> MILLY.) Milly, my dear, how + did you leave Mr. Steer? + + MILLY. + He's been a-moänin' and a-groänin' in 'is sleep, but I thinks he be + wakkenin' oop. + + DORA. + Tell him that I and the lady here wish to see him. You see she is + lamed, and cannot go down to him. + + MILLY. + Yeäs, Miss, I will. [<i>Exit</i> MILLY. + + DORA. + I ought to prepare you. You must not expect to find our Father as he + was five years ago. He is much altered; but I trust that your return— + for you know, my dear, you were always his favourite—will give him, + as they say, a new lease of life. + + EVA (<i>clinging to</i> DORA). + Oh, Dora, Dora! + + <i>Enter</i> STEER, <i>led by</i> MILLY. + + STEER. + Hes the cow cawved? + + DORA. + No. Father. + + STEER. + Be the colt deäd? + + DORA. + No, Father. + + STEER. + He wur sa bellows'd out wi' the wind this murnin', 'at I tell'd 'em to + gallop 'im. Be he deäd? + + DORA. + Not that I know. + + STEER. + That hasta sent fur me, then, fur? + + DORA (<i>taking</i> STEER'S <i>arm</i>). + Well, Father, I have a surprise for you. + + STEER. + I ha niver been surprised but once i' my life, and I went blind + upon it. + + DORA. + Eva has come home. + + STEER. + Hoäm? fro' the bottom o' the river? + + DORA. + No, Father, that was a mistake. She's here again. + + STEER. + The Steers was all gentlefoälks i' the owd times, an' I worked early + an' laäte to maäke 'em all gentle-foälks ageän. The land belonged to + the Steers i' the owd times, an' it belongs to the Steers ageän: I + bowt it back ageän; but I couldn't buy my darter back ageän when she + lost hersen, could I? I eddicated boäth on em to marry gentlemen, an' + one on 'em went an' lost hersen i' the river. + + DORA. + No, father, she's here. + + STEER. + Here! she moänt coom here. What would her mother saäy? If it be her + ghoäst, we mun abide it. We can't keep a ghoäst out. + + EVA (<i>falling at his feet</i>). + O forgive me! forgive me! + + STEER. + Who said that? Taäke me awaäy, little gell. It be one o' my bad daäys. + [<i>Exit</i> STEER <i>led by</i> MILLY. + + DORA (<i>smoothing</i> EVA'S <i>forehead</i>). + Be not so cast down, my sweet Eva. You heard him say it was one of his + bad days. He will be sure to know you to-morrow. + + EVA. + It is almost the last of my bad days, I think. I am very faint. I must + lie down. Give me your arm. Lead me back again. + [DORA <i>takes</i> EVA <i>into inner room</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> MILLY. + + MILLY. + Miss Dora! Miss Dora! + + DORA (<i>returning and leaving the bedroom door ajar</i>). + Quiet! quiet! What is it? + + MILLY. + Mr. 'Arold, Miss. + + DORA. + Below? + + MILLY. + Yeäs, Miss. He be saäyin' a word to the owd man, but he'll coom up if + ye lets 'im. + + DORA. + Tell him, then, that I'm waiting for him. + + MILLY. + Yeäs, Miss. + [<i>Exit</i>. DORA <i>sits pensively and waits</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> HAROLD. + + HAROLD. + You are pale, my Dora! but the ruddiest cheek + That ever charm'd the plowman of your wolds + Might wish its rose a lily, could it look + But half as lovely. I was speaking with + Your father, asking his consent—you wish'd me— + That we should marry: he would answer nothing, + I could make nothing of him; but, my flower, + You look so weary and so worn! What is it + Has put you out of heart? + + DORA. + It puts me in heart + Again to see you; but indeed the state + Of my poor father puts me out of heart. + Is yours yet living? + + HAROLD. + No—I told you. + + DORA. + When? + + HAROLD. + Confusion!—Ah well, well! the state we all + Must come to in our spring-and-winter world + If we live long enough! and poor Steer looks + The very type of Age in a picture, bow'd + To the earth he came from, to the grave he goes to, + Beneath the burthen of years. + + DORA. + More like the picture + Of Christian in my 'Pilgrim's Progress' here, + Bow'd to the dust beneath the burthen of sin. + + HAROLD. + Sin! What sin? + + DORA. + Not his own. + + HAROLD. + That nursery-tale + Still read, then? + + DORA. + Yes; our carters and our shepherds + Still find a comfort there. + + HAROLD. + Carters and shepherds! + + DORA. + Scorn! I hate scorn. A soul with no religion— + My mother used to say that such a one + Was without rudder, anchor, compass—might be + Blown everyway with every gust and wreck + On any rock; and tho' you are good and gentle, + Yet if thro' any want— + + HAROLD. + Of this religion? + Child, read a little history, you will find + The common brotherhood of man has been + Wrong'd by the cruelties of his religions + More than could ever have happen'd thro' the want + Of any or all of them. + + DORA. + —But, O dear friend, + If thro' the want of any—I mean the true one— + And pardon me for saying it—you should ever + Be tempted into doing what might seem + Not altogether worthy of you, I think + That I should break my heart, for you have taught me + To love you. + + HAROLD. + What is this? some one been stirring + Against me? he, your rustic amourist, + The polish'd Damon of your pastoral here, + This Dobson of your idyll? + + DORA. + No, Sir, no! + Did you not tell me he was crazed with jealousy, + Had threaten'd ev'n your life, and would say anything? + Did <i>I</i> not promise not to listen to him, + Not ev'n to see the man? + + HAROLD. + Good; then what is it + That makes you talk so dolefully? + + DORA. + I told you— + My father. Well, indeed, a friend just now, + One that has been much wrong'd, whose griefs are + mine, + + Was warning me that if a gentleman + Should wed a farmer's daughter, he would be + Sooner or later shamed of her among + The ladies, born his equals. + + HAROLD. + More fool he! + What I that have been call'd a Socialist, + A Communist, a Nihilist—what you will!— + + DORA. + What are all these? + + HAROLD. + Utopian idiotcies. + They did not last three Junes. Such rampant weeds + Strangle each other, die, and make the soil + For Caesars, Cromwells, and Napoleons + To root their power in. I have freed myself + From all such dreams, and some will say because + I have inherited my Uncle. Let them. + But—shamed of you, my Empress! I should prize + The pearl of Beauty, 'even if I found it + Dark with the soot of slums. + + DORA. + But I can tell you, + We Steers are of old blood, tho' we be fallen. + See there our shield. (<i>Pointing to arms on mantelpiece</i>.) + For I have heard the Steers + Had land in Saxon times; and your own name + Of Harold sounds so English and so old + I am sure you must be proud of it. + + HAROLD. + Not I! + As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I took it + For some three thousand acres. I have land now + And wealth, and lay both at your feet. + + DORA. + And <i>what</i> was + Your name before? + + HAROLD. + Come, come, my girl, enough + Of this strange talk. I love you and you me. + True, I have held opinions, hold some still, + Which you would scarce approve of: for all that, + I am a man not prone to jealousies, + Caprices, humours, moods; but very ready + To make allowances, and mighty slow + To feel offences. Nay, I do believe + I could forgive—well, almost anything— + And that more freely than your formal priest, + Because I know more fully than <i>he</i> can + What poor earthworms are all and each of us, + Here crawling in this boundless Nature. Dora, + If marriage ever brought a woman happiness + I doubt not I can make you happy. + + DORA. + You make me + Happy already. + + HAROLD. + And I never said + As much before to any woman living. + + DORA. + No? + + HAROLD. + No! by this true kiss, <i>you</i> are the first + I ever have loved truly. [<i>They kiss each other</i>. + + EVA (<i>with a wild cry</i>). + Philip Edgar! + + HAROLD. + The phantom cry! <i>You</i>—did <i>you</i> hear a cry? + + DORA. + She must be crying out 'Edgar' in her sleep. + + HAROLD. + Who must be crying out 'Edgar' in her sleep? + + DORA. + Your pardon for a minute. She must be waked. + + HAROLD + Who must be waked? + + DORA. + I am not deaf: you fright me. + What ails you? + + HAROLD. + Speak. + + DORA. + You know her, Eva. + + HAROLD. + Eva! + [EVA <i>opens the door and stands in the entry</i>. + She! + + EVA. + Make her happy, then, and I forgive you. + [<i>Falls dead</i>. + + DORA. + Happy! What? Edgar? Is it so? Can it be? + They told me so. Yes, yes! I see it all now. + O she has fainted. Sister, Eva, sister! + He is yours again—he will love <i>you</i> again; + I give him back to you again. Look up! + One word, or do but smile! Sweet, do you hear me? + [<i>Puts her hand on</i> EVA'S <i>heart</i>. + There, there—the heart, O God!