University of Virginia Library

SECOND EPOCH. HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Scene I.—Night. Gothic Bedchamber. Bed with canopy, plumes, and heraldic ornaments, &c. A lamp burning dimly. In the bed Veronica asleep. Beside the bed, in a chair, Orval, also asleep.
Orval
(speaking in his sleep).
Whence com'st thou? wherefore art thou here again?
Thou whom, for many a wretched night and day,
Lone as an orphan in a stepdame's house,
Sad as a Sadducee beside a tomb,
Memory hath mourn'd! What rests 'twixt thee and me
Of aught resembling intercourse, less vain
Than fancy figures from a wind that sighs
Between two graves? Why dost thou haunt me thus?
What can I more? art thou not satisfied?
Why are the dead not dead? who can undo
What time hath done? who can win back the wind?
Beckon lost music from a broken lute?
Renew the redness of a last year's rose?
Or dig the sunken sunset from the deep?
Why lingerest thou, with those heart-breaking eyes?
What can my love avail thee? Life is lost.
Why beckonest thou? How can I follow thee?
Dost thou not see Prometheus' fate is mine?
The rock, the chain, the vulture at the heart!
Away!
(Awaking).
Where am I? Ah . . . beside my wife!
My wife? . . . What is there in that little word
To make my flesh creep, and my conscience cry,
And wrap my life fast with infernal fire,
And change this pleasant earth into a hell?
Veronica! . . . thou light of a lost star,
Thou heaven unhallow'd, thou unhaloed saint,
Thou injured injury, thou sinless source
Of sin, thou faultlessness all full of faults,
Thou loss in gain, thou death in life! What woe
That wants a name yet shall have thine to wear?
Happy, thou sleepest, thou unhappy cause
Of sleeplessness. Sleep on! dream on! wake never!
Would I had never slept, or never waked!
For I have slept too long, or waked too soon,
Who, dreaming, dream'd thee . . . what thou never wast,
And, waking, wake to . . . what can never be!
I dream'd, and saw . . . . 'twas nothing but a dream!
I wake, and see . . . 'tis nothing like my dream!
Yet thou art fair, my lost Veronica:
Too fair thou art, too fair not to be woo'd,
And fond as fair . . . too fond not to be won:
Tender as evening air, true as a star;
Pure as the dewdrop of an April dawn;
Gentle, as creatures that were never wrong'd;
Faithful, as creatures that no wrong can change,
Because their faith is like a dead friend's love,
Something that's ever what it was . . . But She?
. . . O heavenly angels! Are these haunted eyes
The dupes, or the deceivers, of my heart?

Evil Spirit
(rises).
Woe! woe! thou hast betray'd me and thyself!

(Evil Spirit sinks.)
Orval
(starting up).
Accursèd be the day, accurst the hour,
Wherein I wedded! Curst the hour, the day,
When I betray'd . . . madman, for what? for what?
The glorious bride of my immortal soul!
Whose beauty . . . Fool, to think Earth's fairest face
Could outface Heaven's!

Veronica
(waking).
Home of my heart! my Orval!
—Where is he? Am I alone? . . . Love, art thou there?
Thank God! thank God! I dream'd of thee. My dream
Was sad and strange. But thou art there, thank God!
What ails thee, love? Arisen, and clad already?
Thou should'st have waked me sooner. Day? is it day?

Orval
Day? no, child. Night. Black midnight. Sleep again!
Turn thee upon thy pillow. Sleep! sleep fast!

Veronica.
What ails thee, love? thy voice is strange: thine eyes
Are wild . . .

Orval.
Air, air! fresh air! An evil dream—
A feverish fancy—nothing. Heed me not.
Sleep, child. Thou canst. Sleep on. I'll walk awhile.
Heaven's breath upon my brow, the sight of stars,
The fresh cold rustling in the roofless fields
Of the first birds, will help this aching head.
Sleep fast, Veronica! The night is long.

(He rushes out.)
Scene II.—Night. A garden by a graveyard, as before.
Orval
(walking with agitated gestures).
O fool! fool! miserable, brainless beast!
What devil was in thee when thou didst that deed?
Who drugg'd the cup which thy besotted soul
Suck'd, as 'twere nectar, to the deadly dregs?
What bribed thee, brute, to be the murderer
Of thine own liberty? this double chain
Of never-changing custom, whose cramp links
So glitter'd in thy gross and greedy gaze
That thou didst take their gilded iron for gold,
And sell thyself to clutch them! Break it now
Thou canst not, though thou tear away the flesh
They cling to, and canker. Out on this cheat, time,
That wins eternity away from all
Who trust the present's fraudulent promise pledged
Upon a bankrupt future! What hath been
This life of mine, since that disastrous hour
Which made it mine no more? . . Death's leave to rot
Down to the grave by gradual dull decays,
And moulder slowly!
(Clock strikes from the Castle tower.)
Ha! is it not the hour
When I was wont to mount my throne? My throne!
Where is it? where my nimble ministers,
Those beautiful bright Spirits of burning orbs,
Whose congregated glories girt me round
With rows of starry brows intensely turn'd
To me, their monarch; hands in homage raised,
Radiant, to reach my sceptre's point that, where
I waved, it sway'd them, as the unseen wind
Around their ardent centre sways the tops
Of yearning flames: so yearn'd they all to me!
And my will ruled them all, like a young god.
Where are they vanisht from me? What new lord
Sits on the throne my vassals built for me,
Waving my wand? Minions, must I return
Like a repentant abdicated prince,
Yet hankering after power too rashly yielded,
To cry your pity, beg your leave to take
My crown again, and sue back your releast
And vagrant suffrage? Rather shall I be
Like some lost god, whom loss of empire goads,
Clad in fierce grandeur of a fallen fiend,
And hungry for old incense gone, to prowl
About the precincts of his perisht power,
With red eyes peering into empty bowls
Among his brazen shrines, and in the dark,
Where no more tapers burn, crouching to catch
And crush apostate priests. But no, by heaven!
My spirit, that long hath slept, awakes. Still mine
Is all that made me what I was—your lord!
Bright slaves, behold me! Tremble! appear! obey! (He waves his arms wildly.)
(After a pause).

They come not. I hear nothing but the wind
Sighing among the graves: and nothing see
But the wan clouds, whitening and darkening fast,
As through their melancholy membrane thin,
Like a faint impulse through a sick man's veins,
The flitting of the momentary moon
Comes and is gone. Nature draws down the veil
O'er her divine deep eyes, and like a stranger
Hastes from me. Vox clamantis in deserto!
I cry and there is none to answer me,
Call and none comes. The Spirit that once plagued Saul
Plagues me: and unto me too, as to him,
The voices of the oracles are dumb.
God! Thou art just. Thy priests have consecrated
The union of two human lives. But Thou?
Wilt Thou vouchsafe no severance of the bond
Which now unites two corpses?
(Evil Spirit rises.)
Ah, she comes!
Bright One, again thy breath is on my brow!
Again, again, those deep eyes in my soul
On their own trembling image are shining sad
As stars on a dark water! Calm and pale
Dictatress of my passionate destinies,
Beest thou but empty air, phantom or dream,
Or insubstantial vapour, the vext mind
Sends hovering up from the unquiet heat
Of its own burning thoughts, small care have I
To know aught else of thee than that thou art;
And O how beautiful thou art to me!
Child of mine inmost self, that comest thus,
In the last watches of the wakeful night,
To tempt the father that begat thee, . . O stay!
If thus it be, and thou, indeed, no more,
Image of all beätifying beauty,
Than the poor painted creature of the cloud
And habitant of hollow nothingness;
What then am I, from whose corporeal self
And palpable humanity, fair fiend,
Thou hast suckt out the nobler essences
To feed the light of those bewildering eyes?
This is the dross and refuse of a man,
Not I, not anything! So let me breathe
In that fine air thou breathest, . . else I die!
Thou hast dislodged me from myself . . I claim
Inhabitation of thine airy sphere.
All thine I am. Lead on. I follow thee.

