 | Richelieu ; Or The Conspiracy |  |
SCENE I.
Richelieu's Castle at Ruelle—A Gothic chamber—Moonlight at the window, occasionally obscured.RICHELIEU
(reading).
“In silence, and at night, the Conscience feels
That life should soar to nobler ends than Power.”
So sayest thou, sage and sober moralist!
But wert thou tried?—Sublime Philosophy,
Thou art the Patriarch's ladder, reaching heaven,
And bright with beck'ning angels—but, alas!
We see thee, like the Patriarch, but in dreams,
By the first step—dull-slumbering on the earth.
I am not happy!—with the Titan's lust
I woo'd a goddess, and I clasp a cloud.
When I am dust, my name shall, like a star,
Shine through wan space, a glory—and a prophet
Whereby pale seers shall from their aery towers
Con all the ominous signs, benign or evil,
That make the potent astrologue of kings.
But shall the Future judge me by the ends
That I have wrought—or by the dubious means
Through which the stream of my renown hath run
Into the many-voiced unfathomed Time?
Foul in its bed lie weeds—and heaps of slime,
And with its waves—when sparkling in the sun,
Oft times the secret rivulets that swell
Its might of waters—blend the hues of blood.
Yet are my sins not those of CIRCUMSTANCE,
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Our spirits, like the unsteady lizard, take
The tints that colour, and the food that nurtures?
O! ye, whose hour-glass shifts its tranquil sands
In the unvex'd silence of a student's cell;
Ye, whose untempted hearts have never toss'd
Upon the dark and stormy tides where life
Gives battle to the elements,—and man
Wrestles with man for some slight plank, whose weight
Will bear but one—while round the desperate wretch
The hungry billows roar—and the fierce Fate,
Like some huge monster, dim-seen through the surf,
Waits him who drops;—ye safe and formal men,
Who write the deeds, and with unfeverish hand
Weigh in nice scales the motives of the Great,
Ye cannot know what ye have never tried!
History preserves only the fleshless bones
Of what we are—and by the mocking skull
The would-be wise pretend to guess the features!
Without the roundness and the glow of life
How hideous is the skeleton! Without
The colourings and humanities that clothe
Our errors, the anatomists of schools
Can make our memory hideous!
I have wrought
Great uses out of evil tools—and they
In the time to come may bask beneath the light
Which I have stolen from the angry gods,
And warn their sons against the glorious theft,
Forgetful of the darkness which it broke.
I have shed blood—but I have had no foes
Save those the State had —if my wrath was deadly,
'Tis that I felt my country in my veins,
And smote her sons as Brutus smote his own.
And yet I am not happy—blanch'd and sear'd
Before my time—breathing an air of hate,
And seeing daggers in the eyes of men,
And wasting powers that shake the thrones of earth
In contest with the insects—bearding kings
And braved by lackies —murder at my bed;
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With the dread Three—that are the Fates who hold
The woof and shears—the Monk, the Spy, the Headsman.
And this is Power! Alas! I am not happy.
(After a pause.)
And yet the Nile is fretted by the weeds
Its rising roots not up; but never yet
Did one least barrier by a ripple vex
My onward tide, unswept in sport away.
Am I so ruthless then that I do hate
Them who hate me? Tush, tush! I do not hate;
Nay, I forgive. The Statesman writes the doom,
But the Priest sends the blessing. I forgive them,
But I destroy; forgiveness is mine own,
Destruction is the State's! For private life,
Scripture the guide—for public, Machiavel.
Would Fortune serve me if the Heaven were wroth?
For chance makes half my greatness. I was born
Beneath the aspect of a bright-eyed star,
And my triumphant adamant of soul
Is but the fix'd persuasion of success.
Ah!—here!—that spasm!—again!—How Life and Death
Do wrestle for me momently!—And yet
The King looks pale. I shall outlive the King!
And then, thou insolent Austrian—who didst gibe
At the ungainly, gaunt, and daring lover,
Sleeking thy looks to silken Buckingham,—
Thou shalt—no matter!—I have outlived love.
O! beautiful—all golden—gentle Youth!
Making thy palace in the careless front
And hopeful eye of man—ere yet the soul
Hath lost the memories which (so Plato dream'd)
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O! for one gale from thine exulting morning,
Stirring amidst the roses, where of old
Love shook the dew-drops from his glancing hair!
Could I recall the past—or had not set
The prodigal treasures of the bankrupt soul
In one slight bark upon the shoreless sea;
The yoked steer, after his day of toil,
Forgets the goad and rests—to me alike
Or day or night—Ambition has no rest!
Shall I resign—who can resign himself?
For custom is ourself;—as drink and food
Become our bone and flesh—the aliments
Nurturing our nobler part, the mind—thoughts, dreams,
Passions, and aims, in the revolving cycle
Of the great alchemy—at length are made
Our mind itself; and yet the sweets of leisure—
An honour'd home—far from these base intrigues—
An eyrie on the heaven-kiss'd heights of wisdom—
(Taking up the book.)
