 | Orval, or The Fool of Time |  |
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THIRD EPOCH. FATHER AND SON.
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Orval.
Pray, Muriel, pray, my son, for the repose
Of thy dead mother's soul.
Muriel.
Mater Regina!
Ave Veronica! pro nobis ora!
Queen of the flowers and stars!
Orval.
That is no part,
Boy, of thy prayer. Thou hast changed the words of it.
Think, child, again. Pray for thy mother's soul.
This is the day, and this the hour, she died,
Ten years ago. Pray for her soul's peace.
Muriel.
Hail
Veronica! Mater Regina, hail!
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As the moon moveth through the stars of heaven:
And from their folded wings the angels pluck
Pure purple plumes, and strew them at thy feet:
And over these thou walkest, clad in mild
And melancholy splendour, as the moon
Walks o'er the purple wavelets of the sea.
Orval.
Boy, boy! what is this talk?
Muriel.
The words pierce through me,
And pass from out of me. I cannot help it.
Orval.
Rise, son. God listens not to prayers like thine.
Alas! thy mother thou hast never known.
How, therefore, should'st thou love her?
Muriel.
Deeply, Father.
I see my Mother often.
Orval
(starting).
Where?
Muriel.
In dreams.
Dreams? Everywhere I see her. Yesterday,
For instance, when . . .
Orval.
When . . . Boy, what say'st thou?
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Father,
How pale she is! but oh how beautiful!
Orval
(troubled).
Doth she speak ever?
Muriel.
Ay, last night . . .
Orval.
Last night?
Muriel.
Methought I saw her down the darkness floating,
Vested in white, wan as a star-beam veil'd
In wandering mist. And ever as she flew
This song she sang, which in my soul still sounds.
Orval.
What sang she?
Muriel.
I can sing it. But the tune,
The music, and the magic of it all,
Are gone! gone . . . gone!
Orval.
The words, Muriel? the words?
Muriel
(sings).
From off the immemorial palms
Whose murmur thrills, from dawn to even,
The golden Paradisal calms
With music only heard in Heaven,
I strip the balmy branches down,
To build a place of dreams and shadows,
Where thou may'st sleep, more soft and deep,
Than dews in leaves and grasses, grown
To seed, in windless meadows.
Whose murmur thrills, from dawn to even,
The golden Paradisal calms
With music only heard in Heaven,
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To build a place of dreams and shadows,
Where thou may'st sleep, more soft and deep,
Than dews in leaves and grasses, grown
To seed, in windless meadows.
I glide among the glorious throngs
Of choral seraphs, weaning
Away, for thee, from out their songs
The music's midmost meaning.
From wells of wonder, depths of dream,
For thee, my child, I gather
Sweet sounds, and sights, and dim delights;
That thou may'st speak with power, and seem
A prophet to thy father.
Of choral seraphs, weaning
Away, for thee, from out their songs
The music's midmost meaning.
From wells of wonder, depths of dream,
For thee, my child, I gather
Sweet sounds, and sights, and dim delights;
That thou may'st speak with power, and seem
A prophet to thy father.
There, Father! There's no word I have forgotten.
Only the tune was something otherwise.
But all day long I hear so many, and then
The echoes of them grow confused. For all
Passes, so swift! so swift!
Only the tune was something otherwise.
But all day long I hear so many, and then
The echoes of them grow confused. For all
Passes, so swift! so swift!
Orval.
Veronica,
Merciless Pythoness, whose spirit, fed fierce
From troubled Memory's sad prophetic springs,
Still shrieks for sacrifice! Wilt thou destroy
Even thine own child? Is not my cup of doom
Fill'd to the bitter brim? Must my son pay
Thy vengeance for his father's crime? and I
Dig out my heart to hold another grave?
Is thy revenge, wrong'd one, not sated yet?
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At rest, in Heaven? These are the common cheats
Of childhood's easily self-deceiving brain,
Whose uncorrected custom is to clothe
With mimic imagery our own crude troops
Of bodily feelings, till they front the eye
Garb'd in a borrow'd life, and seem to be
The individual external shapes
Of things not shaped within us.
Muriel.
Now again.
Father, I hear my mother's voice. Her form
I see not.
Orval.
Where, child, dost thou hear the voice?
Muriel.
Yonder, among the graves and cypresses,
Where the sun's light is fading fast.
Orval.
The voice
What is it saying?
Muriel.
Singing,
Father. Listen!
(Sings.)Gifts I bring to thee, many in one,
Spirit of Muriel, soul of my son!