Evil Spirit.
I have heard. Remember thou,
Mortal, thine immortal vow!
Through the night air dark and hollow,
Where I lead thee, follow! follow!
Further than the rocky ledge
Of the stretch'd land's sea-girt edge,
Further than where heaven's clear cope
O'er the flat sea's end doth slope;
Higher than tree-top ever grew
Mountain reach'd, or wild bird flew;
Deeper than those depths of green
By the drowning seaman seen;
There where sun hath never set,
Never rose hath wither'd yet,
Beauty never ceased to be
Beautiful, nor freedom free:
There, where life is life for ever,
Love, the light it loses never;
Where, a bright immortal child,
Joy is ever fresh and wild,
Fed on flowers that never there
Winter strips of blossoms bare.
Would'st thou woo me? Hither to me!
Night and day must thou pursue me.
Come, my lover! Darkness cover
All the life whose light is over.
To me! Woo me! Would'st thou view me
As I am, pursue, pursue me!

Orval.
Rest! rest! O, if thou be the exprest Desire
Of all desires, the Thought of every thought,
Why rest no longer than a fleeting thought,
A vain desire?

The Voice of Veronica
(from a window in the Castle.)
Dear heart, the night is chill.
Thou wilt take cold. Come back, come back, my own!
Without thy presence I am full of fears
In this drear dim old chamber, all alone.
O haste, dear heart! The morning breaks. Haste home!

Orval.
Anon! anon!

(Evil Spirit sinks.)
Voice on the Air
(dying away.)
Weak mortal lover,
Fare thee well! The charm is over.
Soon to meet, though now to part,
Faithless soul, and feeble heart,
Hers thou art not: mine thou art.

Orval.
Gone! . . . Yet methought with promise of return.
And then? . . . Hers,—hers, whate'er She be! Farewell,
Home of my fathers, and thou native land;
Farewell, old garden where my boyhood play'd;
Farewell, friends, kindred, all . . . and farewell, she
Form'd for all these, only not form'd for me!

Voice from the Window above.
Orval!

Orval.
Anon! anon!

The Voice.
Prithee come soon.
I am not very strong just now, dear love,
Not since our little Muriel was born,
—Nor very well; nor able to say why
These faint cold seizures frighten me so much.
But come, thou dearest!

Orval.
And my child? . . . Gods! gods!

(He re-enters the house.)
Scene III.—An Antechamber in the Castle. A Nurse and Doctor.
Doctor.

The child is a fine one—perfectly healthy—wants nothing but his natural nourishment. But you must be careful about your mistress.

Nurse.

O my dear lady! What is the matter with her, Doctor?

Doctor.

Nerves, only nerves. Nothing but nerves.

Nurse.

And what is nerves, Doctor?

Doctor.

Nerves are . . . humph! nerves are . . . (looking at his watch). Bless my soul, how late it is! Be good enough to see that Lady Orval takes the draught I have prescribed, every fourth hour. And above all, no excitement! no excitement! The child will do very well. Which is the way, my good woman? Thank you. Remember, no excitement. And the draught every four hours.

(Exit.)
Nurse.

O my dear lady! if I knew what ailed her. Nerves? Sweet soul, 'tis the heart, I fear, that is breaking.

Scene IV.—Evening. A chamber in the Castle, lighted and richly furnished. High Gothic windows open. Through them a wild landscape is dimly visible. The night is sultry and cloudy with partial moonlight, frequently obscured. At one end of the chamber Veronica is seated by her harp. Near her, an infant asleep in a cradle. At the other end Orval, leaning against a window, and apparently watching the night: his back turned to Veronica.
Veronica.
I have sent to Father Adam.

Orval.
Eh? . . . ah, true,
The Priest. Quite right.

Veronica.
He will be here at noon
To-morrow.

Orval.
In truth? at noon—to-morrow.

Veronica.
At noon.
That's settled.

Orval.
Thanks.

Veronica.
And all the Family,
Of course I mean both Families, attend.

Orval.
Good.

Veronica.
Everything is now in readiness.
I have arranged it all myself.

Orval.
Thanks.

Veronica.
All.
And made good Master Andrew jealous.

Orval.
No,
I am not jealous, child.

Veronica.
Thou? . . . (ah, the old,
Old aching empty end of every effort!)
I have distributed the largesses:
The winter cloaks for the old women. . .

Orval.
Thanks.

Veronica.
Such pretty hoods and ribbons for the young ones:
And food and drink and music for them all.

Orval.
Ay, food and drink.

Veronica.
Dost thou approve?

Orval.
Of course.

Veronica.
Dear God be thank'd! This ceremony over,
Our little Muriel will be a Christian.
Sleep, sleep, my little one! my pretty one!
How the child has been dreaming! Only see,
The little coverlet is all tumbled. Sleep,
My little Muriel, my pretty chick!

Orval.
Oh, the heat here! This house is stifling me.
There's thunder somewhere. I can feel it in me.
Would the storm only burst! . . Ouf! I shall choke.

Veronica
(after watching in silence for some minutes her husband, whose back is turned, draws the harp to her, and sings).
If my love but loved me, I,
What should I do? I that love him!
Rise, and live? or drop and die?
If I knew some way to prove him
Mine at last, hap then what may—
—Tone of voice, or glance of eye,
Could they make my love my lover,—
Should I even dare to try
Such a power? who now, to move him
Trying all I can, no way
To win him to me can discover,
For all my trying night and day!
(With sudden vehemence).
To-day, . . . to-morrow . . . yesterday . . . for ever!
What have I done? what have I done, sweet saints?
Orval! I cannot bear it. Look on me!
Dost thou not see that I am dying of it?
Not one word dost thou speak to me. Not one!
Not even one kind look, one answering smile.
Dost thou not even see what I am suffering?
All find me alter'd since . . . . ah, love, all eyes
Save thine are sad to see this withering change.
Hath no one told thee, love, how pale I am,
And thin, and weak, and wasted?

Orval.
(Surely now
The hour approaches!) On the contrary,
My love, I never saw you looking better.

