 | The Father's Tragedy |  |
53
Scene II.
—A Tavern. Enter Rothsay, Walter, Randolph. Ralph with a bound felon.—Apart Wright and Selkirk.Rothsay.
Here, Ralph, your knife and cut these cords from him.
Another slash—they're gone!—Oh, give it me,—
You hesitate—half-hearted!
Ralph.
Well! 'tis this:
He is a parricide.
Rothsay.
The very sin
For which I loose him.
Ralph.
You have gone too far;
There's terror in this prank.
Rothsay.
What, see him killed
Before my eyes for self-defence from blows
Of an old tyrant, whose first tyranny
Was in begetting him—initial wrong
To be atoned for—how? By lording it
Over the wretched body and crushed soul?
Then is paternity a monstrous crime
Blind justice cannot see.
Randolph.
Hear him!
Rothsay.
I speak
My very heart. This fellow shall not die
For guarding life, when he who filled the flask
Would empty it. Oh, shame! You're free!
Ralph.
He's dumb;
Death's muzzled him. Untie his mouth with drink.
Randolph.
Ay, fetch a can!
Walter.
A can, a can!
Rothsay.
Hey there!
[Hostess brings wine.
Walter.
Down with it! Ha! it tastes like very life.
It is the blood of amity; we're friends
Who share in this red tie.
Felon.
Too much, too much!
Walter.
Of comradeship and wine?
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The ass!
Rothsay.
You fools!
He's dazed. Just think! he's touched the hem of Death,
The inner shroud that wraps all sense and breath.
How felt you, knave, so near the dismal end?
Walter.
Oh, search his feelings now he's near to life
And clinking glasses.
Rothsay.
Yet it fascinates
The skeleton, while flesh is full and young;
Its beggary when purple state is kept
In every vein; its dolesomeness when joy
Flouts summer's passing clouds; its cynic stare
And disenchanted mouth's rigidity,
When eyes desire and lips have troth and kiss;
Its ancient chalky tinct, when red is up
And dawn a-crowing in the face and limbs;
Its dry and famished orifice when feasts
Bubble with wine; its impotence when strength
Heaves as a sea the sinews. Oh, it shows,
Far dusty goal, how long will be our course.
Randolph.
We'll talk of sepulchres and tipple, lads!
Corruption and long draughts!
Walter.
Hey now, boys, drink!
Rothsay
[to Hostess].
Pour here, pour all! Courage! We'll talk of death
And dying. This professor we'll elect
To the top chair. Here, gown him in my cloak;
The ermine is scholastic. Ha, la, la!
Wright
[aside to Selkirk].
A felon.
Selkirk
[aside to Wright].
H'm! Best wine for him, and kicks
For us!—
Wright
[aside to Selkirk].
Mum, mum! They'll give you to the dogs.
Selkirk
[aside to Wright].
No drink for us.
Wright
[aside to Selkirk].
They'll duck you.
Selkirk
[aside to Wright].
Damn the crew
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My soul!—
Walter.
No, man, your body—that's the theme
To which we're merry pupils.
Randolph.
Here's to it!
Ralph.
Here's to your carcase!
Rothsay.
Tell us how you felt
When Death was on a moment's other side.
Felon.
Oh, nothing much!—but rather tight ...
Rothsay.
As if
The body hugged its kernel—ghastly clip!
Here's the first instance that our master gives
From the last art of all.
Walter.
Cheerly, my lads!
A health to each.
Rothsay.
Right heartily.—How else
Felt you, good master?
Felon.
Eh, sire?
Rothsay.
You are safe.
How felt you dying?
Felon.
Why I cannot say—
But like as you must pass a ghost.
Rothsay.
He's raised
A most delicious shiver. On my soul,
There's magic in 't,—impossibility
In death!—a lure that never will draw us,
A wonder that will never be, a dream
Cast o'er our being from the world without,
And in us but a fragment dim, distraught,
Of what we do not know and cannot learn.
A place of marvel too forlorn for us,
Where old men seek their losses, an event
Which we with our new breath can never cause;
A something, which is nothing to the dawn,
The bud, young man or maiden ...
[Enter Ramorgny.]
Ramorgny.
What of them?
Walter.
Can't die, can't die!
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The wine hath made a way
To Reason's spring.
[Clamour without.
Rothsay.
The townsfolk at our gates!
Up, up! They'd seize our prisoner! His eye
Is like a hound-caught hare's. A fight, a fight!
[Enter Citizens.]
1st Citizen.
We'll have the monster!
2nd Citizen.
Tear the parricide!
Rothsay.
Strike at the numskulls that hold fathers dear!
1st Citizen.
The prince, the prince!
3rd Citizen.
Cry shame on him!
1st Citizen.
Young lord,
Fie on this prank!
3rd Citizen.
Justice!
Rothsay.
Protect the weak!
[They fight. Exeunt Citizens, dragging off the offender.
Traitors, you'll suffer! Rebels, on my word
I'll deal it to you heavily for this!—
He's precept and example too, poor wretch!
My blood is up.
Ramorgny.
Then have I news for you.
The Bishop of St. Andrews died last night.
Rothsay.
Mercy! You'd have us get to church and pray
Our hot blood out for him!
Ramorgny.
Rash gaiety!
Ho, ho! I'd have you seize his earthly goods,
And leave immortal baggage to himself.
Walter.
Ay, that's our cue!
Rothsay.
How, how?
Ramorgny.
Why thus. At dawn
Ride to St. Andrews, claim the bishopric,
And hold it while it serves you as a purse.
Rothsay.
Your speech is a divining-rod; my thought
Digs to the bright event. I'll start at dawn,
And ride alone. Gold, gold, my cronies, gold!
Walter.
Let's go in company.
Rothsay.
I'll ride alone,
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Walter.
Look yonder through the door!
Rothsay.
What is 't to see?
Walter.
A flare of light.
Randolph.
Look, look!
Walter.
It trails along
Its hairy length of sanguine shining rays,
And seeks Aquilo with terrific sweep
Of baleful triumph.
Ralph.
Wonderful to see!
Rothsay.
Mathematicians say, as I've heard told,
When comes this comet 'tis a sign of death
Or downfall to some prince; or to some land
The symbol of destruction.
Walter.
So 'tis said.
Rothsay.
Ho, la!—it hurries fiercely to its work,
The rufous minister of starry fate!
'Tis ardent in the service of despair
And death—a flaming presence with the torch
That Até, as our chronicles relate,
Waved over Troy in bloodthirsty despite.
How must the doomèd wretch be sunk in woe
Who feels that skiey sword within his breast,
And all his power beneath the withering breath
Of yon proud exhalation with hot train
Of fiery vapour! 'Tis a gallant slave
To spindle-turning destinies; they are
Witches to own familiar such as that
Bright demon of the clouds. We'll pledge it, boys,
Hold up red wine to its more red success;
No matter who goes up nor who goes down.
Here's to 't!
Ramorgny
[aside].
The sybil knows another's fate—
Is silent of her own, howe'er she prate.
[They go on carousing.
| The Father's Tragedy | |