Gifts from the Powers that dwell on the height:
Gifts from the Powers that dwell in the deep:
Magic of music and marvellous light,
Magic of marvellous dream and sleep!
Much shall be taken: but much is given:
When the shade is on earth, and the star is in heaven.
From the depths of the love of a mother
In thy soul have I pour'd, I am pouring,
Such a light as shall last when all other
Is perisht, and earth is deploring
That her darkest night, ere his day be done,
Should dwell in the eyes of her brightest son.
And the name of the gifts that I give thee
Is Beauty: that never is past.
For if Beauty but love and not leave thee,
Thy father shall love thee at last.
And thine eyes shall be shut: but thy spirit shall see:
And I pass: but I pass not away from thee.
Spirit of Muriel, soul of my son!
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Gifts from the Powers that dwell in the deep:
Magic of music and marvellous light,
Magic of marvellous dream and sleep!
Much shall be taken: but much is given:
When the shade is on earth, and the star is in heaven.
From the depths of the love of a mother
In thy soul have I pour'd, I am pouring,
Such a light as shall last when all other
Is perisht, and earth is deploring
That her darkest night, ere his day be done,
Should dwell in the eyes of her brightest son.
And the name of the gifts that I give thee
Is Beauty: that never is past.
For if Beauty but love and not leave thee,
Thy father shall love thee at last.
And thine eyes shall be shut: but thy spirit shall see:
And I pass: but I pass not away from thee.
Ah me! I lose the rest.
Orval
(musingly).
Is it possible
That the last word upon a dying lip,
The last thought of a parting soul, should be
The thought and word of all eternity?
O horrible! . . . if, after all, among
The blessed souls in Heaven (for, surely, she
Is with them) there be spirits who are . . . . mad!
Muriel.
My mother's voice grows faint. I lose it, Father,
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Orval.
Dreadful Corrector of man's pride! hast thou
Predestined, then, the child of my last hopes
To a life of madness,—an untimely grave?
Mercy! O from Thy feeble creature, doom'd
To breast a bruising world, take not away
Thy guiding gift of Reason! Architect
Of this inimitable monument
(Not built by hands, nor reparable here)
To the most sorrowful memory of a soul
That sleeps, I trust, in sempiternal peace,
Shatter not what Thyself hast made so fair!
Behold how desolate am I! who gaze
Around my life as, round a wasted land,
A watchman gazes, from a ruin'd tower:
An eminence above a solitude!
Pity my child, and pluck him from the clutch
Of those infernal persecutors all
That persecute me still. To me Thou hast given
Strength to support the burthen and the strain
Of fierce intolerable thought. But him?
A single thought, intense as those that burn
Nightly and daily here, might scorch and snap
The slender thread of his most delicate life.
God! God! For ten long weary wastes of years,
Neither by day, nor yet by night, have I
Known rest. And men have envied me my lot!
And in the clumsy catalogue, this blind
Ill-judging world compiles for ignorant Fame,
I have been number'd with the fortunate!
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What torments from within and from without,
What fearful memories, what foreboded ills,
Thou hast imposed on mine. God, Thou hast spared
My reason, but to stone hast stricken my heart.
For I have gazed in the Gorgonian eyes
Of that most Beauteous Horror: and henceforth
The heart is ice, the imagination fire.
Father of Love, grant me to love my child!
Creator, spare thy creature!
Rise, boy. Sign
The cross, and come. Peace to thy mother's soul!
Scene II.—A public promenade. Persons of all classes passing. Orval in conversation with a Philosopher.
Philosopher.
Trust me, my lord! I never am deceived.
When I speak positively I have grounds
For what I say. And I repeat,—the time
Approaches, when we shall emancipate
Women and negroes.
Orval.
Ah, . . . . you think . . .
Philosopher.
I know it.
The countenance of Humanity is about
To assume new features. All that we behold
Implies amelioration, the approach
Of a more perfect social epoch. Yes,
Society must regenerate itself
By the elimination of decrepit forms.
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You think so?
Philosopher.
Surely, even as this old globe
We all inhabit, in its progress round
The central light . . .
Orval.
See you that rotten tree
Yonder?
Philosopher.
Where?
Orval.
There.
Philosopher.
What? with the green leaves budding
Upon the wither'd bark?
Orval.
The same. How many
Years longer, should you say, that tree can stand?
Philosopher.
How can I tell? One . . . two, perhaps.
Orval.