Veronica.
Alas! I think you see me not at all.
You do not see nor hear me. When I speak
You turn away impatient. When you speak
'Tis not to me. How have I wrong'd thee, Orval?
Thou dost wrong me most deeply. Whose the fault?
This morning I confess'd all sins of mine
With tears of sorrowfullest penitence
To Him that is more pitiful than thou.
For I have sinn'd to Him . . . often, to thee
Never! At the confessional I set
Bare in God's sight each sore and bleeding nerve
Of this bruised heart; and search'd out all its faults,
The secretest ones—that seem scarce faults at all
At first, or only faults like those friends find
In a loved face; who love it all the more
For just such blemishes as serve to break,
With here and there the quaint familiar turn
Of some defective feature, outlines else
Too faultless, they aver, to crave and get
The lenient pity, love soon turns to praise.
Such faults are worst. Love laps them round so well
With borrow'd lovelinesses that beguile
Kind Custom to conceal them for his sake!
And she contrives to baffle our best search,
Hiding them from us in our best-known selves,
Till, fed on unsuspected tolerance, oft,
Like savage creatures, tame in infancy,
Which yet no kindness can for long redeem
From their original wildness, these praised faults,
As we and they grow older, turn themselves
To drear deformities, revealed at last
By those unflattering looking-glasses, eyes
That love's departure leaves wide open. Alas!
Many such faults I found: but none, God knows,
None against thee! in all my soul no thought
That should offend thee, Orval.

Orval.
You have not
Offended me.

Veronica.
Heaven knows how I have loved thee!

Orval.
And 'tis my duty also to love thee.

Veronica.
O hush! . . . not that . . . not Duty . . . that drear word!
Harsh charity which the unwilling eye
And grudging heart dole out to orphan hopes.
Far better buried in the grave of love,
Than fed on such cold comfort. Rather say
Thou canst not love me, Orval. Truth is sad.
But truth is best. The bitter truth once faced,
Both will be freer from the fear of it.
And let the rest come on us as God wills!
I have heard say there is in all our bones
A humour Nature's kindly forethought keeps
Hid in them, with no seeming use at all,
Until you break them, when the fracture frees
This wholesome juice that helps her healing hand
To mend its mischief. May be, broken hearts
Have some such secret balm in readiness
To make the best of ruin. But do not, love,
Begin to hate me now, because you think
That you must love me, whom you cannot love.
Only the truth, love! I shall bear it somehow.
Only the truth! 'tis doubt that tortures most.
The truth! it could not even surprise me, love,
If I had counted on myself. But then,
I thought so little of myself at first,
So much of what was great and strong in you,
Which seem'd to cover me and keep me safe.
I always knew myself unworthy thee,
And always fear'd that you must find this out,
But not so soon. All seems so sudden now.
I should have been prepared . . . .

Orval.
Veronica!

Veronica.
Love, if you knew I recognized your right
To take back all the love I never claim'd,
Nor ever quite call'd mine, you'd have no cause
To hate me thus.

Orval.
Veronica!

Veronica.
Not me,
Not me, have pity upon! But . . . . O my husband,
(Rushes to the cradle)
This . . innocent remnant of my wretched love,
That never wrong'd thee . . . Think! it is God's gift,
Not mine, not mine! O father, look on it,
It is thine own! it is thyself!

(She kneels.)
Orval.
Tears? prayers?
Clasp'd hands? and supplicating sobs? Wife, wife,
What have I said, what have I done, to bring
This vehement battery of most stormy speech
And fierce reproach upon me? Prithee rise.

Veronica.
Nay, not till, on the altar I build here
To patience, all the love I render back
With unreproachful tears, the duty too,
That cannot comfort me who claim it not,
Be dedicated to thy child, whose birth
Was the beginning of my burial. Orval,
Swear thou wilt love thy son!

Orval.
Him? . . and thee too!
I love ye both. Believe it.

(He stoops to kiss her.)
Evil Spirit
(rises).
Hail, my lover!
Our bridal hour is come. Away with me,
There, whence thy sighs have won me!

Veronica
(flinging herself into his arms).
Husband!

The Spirit.
Haste!

(The storm bursts outside.)
Veronica.
Orval! that crash! the thunder-bolt hath fallen
Upon our roof. The terrible lightning flash
Is in mine eyes!

Orval.
How fair thou art! how fair,
Bright mystery! ethereal sorceress!
Thine eyes are wells of wonder! thy loose locks
Gold labyrinths wherein love wanders lost!
Ripe budding kisses, bright with crimson dew,
And bathed in breathing balm, are thy red lips!
And thy looks draw me, fill'd with music, forth
In response to them, as a minstrel's hand
Draws hidden tune out of a throbbing lute.

Veronica.
Help! help, my husband! all the air is fire.
I burn! I stifle! Help!

Orval.
Once more, once more,
That voice, though I should die to hear it!

The Spirit.
She
That would retain thee must, herself, depart,
With all things that decay. Her little life
Is but a dying taper's smoke. Her love
A leaf that falls before the gust of time,
Confounded with a million like it, lost
And trodden down into the common clay.
Her beauty is the heritage of the worm;
Her youth the play and sparkle of a stream
Which soon the winter of old age shall freeze.
I am immortal.

Veronica.
Orval, Orval! Saints,
Save us, . . save him, my husband! The house burns.
The choking smoke! the scorching flame! Speak, Orval,
What seest thou yonder with those staring eyes
Fixt on the fearful fiery glare? Help! help!

Orval.
Hush, woman! hush! Creature of clay, blaspheme not!
Daughter of Eve, thou standest in the light
Of that Divine Ideal, in whose image
The Almighty One conceived thee, too. But thou,
Even in thy mother's womb, woman, hast heard
The whisper of the serpent, and thou art
—That which thou art!

The Spirit.
Come!

(Veronica swoons).
Orval.
Farewell, clay! I follow.

Scene V.—Early Dawn. High mountain landscape.
Orval
(ascending).
It spreads before me, opens out on me,
And round me,—all I have loved, and long'd to lose
The life of my life in, winning it! My heart
Leaps like a river-god's what time he hears,
Fluttering the cold reeds of his frozen banks,
The first, faint, solitary kingfisher:
And all at once his drowsy godhead awakes,
And he, no blind, frost-bitten brooklet now,
But Ocean's lusty child, shakes free his limbs
Of their cold chains, which frowning Tanaïs takes,
And hastes to find, in some bright island bay
Far off, the sportive sea-maid that he loves.

Voice in the Air.
Hither to me! hither to me!

Orval.
Still on,
Higher I mount, and higher: as a strong star,
Stopp'd by no cloud that clings to the world's edge
Where night's lees settle. Far behind me fades,
And far beneath me, the loath'd life I leave.
Ha! miserable insects, misnamed men,
Wretchedest worms that never yet had wings
To save you from yourselves, that sting each other!
Swarm on, sting on! and, in the dust that breeds ye,
Grovel, and grope, and crawl, and die content!
For once, your prey escapes you.

Voice in the Air.
Follow! follow!
Higher! still higher, follow!

Orval.
I follow. Lead!

Scene VI.—Noon. Within the Church. Veronica, priest, sponsors, nurse, and child. Guests, kinsmen, and retainers, &c.—Organ music.
A Guest.
So hotly bidden, and so coldly thank'd!
Strange, that Lord Orval comes not!

Another.
Strange, if he
Were not strange! Doubtless, he is all this while
Penning some page of an immortal poem,
Resolved that nothing but the end of the world,
Which some folks think at hand, shall interrupt him,
And break off his best strophe.

A Third.
Hush! Look yonder.
How woeful white our hostess. . . .

The First.
Ay! she seems
In pain, poor lady. What a wretched face!

The Second.
She has not spoken yet to any of us.

The First.
And what strange eyes!

The Third.
Eyes! do you call them eyes?
They glow like pits of fire where nameless things,
That died unblest, are being burn'd away.