Speak to me, moralist!—I'll heed thy counsel.
Were it not best—
(Enter François hastily, and in part disguised.)
RICHELIEU
(flinging away the book).
Philosophy, thou liest!
Quick—the despatch!—Power—Empire! Boy—the packet!
FRANCOIS.
Kill me, my Lord.
RICHELIEU.
They knew thee—they suspected—
They gave it not—
FRANCOIS.
He gave it—he—the Count
De Baradas—with his own hand he gave it!
RICHELIEU.
Baradas. Joy! out with it!
FRANCOIS.
Listen,
And then dismiss me to the headsmen.
RICHELIEU.
Ha!
Go on.
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They led me to a chamber—There
Orleans and Baradas—and some half-score,
Whom I know not—were met—
RICHELIEU.
Not more!
FRANCOIS.
But from
The 'adjoining chamber broke the din of voices,
The clattering tread of armed men;—at times
A shriller cry, that yell'd out, “Death to Richelieu!”
RICHELIEU.
Speak not of me: thy country is in danger!
The 'adjoining room—So, so—a separate treason!
The one thy ruin, France!—the meaner crime,
Left to their tools, my murder!—
FRANCOIS.
Baradas
Questioned me close—demurr'd—until, at last,
O'erruled by Orleans,—gave the packet—told me
That life and death were in the scroll—this gold—
RICHELIEU.
Gold is no proof—
FRANCOIS.
And Orleans promised thousands,
When Bouillon's trumpets in the streets of Paris
Rang out shrill answer;—hastening from the house,
My footstep in the stirrup, Marion stole
Across the threshold, whispering “Lose no moment,
Ere Richelieu have the packet: tell him too—
Murder is in the winds of Night, and Orleans
Swears, ere the dawn the Cardinal shall be clay.”
She said, and trembling fled within; when, lo!
A hand of iron griped me; thro' the dark
Gleam'd the dim shadow of an armed man:
Ere I could draw—the prize was wrested from me,
And a hoarse voice gasp'd—“Spy, I spare thee, for
This steel is virgin to thy Lord!”—with that
He vanish'd.—Scared and trembling for thy safety,
I mounted, fled, and, kneeling at thy feet,
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Like him, to spare my life.—
RICHELIEU.
Who spake of life?
I bade thee grasp that treasure as thine honour—
A jewel worth whole hecatombs of lives!
Begone—redeem thine honour—back to Marion—
Or Baradas—or Orleans—track the robber—
Regain the packet—or crawl on to Age—
Age and grey hairs like mine—and know, thou hast lost
That which had made thee great and saved thy country.—
See me not till thou'st bought the right to seek me.—
Away!—Nay, cheer thee—thou hast not fail'd yet,—
There's no such word as “fail!”
FRANCOIS.
Bless you, my Lord,
For that one smile!—I'll wear it on my heart
To light me back to triumph. (Exit.)
RICHELIEU.
The poor youth!
An elder had ask'd life!—I love the young!
For as great men live not in their own time,
But the next race,—so in the young, my soul
Makes many Richelieus.—He will win it yet.
François!—He's gone. My murder! Marion's warning!
This bravo's threat! O for the morrow's dawn!—
I'll set my spies to work—I'll make all space
(As does the sun) an Universal Eye—
Huguet shall track—Joseph confess—ha! ha!—
Strange, while I laugh'd I shudder'd, and ev'n now
Thro' the chill air the beating of my heart
Sounds like a death-watch by a sick man's pillow;
If Huguet could deceive me—hoofs without—
The gates unclose—steps near and nearer!
(Enter Julie.)
JULIE.
Cardinal!
My father! (falls at his feet)
.
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Julie at this hour!—and tears!
What ails thee?
JULIE.
I am safe; I am with thee!—
RICHELIEU.
Safe! why in all the storms of this wild world
What wind would mar the violet?
JULIE.
That man—
Why did I love him?—clinging to a breast
That knows no shelter?
Listen—late at noon—
The marriage-day—ev'n then no more a lover—
He left me coldly,—well,—I sought my chamber
To weep and wonder—but to hope and dream.
Sudden a mandate from the king—to attend
Forthwith his pleasure at the Louvre.
RICHELIEU.
Ha!—
You did obey the summons; and the king
Reproach'd your hasty nuptials.—
JULIE.
Were that all!
He frown'd and chid;—proclaim'd the bond unlawful:
Bade me not quit my chamber in the palace,
And there at night—alone—this night—all still—
He sought my presence—dared—thou read'st the heart,
Read mine!—I cannot speak it!
RICHELIEU.
He a king,—
You—woman; well,—you yielded!
JULIE.
Cardinal—
Dare you say “yielded?”—Humbled and abash'd,
He from the chamber crept—this mighty Louis;
Crept like a baffled felon!—yielded! Ah!
More royalty in woman's honest heart
Than dwells within the crowned majesty
And sceptred anger of a hundred kings!
Yielded!—Heavens!—yielded;
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To my breast,—close—close!