And yet
Although the roots be rotten, the trunk touchwood,
Fit only for the fire,—young leaves are budding
Upon the wither'd branch. Do you mark it?
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Well,
What does that signify?
Orval.
Nay, sir, I know not.
Save that the tree must fall, and be reduced
To powder, which the winds of heaven will soon
Sweep from the surface of the earth.
Philosopher.
What then?
My lord, you are wandering from the subject-matter.
Orval.
I? on the contrary. I was but seeking
An image of this age: an illustration
Of you, sir, and your theories.
Philosopher.
Well, I say . . .
(They pass.)
Scene III.—A lonely place among the mountains.
Orval
(in reflection).
To ashes I have burn'd the wealth of time
Upon the greedy altar of full-cramm'd
Unsatisfied Experience: that grim god
That hath a hundred hands to snatch and seize,
And in them all nothing to give. All kinds
Of knowledge and of passion I have cast
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Intense necessity to feel. All doubts
I have interrogated, all desires dislodged
From sullen slumber in their savage lairs,
And hunted hotly to the death; all hearts
I have ransack'd: and in mine own I find
Only the grave's great nothingness. My will
Can wake in others every sentiment,
Every emotion; but within myself
(Whose soul dwells dark in vast vacuity)
There is not either hope, or fear, or faith,
Or love. I walk through life, as through a desert
Once throng'd with cities, temples, palaces,
Places of sin and pleasure for proud kings,
Whose pride God punisht, pulling down their towers,
Making their places empty, and their land
A nameless solitude. I seem to see
(Since nothing breaks the boundless prospect bare
All round my barren path) . . . to see far off,
Beforehand, and so, unsurprised, encounter
The coming of all possible events.
I have no fear, and no desire have I,
That's not already old, and quite worn out.
I know that blindness on my son must fall.
I know the irreparably rotten frame
And structure of this old society
Wherein I live, whereof I am a part,
Must fall to pieces. All these things I know,
And, knowing them, suffer—even as God rejoices—
In myself only, for myself alone!
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(passing in the air above).
Love thy neighbour! love thy neighbour
As thou lovest thyself! For others,
Not thine own self only, labour,
Live, and suffer. Help thy brothers:
Heal the hurt: and bind the broken.
So shall pain to thee be token
Of the pardoning power of what
Pain, for others borne, makes ever
Most divine in man's endeavour
To reach God.
Orval.
What voice was that?
Unhappy child! Doom'd, for a father's fault
By a mad mother's wrongs, to darken'd days.—
An endless incompleteness! a half-life
Made up of glorious failures! a flaw'd star
Fill'd with a beauteous sadness of eclipse!
Faint shadow of a fleeting angel, forced
To follow through a rough and thorny world
Feebly, the far, far off celestial flight
Of that wing'd glory, whose bright parentage
Its substanceless and scatter'd radiance owns
Vainly,—earth's weary traveller still, and still
Heaven's fugitive outcast! Most unhappy child!
Most miserable father!
No escape
From the revengeful furies! no surcease
Of everlasting punishment! no rest
Anywhere found!
From the revengeful furies! no surcease
Of everlasting punishment! no rest
Anywhere found!
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That rises yonder from the black ravine
Above the monumental mountains, bright
With sudden sunlight on his splendid wings,
Like Glory from a tomb?
Hail, Orval! Hail!
Orval.
He spreads his flight toward me. And the loud
Harsh-sounding beat of his enormous vans
Is like the hiss and rush of iron shot
Heard through the smoke of battle.
The Eagle.
With the sword
Of thy forefathers, Orval, shalt thou all
Their ancient glory and power reconquer. Hail!
Orval.
His circling flight a windy whirlpool makes
And wavering darkness on the dismal air
Above my head. Round and around he wheels
On iron wing. My dizzy brain, too, whirls
Round and around. Fast, faster! on the wind
My hair is danced . . . my pulse beats . . . faster! faster!
His keen eye glitters on me, hard and cold,
As the sharp shining of an unsheathed glaive.
It pierces through my brow, and through my brain,
It pierces . . . Ha! at last . . . I comprehend!
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Be bold and cruel. Nothing fear,
Nothing yield. To none give way.
Crimson'd all be thy career
With the blood of trampled prey.
Strong of will, and hard of hand,
Vanquish foes, and friends command:
O'er men's lives thy purpose spread:
Paven be thy path with power,
Piece of perishable clay!
Soon man's longest day is sped:
Soon the living are the dead:
Make immortal life's brief hour,
Be a god: create, destroy,
Subject all things to thy sway!