The First.
What finely-carven features!

The Second.
Yes, but carved
From some clear stuff, not like a woman's flesh,
And colour'd like half-faded white-rose leaves.
'Tis all too thin, and wan, and wanting blood,
To take my taste. No fulness, and no flush!
A watery half-moon in a wintry sky
Looks less uncomfortably cold. And . . . . well,
I never in the eyes of a sane woman
Saw such a strange unsatisfied regard.

A Fourth.
Humph! this begins to look less festival
Than funeral. Or, if a feast, a strange one,
Like Timon's last . . . a putting a good face

The Second.
On a bad case.

The Fourth.
And I that (pity me!)
Declined a breakfast with an epicure
Just to please Orval!

The First.
Listen!

The Priest.
Muriel, wilt thou
Receive the holy baptism of Christ?

Sponsors.
I will.

First Guest.
Look! look! how those wild eyes wax wide,
And flash with formidable intensity!

The Second.
She stretches out her arms toward the child.
What is she muttering? Mark her. She will speak.
But . . . . Gracious heavens!

The Fourth.
Aha! did I not say it,
‘There's something here amiss’?

First.
She staggers.

Third.
Marquis,
Your arm! You are the nearest of us. Quick,
Or she will fall!

Priest.
Muriel, dost thou renounce
The devil and all his works? dost thou renounce
The pomps and vanities of this wicked world,
And all the sinful lusts of the flesh?

Sponsors.
I do.

Fourth Guest.
'Faith, that's a large concession!

First.
Hush! Those lips
Struggle . . . that white face twitches. What is she saying?

Veronica.
Muriel, receive her blessing, who unblest
Hath given to thee, what unto her was given
To grieve for, got—the bitter gift of life!
For I, that did in sorrow bear thee, most
Do sorrow that thou must much sorrow bear.
Yet one thing is reveal'd, which comforts me:
Begot in Sorrow, shalt thou Song beget.
So shall thy father scorn thee not, as me
He scorns,—for songless sadness: and so God
Shall hear thy voice among the morning stars,
And in between the palms of Paradise,
And where the singing of those Spirits sounds
To whom God listens,—and forget thee not,
As me He hath forgotten. Powers shall be
About thee, cohorts through a perilous land,
And cloud by day, and fire by night. . . .
Ha, fiends!
Can all the sworded Seraphs and sentinel Saints,
That stand on guard by this baptismal font,
Not keep those plucking fingers from their prey?
Son, have the Black Ones got thee? Touch him not!
The sign is on his forehead. Know your lord.
This is God's crownèd Poet!

Sponsors.
What wild words
Are these? and art thou mad, Veronica?
Revere these solemn precincts, nor insult
God's House, thyself, and us.

Veronica.
They hold him not.
Wings hath he, like a dove's, to flee away
And be at rest. God gave him those dove's wings.
He is God's gracious bird, that sang to us
A little while, before the morning light
Was quench'd in cloud. But he is fled away.
God hides him safe.

Priest.
Lady, this violent speech
Wastes all our minds in fearful wonder; frights
From her chaste cells, whose incensed masonry
Is dim with the pure breath of pious thoughts,
The solemn echo that inhabits here,
Unused to answer sinful cries; plucks down
The heavenward wings of holy prayer; and kills
The startled soul of sanctity.
Hell's power
Shall not prevail against this sign. Behold!
Satan, I charge thee by the Name I serve,
Come out of her! Let every Christian soul
Pray for her peace. Woman . . . you do forego
The reverence owed yourself, to outrage thus
Our sacred office, and the temple of God.
Anathema Sathanas! Vade retro!

Relations
(muttering).
Indecent! . . . Scandalous! . . . Intolerable!
She hath disgraced us all. . . Where's Orval? . . . Shame!
Drag her away! . . . What devil hath got into her? . .
Can no one shut those lips? . . .

Veronica.
Remember, Muriel!
Remember, or my curse be on thee, son!
For the black wings are buzzing after us.
If the black fingers catch thee by the hair,
I know where they will drag thee. Higher yet!
Fly higher yet! Show them the crown God girt
About thy forehead. How I pray'd for that!
And now it glitters clear . . . a crown of stars,
And every star with mystic music fill'd!
Show them thy crown, O Poet, and they will crouch,
And so we shall escape them. Fly! fly! fly!
Farewell, my dove. I cannot follow thee.
Thou hast such nimble wings, thou bird of God.
And Heaven is so far off. Ah, turn! they throng
Faster and faster. Save me!

Guests.
Look to her!
Oh miserable lady!

(Veronica falls insensible.)
First Guest.
Come away!
Something hath happen'd in the House of Orval
Which never should have been.

Fourth.
Ah, said I not
‘Something is here amiss’?

Second.
In any case,
Our presence, I conceive, will be less thank'd
Than our departure. After you, my lord.

First.
Your Excellency first.

Second.
Nay, then, indeed,
If you insist . . .

Third.
Marquis!

Fourth.
Ten thousand thanks.
Exquisite flavour! How do you call this snuff?

Third.
I had it from the old king: and he's a judge.
Well, friend, you may be, after all, in time
To eat your breakfast with your epicure.

First.
Come, gentlemen. Unwilling, have we been,
As unwisht, witnesses of this sad scene.

Scene VII.—Cloud, crag, and precipice, above a stormy sea.
Orval
(still ascending).
Where is she? Whither fleeted, on the wind
That whips me through this wither'd waste? Where am I?
Have they a name for men to know them by,
These desert steeps, . . . . Calpe, or Caucasus,
Atlas, or utmost Thule's mountain-tops
Mark'd on no mariner's chart? One thing is sure;
That never, even in dream, I trod, before,
The dreadful pavement of this dizzy path
That winds I know not where: never beheld
The broken margent of that savage sea
That in his beachèd basin, far below,
Boils like Hell's cauldron; nor yon livid peak
Peering and disappearing through those gaps
Of restless cloud, tormented by the wind.
How horribly the huge stone's solid bulk
Seems hovering in the gust above my head!
Fierce as Death's altar, wreathed for sacrifice
With snaky shapes that round it, gaping, twine.
And what are they? Troops of pale ghostly priests,
Or but fantastic vapours, sweeping round
With hooded heads, and waving arms? whose dance
About their dismal altar floats in time
To . . . what low humming sound of surly song
Comes from the abyss to cheer them? Am I, then,
The victim these are waiting? the one thing
Yet wanting to complete their ghastly rites?
I care not. I must on. Here is no rest.
Already have I cross'd the groaning tract
Of thunder, that with dense blue drench blots all
The blighted plain out. Far beneath me, borne
About these fang'd and crooked crags, I hear
Faint noises only, as ever and anon
Between black sullen shores of gulfy cloud
There runs, and breaks, and falls, a pallid sea
Of momentary fire. Still on! still on!
The few lean firs, and solitary pines,
That struggled, few and fewer, as on I pass'd,
To keep pace with me, all have fallen away.
I have outstript them, scarcely heeding how
They stopp'd aghast, dejected, gazing where
They dared not clamber. Nature's self cried ‘Halt!
I can no further go!’ Yet on went I,
And still must on,—still on, while aught is left
Above me where man's foot may tread. Still on!

A Voice in the air.
Follow!