The world would never need a Richelieu, if
Men—bearded, mailed men—the Lords of Earth—
Resisted flattery, falsehood, avarice, pride,
As this poor child with the dove's innocent scorn
Her sex's tempters, Vanity and Power!—
He left you—well!
JULIE.
Then came a sharper trial!
At the king's suit the Count de Baradas
Sought me to soothe, to fawn, to flatter, while
On his smooth lip insult appear'd more hateful
For the false mask of pity: letting fall
Dark hints of treachery, with a world of sighs
That heaven had granted to so base a Lord
The heart whose coldest friendship were to him
What Mexico to misers! Stung at last
By my disdain, the dim and glimmering sense
Of his cloak'd words broke into bolder light,
And THEN—ah! then, my haughty spirit fail'd me!
Then I was weak—wept—oh! such bitter tears!
For (turn thy face aside, and let me whisper
The horror to thine ear) then did I learn
That he—that Adrien—that my husband—knew
The king's polluting suit, and deemed it honour!
Then all the terrible and loathsome truth
Glared on me;—coldness—waywardness—reserve—
Mystery of looks—words—all unravell'd,—and
I saw the impostor, where I ha' loved the God!—
RICHELIEU.
I think thou wrong'st thy husband—but proceed.
JULIE.
Did you say “wrong'd” him?—Cardinal, my father,
Did you say “wrong'd?” Prove it, and life shall grow
One prayer for thy reward and his forgiveness.
RICHELIEU.
Let me know all.
JULIE.
To the despair he caused
The courtier left me; but amid the chaos
Darted one guiding ray—to 'scape—to fly—
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Trembling I left my chamber—sought the queen—
Fell at her feet—reveal'd the unholy peril—
Implored her aid to flee our joint disgrace.
Moved, she embraced and soothed me; nay, preserved;
Her word sufficed to unlock the palace-gates:
I hasten'd home—but home was desolate,—
No Adrien there! Fearing the worst, I fled
To thee, directed hither. As my wheels
Paused at thy gates—the clang of arms behind—
The ring of hoofs—
RICHELIEU.
'Twas but my guards, fair trembler.
(So Huguet keeps his word, my omens wrong'd him.)
JULIE.
Oh, in one hour what years of anguish crowd!
RICHELIEU.
Nay, there's no danger now. Thou needest rest.
Come, thou shalt lodge beside me. Tush! be cheer'd,
My rosiest Amazon—thou wrong'st thy Theseus.
All will be well—yes, yet all well.
[Exeunt through a side door.
I need not say that the great length of this soliloquy adapts it only for the closet, and that but few of the lines are preserved on the stage. To the reader, however, the passages omitted in representation will not, perhaps, be the most uninteresting in the play, and may be deemed necessary to the completion of the Cardinal's portrait,—action on the stage supplying so subtly the place of words in the closet. The self-assured sophistries which, in the text, mingle with Richelieu's better-founded arguments in apology for the darker traits of his character, are to be found scattered throughout the writings ascribed to him. The reader will observe that in this self-confession lies the latent poetical justice,—which separates happiness from success.—[Lines retained on the stage from 28 to 40.]
It is well known that when, on his death-bed, Richelieu was asked if he forgave his enemies; he replied, “I never had any, but those of the State.” And this was true enough, for Richelieu and the State were one.
Richelieu's vindication of himself from cruelty will be found in various parts of Petitot's Collection, vols. xxi. xxx. (bis.)
Voltaire has a striking passage on the singular fate of Richelieu, recalled every hour from his gigantic schemes to frustrate some miserable cabal of the ante-room. Richelieu would often exclaim, that “Six pieds de terre (as he called the king's cabinet) lui donnaient plus de peine que tout le reste de l'Europe.” The death of Wallenstein, sacrificed by the Emperor Ferdinand, produced a most lively impression upon Richelieu. He found many traits of comparison between Ferdinand and Louis—Wallenstein and himself. In the Memoirs—now regarded by the best authorities as written by his sanction, and in great part by himself—the great Frenchman bursts (when alluding to Wallenstein's murder) into a touching and pathetic anathema on the misère de cette vie of dependence on jealous and timid royalty, which he himself, while he wrote, sustained. It is worthy of remark, that it was precisely at the period of Wallenstein's death that Richelieu obtained from the king an augmentation of his guard.
Richelieu was commonly supposed, though I cannot say I find much evidence for it, to have been too presuming in an interview with Anne of Austria (the Queen), and to have bitterly resented the contempt she expressed for him. The Duke of Buckingham's frantic and Quixotic passion for the Queen is well known.
The fear and the hatred which Richelieu generally inspired were not shared by his dependants and those about his person, who are said “to have adored him.”—Ses domestiques le regardaient comme le meilleur des maîtres.—Le Clerc. In fact, although il étoit orgueilleux et colère,—he was, en même temps, affable et plein de douceur dans l'abord; and he was no less generous to those who served than severe to those who opposed him.
| Richelieu ; Or The Conspiracy | |