University of Virginia Library

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.