Orval.
I follow.

The Voice.
Haste!

Orval.
Where art thou?

The Voice.
Here.

Orval.
Ever beyond!

The Voice.
Hither to me!

Orval.
At last
Behold the summit! Further pathway noae
To foot of man, beyond the utmost edge
Of this sheer precipice, earth's reach'd end vouchsafes.
Here must I rest. Here where, save stormy winds,
None ever mounted. Leagues below me, wheels
The wild sea eagle in his highest flight.
Higher than Babel's builders ever built
I have attain'd.

Voice in the air.
Hither to me!

Orval.
Where art thou?

The Voice.
I wait thee, O my lover!

Orval.
But far off
Thou art already. And I cannot pass
Where pathway none can be. Nor from myself
Spin, spiderlike, a passage through the vast
And vacant air to reach thee. I have climb'd
The sudden sidewall of the world. Beyond
Is nothing but the abyss.

Another Voice
(nearer, and louder).
Where are thy wings?

Orval.
Already dost thou flout me, mocking fiend?

The Second Voice.
Is not thy soul immortal, infinite,
As thy desire, which on a single thought
Can soar beyond the battlements of space,
And, swifter than the speed of shooting stars,
Traverse the empyrean? Yet dost thou cling,
Fear's captive, to some few bare inches left
Of Earth's base dust? What! art thou Earth's at last,
Poor cowering piece of most presumptuous clay,
That would'st have only Heaven? Advance! advance!
Why dost thou shrink? Stopp'd by a little stone,
Scared by a passing wind! Ha, doth thy flesh
Shiver, thy bones ache, in the buffeting blast,
Great Spirit? searcher of the unsearchable,
Climber of the inaccessible! Dost fear?
Dost falter? thou, the undaunted!

Orval.
Insolent voice,
I falter not. Show but thyself. Appear
In any form however horrible!
Take substance, and confront me! Leave thy lair
In the loose element . . . come forth . . . approach,
That I may crush thee! Dare me to the endeavour,
And if I quail before thee, never more
May I behold the beauty I would embrace!
I fear thee not.

The First Voice.
Lean on me. Take my hand,
And it shall guide thee.

(The Phantom of the Voice appears beyond the precipice.)
Orval.
Heaven and earth! . . . . Fast, fast,
The flowers from off those glorious tresses fall,
And turn themselves to venomous crawling things,
With bloated pouches, and thick-speckled skins,
And fangs that flicker on the clammy crag!

The Phantom.
Haste, O my lover, haste! I wait thee. Come!

Orval.
Great God! . . . What hideous whirlwind shakes, and rends
To rags, the shuddering splendour of that robe?

The Phantom.
Hither to me! Why dost thou linger? Come,
My wooer, my wild lover, my bright lord!

Orval.
The whirling sleet is white on her wet hair.
How bony grows the beauty of that breast!

The Phantom.
Hast thou forgot thy vow? Art thou not mine?
Come, traitor! Come!

Orval.
O horrible! horrible!
The sudden lightning hath stabb'd out her eyes.

Voice
(wailing away).
Blind! blind for evermore! Eternal dark!

Voices of Evil Spirits
(in the whirlwind).
Away now, thou ancient damnation!
Thy task is accomplisht. Farewell!
Return to thine old habitation,
And abide in the nethermost Hell.
Gone is the robe we gave thee,
Crumbled thy crown:
Never a prayer can save thee.
Drop, though it cannot lave thee,
Into Lethe! Down, and drown!
And thou, dost thou shrink, the unshrinking?
Descend! Thou hast mounted in vain.
For each mariner shipwreckt, and sinking,
There is room in the infinite main.
Others, ere thou, have striven
And fail'd. Not first
Nor last art thou, to whom Heaven,
For the profit of Hell, hath given
The pride that in Hell is curst.

Orval.
My God, for this then am I lost—that I,
The earth-born, have unearthly beauty loved
Better than all earth gave me? follow'd this,
Trusted in this, suffer'd for this! for this,
Forsaking all, am I forsaken now
By that for which all else I have forsaken?
Defrauded by I know not what false fiend
Whose form was like an angel's fashion'd!

Voices of Evil Spirits.
Stay!
This fool hath yet a word to say,
Lest God hear him, still be near him!
We are watching for our prey.
The soul that hath woo'd her is blind
As the Hell that hath won our wan elf.
The wonder was he of mankind,
Who in wonderment worshipt himself;
And still, though the idol he worshipt be
Broken, unbrokenly worships he.
Prate on! we hear thee exulting,
Add folly to folly, and sin
To sin, proud fool, insulting
The Heaven thou could'st not win.
That Heaven lay near thee, and round thee.
Thou hadst but to enter, and dwell
Content in the Paradise found thee,
And barter'd by thee for Hell.

Orval.
For this, you unjust skies? for this . . . . Vain! vain!
The last hour locks me round. The surcharged blast
Spouts blinding storm. The wroth sea roars, and rises
Higher and higher, as though the dead men's hearts
Were heaving underneath it. Rock by rock,
The ruin'd land sinks: and a fervid light,
More dismal than all blackest blackness, burns
The withering world's red shrivell'd edges bare
Of aught save that strange horror which begins
Where all else ends. It rises still, that sea!
White fire, and whirling water, and hissing wind,
And crackling crag, in one red gulf of Hell
Confounded, and, confounding all things else!
Merciless and o'erwhelming elements,
Man never was your master! Unseen hands
Are hugging me. And on my shoulder hangs
The dragging fiend. Help! help, thou Heavenly One!

Evil Spirits.
Sons of the Father of lies,
Rejoice! we have play'd for, and won him.
He struggles, and groans, and cries:
But the weight of our falsehood is on him.
Round him and over him
Hover, and cover him,
Baffle, bewilder, and drag him down!
If he should break from the net we throw for him,
Still shall we know him again for our own.
Our mark he beareth,
Wherever he fareth:
We have bitten it deeper than flesh and bone:
Tears though he weep on it,
Tears shall but deepen it,
Tears that bewail what they cannot atone!
Time shall harden it,
Lest God pardon it.
When we return for him so shall we find him.
Shatter the spell now! Unblind, unbind him,
Loosen, and launch him, and leave him alone!

Orval.
The strife is futile. My brain breaks. The abyss
Lays out long hands upon me. Ah, at last
My soul sees clear. At last, and yet too late!
Omnipotent one, must it be ever thus,
And ever shall Thy Foe triumphant be?

Guardian Angel
(passing above).

Scene VIII.—Gothic chamber in the Castle of Orval—same as in Scene IV.
Orval
(entering hurriedly, followed by servants).

Where is your mistress, I say?

A Servant.

Lady Orval has been ill, my lord.

Orval.

Not in her chamber! where is she? Speak.

Another Servant

Our Lady left the Castle yesterday.

Orval.

Left? gone? where? 'sdeath, sirrah, why dost thou answer not? Speak, you staring fool! Are you all dumb? Zounds! do you know me? Am I a man to be mocked by mine own valets? Andrew! Where is Andrew?

Servants
(whispering).

Ay, Master Andrew, go forward. Tell him thou. We dare not

Andrew.

(I would I were a tinker's ass! I had rather carry tin kettles than this news. O Lord, is it not the very day our poor Lady first came to the Castle? I shall never get it off my heart. It lies there as heavy as lead.)