—the poor young heart + Broken at last—all still—and nothing left + To live for. + [<i>Falls on body of her sister</i>. + + HAROLD. + Living ... dead ... She said 'all still. + Nothing to live for.' + She—she knows me—now ... + (<i>A pause</i>.) + She knew me from the first, she juggled with me, + She hid this sister, told me she was dead— + I have wasted pity on her—not dead now— + No! acting, playing on me, both of them. + <i>They</i> drag the river for her! no, not they! + Playing on me—not dead now—a swoon—a scene— + Yet—how she made her wail as for the dead! + + <i>Enter</i> MILLY. + + MILLY. + Pleäse, Mister 'Arold. + + HAROLD (<i>roughly</i>). + Well? + + MlLLY. + The owd man's coom'd ageän to 'issen, an' wants + To hev a word wi' ye about the marriage. + + HAROLD. + The what? + + MILLY. + The marriage. + + HAROLD. + The marriage? + + MILLY. + Yeäs, the marriage. + Granny says marriages be maäde i' 'eaven. + + HAROLD. + She lies! They are made in Hell. Child, can't you see? + Tell them to fly for a doctor. + + MILLY. + O law—yeäs, Sir! + I'll run fur 'im mysen. [<i>Exit</i>. + + HAROLD. + All silent there, + Yes, deathlike! Dead? I dare not look: if dead, + Were it best to steal away, to spare myself, + And her too, pain, pain, pain? + My curse on all + This world of mud, on all its idiot gleams + Of pleasure, all the foul fatalities + That blast our natural passions into pains! + + <i>Enter</i> DOBSON. + + DOBSON. + You, Master Hedgar, Harold, or whativer + They calls ye, for I warrants that ye goäs + By haäfe a scoor o' naämes—out o' the chaumber. + [<i>Dragging him past the body</i>. + + HAROLD. + Not that way, man! Curse on your brutal strength! + I cannot pass that way. + + DOBSON. + Out o' the chaumber! + I'll mash tha into nowt. + + HAROLD. + The mere wild-beast! + + DOBSON. + Out o' the chaumber, dang tha! + + HAROLD. + Lout, churl, clown! + + [<i>While they are shouting and struggling</i> DORA + <i>rises and comes between them</i>. + + DORA (<i>to</i> DOBSON). + Peace, let him be: it is the chamber of Death! + Sir, you are tenfold more a gentleman, + A hundred times more worth a woman's love, + Than this, this—but I waste no words upon him: + His wickedness is like my wretchedness— + Beyond all language. + (<i>To</i> HAROLD.) + You—you see her there! + Only fifteen when first you came on her, + And then the sweetest flower of all the wolds, + So lovely in the promise of her May, + So winsome in her grace and gaiety, + So loved by all the village people here, + So happy in herself and in her home— + + DOBSON (<i>agitated</i>). + Theer, theer! ha' done. I can't abeär to see her. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + DORA. + A child, and all as trustful as a child! + Five years of shame and suffering broke the heart + That only beat for you; and he, the father, + Thro' that dishonour which you brought upon us, + Has lost his health, his eyesight, even his mind. + + HAROLD (<i>covering his face</i>). + Enough! + + DORA. + It seem'd so; only there was left + A second daughter, and to her you came + Veiling one sin to act another. + + HAROLD. + No! + You wrong me there! hear, hear me! I wish'd, if you— [<i>Pauses</i>. + + DORA. + If I— + + HAROLD. + Could love me, could be brought to love me + As I loved you— + + DORA. + What then? + + HAROLD. + I wish'd, I hoped + To make, to make— + + DORA. + <i>What</i> did you hope to make? + + HAROLD. + 'Twere best to make an end of my lost life. + O Dora, Dora! + + DORA. + <i>What</i> did you hope to make? + + HAROLD. + Make, make! I cannot find the word—forgive it— + Amends. + + DORA. + For what? to whom? + + HAROLD. + To him, to you! + [<i>Falling at her feet</i>. + + DORA. + To <i>him</i>! to <i>me</i>! + No, not with all your wealth, + Your land, your life! Out in the fiercest storm + That ever made earth tremble—he, nor I— + The shelter of <i>your</i> roof—not for one moment— + Nothing from <i>you</i>! + Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism, + Push'd from all doors as if we bore the plague, + Smitten with fever in the open field, + Laid famine-stricken at the gates of Death— + Nothing from you! + But she there—her last word + Forgave—and I forgive you. If you ever + Forgive yourself, you are even lower and baser + Than even I can well believe you. Go! + + [<i>He lies at her feet. Curtain falls</i>. +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Becket and other plays, by Alfred Lord Tennyson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BECKET AND OTHER PLAYS *** + +***** This file should be named 9162-h.htm or 9162-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/6/9162/ + +Etext produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tapio Riikonen and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by 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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