Life is power, and power is joy,
Though it be but for a day.
(The Eagle disappears into a clond).
Orval.
I thank thee well, bird of the boundless air,
Lord of the summits, rider of the storm!
Hail to thee from these heaven-insulting hills
Whose bare and blasted pinnacles have been
Sole witnesses of our wild colloquy!
Whate'er thou art—true messenger, or false—
Prophet or tempter—boding harbinger
Of evil, or high augury of good,
Hail to thee, Glory's solitary herald!
And, O thou mighty Genius of the Past,
Hear my heart's invocation! If from earth
Thou beest, with the departed ages, gone
Into the bosom of invisible God,
Yet come thou back! come to my call! return,
Inspire my soul with thy strong solemn breath,
Prompt my heart, guide my dedicated hand,
And fashion into formidable deeds
The fiery thoughts that in me rise!
(Setting his foot on a worm.)Lord of the summits, rider of the storm!
Hail to thee from these heaven-insulting hills
Whose bare and blasted pinnacles have been
Sole witnesses of our wild colloquy!
Whate'er thou art—true messenger, or false—
Prophet or tempter—boding harbinger
Of evil, or high augury of good,
Hail to thee, Glory's solitary herald!
And, O thou mighty Genius of the Past,
Hear my heart's invocation! If from earth
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Into the bosom of invisible God,
Yet come thou back! come to my call! return,
Inspire my soul with thy strong solemn breath,
Prompt my heart, guide my dedicated hand,
And fashion into formidable deeds
The fiery thoughts that in me rise!
Die, reptile!
Nature thy lost life lacks not. The eyed air
Sees not—earth hears not—and the winds of heaven
Take hence no record of the fugitive pang
Of thy minute extinction. In the abyss
Of imminent confused calamity
Which I behold, beginning, at my feet,
To gape for men, thousands—like thee—shall perish,
Leaving behind them neither name, nor fame,
Nor glory, nor regret. Not one of those
Reckless innumerable clouds, that roll
Through heaven's remorseless emptiness, will pause
To weep celestial drops of pity down
On hosts of earth's unnoticeable sons
Whom time is to oblivion hastening now.
And I myself? . . Before me dim, and drear,
And lurid,—hewn through the time-harden'd mass
Of mortal misery,—I begin to see,
As by the light of battle-fires, my own
Predestined pathway to a bloody grave.
Nature thy lost life lacks not. The eyed air
Sees not—earth hears not—and the winds of heaven
Take hence no record of the fugitive pang
Of thy minute extinction. In the abyss
Of imminent confused calamity
Which I behold, beginning, at my feet,
To gape for men, thousands—like thee—shall perish,
Leaving behind them neither name, nor fame,
Nor glory, nor regret. Not one of those
Reckless innumerable clouds, that roll
Through heaven's remorseless emptiness, will pause
To weep celestial drops of pity down
On hosts of earth's unnoticeable sons
Whom time is to oblivion hastening now.
And I myself? . . Before me dim, and drear,
And lurid,—hewn through the time-harden'd mass
Of mortal misery,—I begin to see,
As by the light of battle-fires, my own
Predestined pathway to a bloody grave.
O thou blue heaven, that girdlest in cold peace
This groaning earth! Behold, her weary womb
Travails, tormented with the endless birth
Of endless woes: yet is thine infinite calm
Untroubled by her infinite agony!
O Nature! pitiless mother! I go forth
Upon a perilous journey. But at length
I am about to live the life of man—
The natural life, of man! For I go forth
To fight my brothers. Sound thy trumpet, Time,
And bid me to the battle. My spirit is arm'd.
This groaning earth! Behold, her weary womb
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Of endless woes: yet is thine infinite calm
Untroubled by her infinite agony!
O Nature! pitiless mother! I go forth
Upon a perilous journey. But at length
I am about to live the life of man—
The natural life, of man! For I go forth
To fight my brothers. Sound thy trumpet, Time,
And bid me to the battle. My spirit is arm'd.
Scene IV.—After dark. A Hovel on a heath. At the door of the Hovel.
A Voice Outside.
What lives when it is buried?
A Voice Inside.
Liberty.
What wakes when it is slumbering?
Voice Outside.
Revenge.
Voice Inside.
When the dogs bark, what doth the fox do?
Voice Outside.
Burrow.
Voice Inside.
When the fox burrows, what do the geese?
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Cackle.
Voice Inside.
When the geese cackle, what do the cubs cry?