Orval.

Andrew!

Andrew.

Ay, my lord.

Orval.

Come hither, Andrew.

Andrew.

Ay, my lord.

Orval.

Nearer, Andrew.

Andrew.

Ay, my lord. (It will choke me. It sticks like a fish-bone in a man's gullet.)

Orval.

So, Andrew. Art thou too in the conspiracy? Where is thy lady? Devils in hell! dost thou hear me, fellow?

Andrew.

No, my lord, ay, my lord.

Orval.

Where is she gone?

Andrew.

Gone! Ay, my lord. Indeed, to be sure. And 'tis there the pity of it, I say.

Orval.

Knave, thou shalt smart for this. Where is my wife?

Andrew.

Gone, my lord.

Orval.

Where?

Andrew.

Away, my lord.

Orval.

The witch catch thee! Whither, sirrah?

Andrew.

To the Mad-House.

(Exeunt servants hastily.)
Orval
(after a long pause).
(Draws his dagger.)
(Sinking his hand.)
(He sheathes the dagger.)

A Voice from below.
Ha! ha!
Optime! Optime! O what a theme
For a tremendous poem! What a rare
Dramatic genius! Bravo!

Orval.
Ah, the voice
Of Satan still! Peace, mocking fiend.
What, ho!
My horse! my pistols! ho!
To horse! to horse!

(Rushes out.)
Scene IX.—In the house of one of the Orval Family. Young and Old Kinsman.
Young Kinsman.

I have been to the castle, but could learn no more than that Orval had returned, and left it suddenly. I am off to the camp this evening. Perhaps when you

see him you will oblige me by mentioning to him the trifling service I have been so fortunate as to have had it in my power to render him. I make a point of neglecting no opportunity to help those who can help me. And I like to show respect for the Head of our House, and a due concern for the dignity of all its members.

Old Kinsman.

Humph! But really I have half forgotten what it was all about.

Young Kinsman.

You remember that shocking scene in the church the other day—and all that has happened since? Well, one of those daily scribblers—fellows who live in garrets pelting princely names with onion peel,—contrived to get hold of the story—wrote and printed it, after his own fashion—not omitting our Cousin's name even, in one of his insolent pamphlets, and

Old Kinsman.

All the world read it.—I remember. The publisher made a fortune by it. Go on.

Young Kinsman.

I found out the hole where this vermin burrowed. And sent my valet to cudgel the rascal. The castigation was a sound one.

Old Kinsman.

Well?

Young Kinsman.

Whereupon my man . . . you will hardly believe it, . . . sends me a challenge.

Old Kinsman.

Good heavens! You did not accept it?

Young Kinsman.

Of course not. How could I? I should have been delighted to have had the honour of running any gentleman through the body to oblige Orval. But a fellow with no name—except on a title-page—whose father nobody knows, and whose mother everybody might have known.—A poor devil who must have pawned his shirt, if he had one, for the loan of a sword to cross with mine . . .

Old Kinsman.

Oh certainly—quite impossible—a very presumptuous fellow. But what did you do?

Young Kinsman.

Put myself to infinite trouble—pray tell Orval— went to town for no other purpose—saw the minister —and had my man lodged in gaol the same evening; where he is safe for life. And what is more, I flatter myself that I have not only arranged this little private matter promptly and satisfactorily, but also that it has enabled me to become a public benefactor. For the rascal, when he was arrested, had already begun the publication of twelve volumes of periodical blasphemy and sedition, which he entitled a Dictionary of the Sciences (he is one of those confoundedly popular busybodies who profess to know everything, and who really know nobody), but which was in fact nothing less than a series of insidious and venomous attacks

upon Religion and Aristocracy, Church and State, and everything else that is sacred. I feel that I have extinguished a volcano. And as for the publisher of that libel . . Trust me, he will make no more fortunes out of the affairs of our Family. The man is ruined.

Old Kinsman.

Oh, that is your man, is it? I know him well—his books, I mean. A dangerous dog. For he writes wittily, and, it must be confessed, with extreme beauty of style. This sort of writers is the most dangerous of all. Wit and elegance should not be tolerated except in the well-born. Ministers make a huge mistake in dealing with the press. They prohibit coarse language, vulgar virulence, sheer downright stupid abuse: all of which are harmless enough. And they tolerate refinement, grace, wit, good taste; which are damnably dangerous. I look upon all these popular penmen as so many tailors, whose sly purpose it is to cut out and put together the patchwork of society after the pattern of their own interests. They desire, of course, to stitch their frieze so fast to our velvet, that all may look one and the same piece: we, on the contrary, to prevent such ignoble contact. Yet you prohibit the use of blunt bodkin, and coarse packthread, that make no way at all through such a piece of work; which needs delicate handling. And you allow the sharp needle that flits fast, and the fine silk that goes through. A mistake. Wit is the only instrument nice enough to carry the social thread safely from top to bottom, and tack the frieze to the velvet so tight, that the seam between them is invisible.

Young Kinsman.

Wit or no wit . . if I were the State,

Old Kinsman.

The State would be even more in debt than it is. But what then?

Young Kinsman.

I would hang all writers, printers, and publishers.

Old Kinsman.

No use. The stream of time is troubled to the depth, and the mud must come to the surface somehow. We must try to improve the people by degrees: for, I doubt we cannot chain it up much longer, and the cur is by no means fit to go loose. Fideliter dedicisse . . . .

Young Kinsman.

Improve the people! Well, I saw a peasant broken on the wheel yesterday for stabbing an abbot—a young man of one of our best families—who had kindly improved the condition of the brute's sister.

Old Kinsman.

Humph! You have acted very becomingly. And I will tell Orval if I see him. Anything more? It is time for my bath and chocolate.

Young Kinsman.

Thanks. I will not detain you.

Old Kinsman.

Detain me, young gentleman?

Young Kinsman.

Ten thousand pardons. I meant to say I kiss your hand, Uncle. So delighted you approve. If you will kindly tell Orval. Thanks. My coach is at the door. An infinite number of good days to you, Uncle!

Scene X.—Corridor in a Mad-House.
Wife of the Mad-House Doctor
(with a bunch of keys, followed by Orval).

No, I think not, Sir. They tell me there is no hope of the lady's recovery. Poor thing! I am grieved that my husband is not here. It would have given him the greatest satisfaction to have the honour of waiting on your worship. He could have explained to you, better than I, the nature of this malady. Interesting case. My husband, Sir, has been very successful in the treatment of this kind of insanity. He has given much study to the subject. Perhaps you have read his book upon the Brain? 'Tis much admired. But the worst cases— cases like this, I fear, are quite incurable. Quite. This way, if you please, Sir. You won't mind the noise? There is no danger. 'Tis only Howling Tom. A violent case, very. But we keep him chained. The lady, poor dear, is quiet enough. Pray, Sir, observe the view from that window. The finest in this part of the country. Indeed, we are very healthily situated. But the establishment is large, Sir. Large, dear me, and costs a deal to keep

up. And so little encouragement! One year we accommodated no less than four hundred lunatics, and not a sixpence from Government. Some of them paupers, too. For the Parish obliges us to receive them. But that sort of patients seldom lives long. Which is the Lord's mercy. To be sure, one makes something, when the season is good, by the gardens and orchards. Our pears are especially successful. Some of our patients are vastly fond of gardening, Sir. And we occupy them that way. Only the milder sort, of course. Bless your heart, there's a young man here that is a smart hand at pruning wall fruit. Yet for all that, he will swear you by St Christopher that he is a king's bastard. But there's no harm in him. Pray, Sir, is it true that the lady's husband ran away in the night with another gentleman's lady? Well, I dare say, if the lady had been married as long as I—and that's full thirty years; thirty years, Sir, come next Lady-day—she would not have taken it so mightily to heart. In truth, she looks but a child. This is a strange world. Is it not, Sir? The gallery to the right, if you please. We have been thin, very thin, this year. But perhaps we shall do better by and by. Let us all hope for the best. That's what I say, Sir. And the Lord be bountiful to them that deserve it. Now, Sir. This way.

