Orval, or The Fool of Time And Other Imitations and Paraphrases. By Robert Lytton |
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 | III. |
| IV. |
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 | Orval, or The Fool of Time |  |
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.
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.
50
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.
51
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,—
52
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.
53
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.
54
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,
55
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
56
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!
57
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.
58
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.
| Orval, or The Fool of Time | |