Voice Outside.
Panurge!
Voice Inside.
Enter Lucius Junius Brutus!
(The Modern Brutus enters the Hovel.)
Scene V.—Noon. An apartment in the Castle. Orval, Muriel, and a Physician.
Orval.
All science hitherto has fail'd. In you
Is my last hope.
Physician.
Your lordship's confidence
Honours me much.
Orval.
Speak to him, Muriel.
Explain to him thy sensations, child.
Muriel.
I neither
Can recognize you, Father, nor this gentleman.
Sparks of bright fire entangled in black webs
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Sometimes it seems a crawling of black snakes
With glittering spots that sparkle as they glide
Into a twisted globe of dusky coils;
Sometimes a golden cloud: then the cloud opens,
Breaks into sparks, stains, and soft colours, and all
Once more is darkness. But I feel no pain.
Physician.
Come hither, little lord. What is his age?
Orval.
Twixt ten years and eleven.
Doctor.
Turn this way,
To the window . . so, my boy.
Orval.
Well, Doctor?
Physician.
Well,
The eyelids are quite healthy. All the white
O' the eye is clear. The veins are not surcharged.
The nerves are sound, too. Have no fear, young sir.
We soon shall cure you. (To Orval):
Not a hope, my lord!
The pupil is insensible to light.
Complete paralysis of the optic nerve!
Muriel.
All's dark around me. Utterly dark.
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Alas!
Those sightless orbs are staring at the sun.
Muriel.
I can see better when I close my eyes.
Physician.
The mind has wasted, here, the body's force.
You must beware of catalepsy.
Orval.
Anything
You please . . . the half o' my fortune . . . all of it . . .
If you but cure my son!
Physician.
Science, my lord,
Has no capacity to compensate
Nature's defeat. We can do nothing here.
My duty to your lordship. I've a case
Of cataract in the neighbourhood . . .
Orval.
Stay, sir,
For mercy's sake . . . as you are a Christian man . .
Leave us not thus! Wait! wait! examine further.
Physician.
Perhaps it might be interesting to you
To know the name of this disease . . .
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No hope, then?
Indeed no hope? Indeed?
Physician.
'Tis amaurosis. (Exit.)
Orval
(embracing his son).
But thou see'st yet, my child—my hope—my all!
A little yet? Muriel, a little?
Muriel.
I can
Hear thy voice only, Father.
Orval.
Muriel,
Turn to the window. Look! the day is clear,
The sun shines bright.
Muriel.
I see, as though it were,
A multitude of changing shapes that swim
Fast, fast, between the eyelid and the eye.
I seem to recognize amongst them things
I knew once—places I have seen—and scraps
Of books that I have read.
Orval.
Then thou seest yet?
Muriel, thou seest yet? the blind see not, boy.
But thou seest . .
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With my mind's eyes, Father, yes.
Orval
(kneeling).
Great Spirit, that dwellest in eternal light,
Illumine those dark eyes . . . .
(Starting up.)
Tush! 'tis in vain.
Whom do I kneel to? For no prayers of mine
Are pathways to God's presence.
A Voice behind.
Thankless one,
Thy son is now a poet. Be satisfied.
Scene VI.—Night. At the sign of the Dragon. A sort of loft, accessible only from below by a ladder which is indistinctly seen through a dark aperture. In one part of the floor an iron ring is fastened, forming the handle to a trapdoor. The loft is dimly lighted.
The Modern Brutus
(alone).
What, if Panurge were betraying us?
It wrongs my faith to fear it. But why all
These compromises, these delays, these pardons?
Or wherefore should he spare this man—the worst,
The proudest, and most powerful, of our foes?
He cannot fear him, cannot pity him,
And cannot need him. Why then these misgivings?
For, Orval gone, the head goes, and therewith
Must fall the body at once.
Well, I have leave
To test this brother's truth: who should be here
Already, I think. He seems trustworthy, stout
Of heart and will. Why did Panurge seem
To be so sure the man would disobey
The order I must give him?
If he shrink . . . .
(Lifts up the trap-door—looks down, and closes it again with a sigh.)It wrongs my faith to fear it. But why all
These compromises, these delays, these pardons?
Or wherefore should he spare this man—the worst,
The proudest, and most powerful, of our foes?
He cannot fear him, cannot pity him,
And cannot need him. Why then these misgivings?
For, Orval gone, the head goes, and therewith
Must fall the body at once.