(Exeunt.)
Scene XI.—In the Mad-House. High vaulted Chamber barely furnished. Window barred. On a low wooden sofa Veronica is lying. Orval, with the Doctor's wife, at the door.
Orval.
Leave me alone with her!

Doctor's Wife.
I do not dare.
Sir, if my husband knew . . .

Orval.
Tush, woman! away!
Let none dare come 'twixt her and me. Stand back.

(Pushes her out, and enters; shutting the door behind him.)
Voice from the Cells above.
You have chain'd up your God! You have crucified
Christ Jesus!

Voice from the Cells below.
To the gallows, to the block,
With every old grey head that wears a crown!
Princes, and priests, and men with noble names,
And all that's clad in purple, and wears soft raiment,
All they whose feet go delicately, all they
Whose lips are fed on dainty fare,—I doom.
The time is come to liberate mankind,
And by me only must the blow be struck.

Voice from the Right.
Down on your knees, you dogs! Down in the dust
Before your lord and master! Lick my feet.
Grovel and fawn! For, by the grace of God,
I only, I myself, and none but I,
Am your legitimate sovereign. Cringe, you curs!

Voice from the Left.
The red stars start and plunge. The skinny moon
Time hath forgot to feed with sallow fire,
And she is dead: and on her pucker'd cheek
Blue plague-spots sprout. He hath arrived at last,
The long-hair'd comet with a hungry eye,
That, shark-like, swims about all drowning worlds.
The great and terrible Judgment Day is at hand.
Thou that art in the city, flee away!
Thou that art in the mountain, hide thyself!
And woe be to the breasts that do give suck!
Time is condemn'd: for he hath slain his sons.
The secrets of all hearts shall soon be known.
Thou sea, give up thy dead!

Orval.
Veronica!
Dost thou not know me?

Veronica.
Ay. Have I not sworn
Fidelity to thee . . . and love . . . till death?

Orval.
Give me thy hand, love. Let us fly this place.

Veronica.
I cannot. All's so weary here. I think
My heart hath got into my head. It feels
So full, . . and oh, so heavy! and I am weak:
I cannot bear the weight of it.

Orval.
One step,
But one! Lean on me. All's prepared. One step!
The horses wait below. Lean on me, sweet.
So . . . I will bear thee.

Veronica.
Nay, let me rest here.
I am very weary, lord. I have gone far,
And suffer'd much. Thou seest how weak I am.
I will obey thee, lord. But I need time.
I am slow of effort, and change ever came
To me unkindly, and was hard to bear.
Be patient with me, lord. If I rest here
A little while, I think that presently
I shall grow worthy of thee.

Orval.
O my God!

Veronica.
God? Yes. How I have pray'd to God for this!
Three nights and days, unceasing . . . . but they seem'd
Three lives and deaths of agony. Then, at last
God heard me.

Orval.
I am judged: and Hell begins.

Veronica.
And sent a sudden Spirit to comfort me,
And take me out of trouble, and teach me words
That can make worlds—wonderful worlds! wherein
'Tis possible to enter and escape
From any kind of this world's wretchedness,
If one knows how. For he is full of eyes
And voices, and his breath is burning fire.
So that there came a change: and I began
To see those bright surprising things which God
Sees, unsurprised, for ever. For, when first
Thou hadst left me, lord, and I was all alone,
And knew that I must still be all alone
For evermore—even though new things should come
To sit beside me, speaking with feign'd tones,
And trying all they can, for my sad sake,
To look like old things—then I pray'd, ‘O God,
Grant me,’ . . I pray'd, . . ‘since all things else are gone,
Never to come again, that he may come
Who never came before,—the Spirit with eyes
And voices—he, that on his lips hath song,
And vision in his looks,—that I may see,
Though I have lost it, what life might have been.
Lest even in Heaven I should be ignorant.’

Orval.
For her sake, not for mine, have pity, O God!

Veronica.
And this God granted to me. For my prayer
Was strong. And on the third sad day, dear lord,
(Because, I think, God wisht me worthier thee)
That Spirit came: and then the wondrous change:
And I became a Poet.

Orval.
Veronica!

Veronica.
Yes. Scorn me not. I am not what I was.
Wilt thou not praise me, Master? Ha! feel here,
How it beats in me, all this brave new world
That I am Queen of! how it shakes me . . feel . .
So yearning to be freed! One word of mine,
One little word can loose, or lock, it fast.
'Tis as I will. Shall I not show it thee?
Wilt thou not see how beautiful it is?
Couldst thou have made it fairer, lord? Say no!
Breathe not too hard. Such things are slight. Sometimes
A breath dissolves them, as a breath begets.
But be quite quiet, as it is good to be
When the long, loud, and heavy daylight leaves
Sore labour loosed, and the tired sense is soothed,
And ready to receive in thankful peace,
As best behoves, what comes:—first, a light wind,
So light, that all along a sleepy land
Laden with summer, it can make no sound
Where it winds softly, as a harmless snake,
Unhoused by some wise Indian's charming pipe,
Through little hamlets husht, and old warm woods
Solemn at sunset, till, to prove its power,
With laughter low it lifts the loose rose leaves
And lays them on the grass, where lovers sit
Lonely as thou and I; and then, a star
Silent and sudden, stol'n there, who knows how?
In heaven just where the waning amber flame
Of the faint west burns to a clear cold green.
So softly, and so silently, my world
Out of my heart grows, as a summer night
Grows out of heaven. Only be very still,
Only lean back with half-shut eyes, and lips
Half-open, acquiescent as they are
Whose hearts are happy; and thou too wilt feel
Its presence, as a summer night is felt
Rather than seen. Is it not fair enough
For thee to dwell in, also? Master, say,
Thou wilt not leave me all alone again
Those wretched days, and long unrestful nights?

Orval.
Never! nor night nor day. So help me Heaven!
Poor innocent fawn that by the heedless hand
That should have fed thee hast been stricken down!

Veronica.
Nay, am I not thine equal? I know all.
Why should I fear thee? Sit upon the ground
Beside me, and look up, and listen. Thine eyes
Are bright; but not so starry bright as those
Of other creatures fair, and strong, and strange,
That nightly come—from far—to hear me sing,
Crouching at my cold feet: creatures born wild,
But tamed by songs that lure them from their lairs
Where mountain springs are loosed, or lower down,
Moss-mason'd haunts where hermit violets hide;
Or grottoes gray, under dim ancient gulfs
Of drowsy seas, where water gods grow old
And placid, propt on quiet coral beds
Blush-coloured by the sea-maids; or far, far
Beyond the sempiternal frosts, in caves
That glitter with witch fires to welcome home,
Ere the short northern night be spent, some wan
Sea-fairy, coming in her flying-coat
Of white swan-feathers. Others, with long hair
And lustrous serpent limbs, that love to lie
Low among yellow maize in a hot land,
Long sallow summer noons; and some that leave
Their wandering camps on thunder-paven clouds,
To listen . . . as thou listenest now. Nay, wait!
(She sings.)
What shall the Spirits that serve me bring to thee?
Wilt thou the light of the load-star, lord?
Or pluckt-out eyes of the Pleiads? My King, to thee
Pharaoh's chariot, and crown, and sword,
Shall they fetch from the deep? Or fling to thee,
Robbing Orion, his burning band?
They can dive, and soar, and run,
Serving me ever by sea and land:
Because my song is a mighty one.
What shall we bring to thee?
What shall we sing to thee?
Master, praise us, and prize our worth.
Listen! we cling to thee
Singing, and sing to thee
Songs of sorrow, and songs of mirth:
Songs of the winds and waves,
Plagues, famines, and earthquakes, and wars:
Ditties of death and of birth:
Litanies learn'd from the graves:
Lullabies sung by the stars
To the dead that sleep under the earth.

Orval.
Misery! misery!

Veronica.
Embrace me, now!
My husband, I am happy at last.

Voice from the Cells Below.
Behold,
The days of endurance are o'er!
With mine own right hand have I slain
Seven kings: and their crowns were of gold,
And their robes were red with the stain
Of a trampled people's gore.
And a hundred Priests, as they sung
High mass at the lighted altar,
I caught by the throat, and hung
Their heads in a hempen halter.
But there resteth a too-many-more.

Voice from the Cells to the Left
Woe to ye! woe! for the sun
Is about to be snuft out:
And the spent stars, one by one,
Shall sink, and leave never a spark:
And the world shall wander about
In the dark, like a day that is done,
And lose its way in the dark.

Orval.
As mine is lost already! Fitly sings
The voice of some mad miserable wretch
The unconscious dirge of all that's dying here
In my life's utter failure!

Veronica.
Sigh no more.
Why wilt thou sadden me? Thine eyes are wet:
Thy cheek is wan. Canst thou, too, grieve? Smile, Orval!
I know a secret that shall comfort thee.
Thy son will be a Poet.

Orval.
What meanest thou?

Veronica.
The Priest, with holy water at the font,
Baptized him Muriel. But I, with tears
Pour'd from the wells of a most perfect woe,
Baptized him Poet.

Orval.
God, my punishment
Is just. But it is more than I can bear.

Veronica.
Art thou not satisfied, great Master?

Voice from the Cells above.
Father,
Forgive them, for they know not what they do.

Veronica.
Hush! Didst thou hear him? Was there ever a man
So mad as that?

Orval.
Merciful Heavens!

Veronica.
In truth
That man is mad. He knows not what he says.
But stoop! . . . Lean down thine ear . . . close . . . closer . . . so,
For 'tis a fearful thing.
Now, I must tell thee
How it will be, if ever God goes mad.
There's not a worm that crawls about this earth
But suddenly 'twill cry out ‘I am God’!
Mark this . . . and, soon as it hath cried out thus,
Proclaiming its divinity, 'twill die
Dismally, rot, and putrify, and breed
From the foul dust of its dead wretchedness
Wretcheder reptiles still. The sun and moon,
And all the stars of heaven, that stand so fast,
Will stagger, feeling God's hand loosed, and fall
Upon each other, and all together, dasht
Into eternal darkness, disappear.
Then Jesus Christ, that loves us, will no more
Have power to save us: God Himself, in whom
He trusted, as we trusted Him, being lost.
In both hands will He lift up His great Cross,
And, as a woodman to the water drags
Wearily a fell'd tree, and casts it in,
And lets the torrent take and whirl it away
From where it grew, i' the old time, when birds
Came in from heaven to house among its leaves,
Safe from the dark,—and, safe from noontide heats,
The little children slept beneath its boughs,
From age to age,—so shall He cast that Cross
Into the torrent of departing time:
And there shall it be shatter'd, and men's lives
All litter'd with sad ruins of what it was.
Tell no man this.

Orval.
Return, Veronica,
Wilt thou not see thy child?

Veronica.
He is not there.
He hath flown away. I know it. God gave him wings.
He is gone to wander the wide universe,
The winds know where: but they will never tell,
For no man understands what the winds say.
He hath far to go. And when he comes again
He will have gazed on all things that God made
Glorious, and terrible, and beautiful;
And tokens of them shall he bring with him,
Lest men should doubt him. When he comes again,
Then wilt thou love him, Orval, for the sake
Of his bright spoils.

Orval.
Woman! . . . My heart is broken.
Ah, God! that change? . . .
Veronica! . . . Thou ailest?

Veronica.
Yes. They have hung up somewhere in my head
A burning lamp. And ever that lamp swings
Backwards and forwards. And it hurts me, lord.

Orval.
Veronica! for Heaven's sweet sake . . .

Veronica.
Woe! woe!
To Muriel the Poet! For his days
Are number'd. Woe to Muriel! woe! woe!
The Dark Ones have him.

Orval.
Holloa! Help! help! help!

Doctor's Wife
(entering with other women, and in great agitation).
A blister! . . . Quick! . . . Fetch mustard to the feet!
Run to the Apothecary! Bustle, wench!
A blister! . . . I must look to the lady here.
Ah, sir, 'tis you have been the cause of this.
O dear! O dear! What will my husband say?
How could I help it, if he forced me out?
Quick, you there, to the storeroom!

Veronica.
Fare thee well,
My husband!

Doctor's Wife.
Lord ha' mercy, what is this?
Are you the lady's husband after all?
I'm sure I beg your worship's pardon. Wench,
Dip me that spunge in vinegar. Make haste!
Well, this is wonderful!

Orval.
Love, do not die.
Pity me. Pardon me. Not die! not die!
If you but knew what ages of remorse
This moment's wretchedness contains! how lost,
How utterly, miserably lost I am,
If I lose you, love! I have sinn'd! I have sinn'd!
I dare not die. There must be years of pain
Ere I can hope to win a grave near thine.

Veronica.
Belovèd, I do well. I know at last
Thou lovest me. And I am dying. Thank God!

Orval.
Alas, that swollen throat, and reddening brow . . .
. . . Pity, dread Power! lift up Thy heavy hand!

Doctor's Wife.
Sir, she will burst a blood-vessel. Pray, sir,
Help me to cut this corset. She must choke.
A knife! a knife, wench! Anything that's near!
What will my husband say to this?

Orval.
No, no!
This spasm must pass. There . . I have cut it . . see!
Her breast is bare. . . She breathes. Veronica!
She hears me not. For God's sake, Madam, speak!
Such things must happen often in such a place—
And you are used to them—you are not afraid
That she will die?—Look at her—Tell me—surely
Nothing's to fear?

The Doctor
(who has entered unobserved while Orval was speaking).
No, sir. Nor yet to hope.
Sir, you may drop that dagger. There's no breath
Left in that bosom. Upon those lips no pain
Where the last life-blood trickles. She sleeps well.
Nothing will wake her now. Cover the corpse.