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To test this brother's truth: who should be here
Already, I think. He seems trustworthy, stout
Of heart and will. Why did Panurge seem
To be so sure the man would disobey
The order I must give him?
If he shrink . . . .
All is prepared.
O shame! O worst of all,
Mother, that we should ever be compell'd
By the strict justice of thine injured cause
To sacrifice to thee one of thy sons,
One of our brothers! But be witness thou,
Dread and dear Goddess, whom I breathe to serve
And live to die for, that in all this world
There's nothing I love more than I love thee;
Nothing that from the deep and bitter cry
Of thy great outraged heart mine own withholds,
Nothing in me that is not thine! O Mother,
Is not thy cry for ever in mine ears,
Thy wrongs for ever present to mine eyes,
Thy patient centuries of suffering,
Thy pains, and shames, and injuries, all mine,
And thy predestined, though so long-delay'd,
Dominion the sole business of my thoughts?
My heart is virgin, and my soul sincere.
Be witness, Mother, if it be my doom
To smite a brother, 'tis not that thy son
I love not, Mother, but that I love thee
More than he loved thee, the degenerate one!
(A distant clock strikes.)O shame! O worst of all,
Mother, that we should ever be compell'd
By the strict justice of thine injured cause
To sacrifice to thee one of thy sons,
One of our brothers! But be witness thou,
Dread and dear Goddess, whom I breathe to serve
And live to die for, that in all this world
There's nothing I love more than I love thee;
Nothing that from the deep and bitter cry
Of thy great outraged heart mine own withholds,
Nothing in me that is not thine! O Mother,
Is not thy cry for ever in mine ears,
Thy wrongs for ever present to mine eyes,
Thy patient centuries of suffering,
Thy pains, and shames, and injuries, all mine,
And thy predestined, though so long-delay'd,
Dominion the sole business of my thoughts?
My heart is virgin, and my soul sincere.
Be witness, Mother, if it be my doom
To smite a brother, 'tis not that thy son
I love not, Mother, but that I love thee
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The hour!
(Looking down the ladder.)
He comes.
(A youth, meanly clad, enters by the ladder, which the
Modern Brutus draws up, closing the aperture.)
Thou art exact.
The Youth.
And thou.
Modern Brutus.
Welcome, my brother!
The Youth.
Thou hast seen the Chief?
Modern Brutus.
I have.
The Youth.
And hast received the orders?
Modern Brutus.
Yes.
The Youth.
The man's name, Brother?
(Modern Brutus whispers him).
Orval? all I fear'd!
Modern Brutus.
Thou shrinkest? Great the peril, if thou fail.
But men that are in earnest never fail.
Great is the peril, yes. Greater the cause,
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Great if thou perish.
The Youth.
Orval? why that man?
Brother, must that man die?
Modern Brutus.
Brother, he must.
Thou knowest the forfeit?
The Youth.
Ay. If that were all . . .
Modern Brutus.
It is not all. By thee or by another
He dies. Thy death can save him not. And yet
Thou diest if he but live beyond the hour
Thine oath, to him, made final.
The Youth.
Brother, listen!
This Orval is not as the others are:
Hopelessly unimprovable by time.
Hath he not pleaded for the People's Cause
Often?
Modern Brutus.
For pastime, yes. When he was young.
The Youth.
And who more loudly hath denounced than he
The wrongs we all have suffered from his class?
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When? when there seem'd no chance of their redress.
To whom? to those whose ears, he knew, were deaf.
Then it was safe. Friend, when mankind began
To dwell in cities, each behind him left,
In the wilds, his individuality.
In this, our modern epoch, every man,
High, low, or rich, or poor, is but a cork
Dropt by the purblind accident of birth
On one or other of the mighty waves
Of that most stormy sea—Society.
He seems to move, but moves not: he is moved
By the elemental current. As the cork
Is by the wave it floats on, so the man
Is, by the class that he belongs to, borne
Where wind and tide, and not his own will, urge him.
The man's capacity of choice, whate'er
It pleases him to call it,—judgment, will,
Or conscience—is, unconsciously to him,
Conditioned by the circumstance of what
Supports and bears him. When the skies are clear,
And seas are calm, each cork that floats at ease,
Loose in its lazy element, hath leave
Of wind and wave to look this way and that,
And please itself with profitless selection
Of one or other prospect out of reach.
But when the storm comes, all are whirled, and driven
Whichever way the waves, that bear them, beat.
The Youth.
Not Orval. Ever from the titled tribe
128
This man stood separate: and to them belongs
No more than to the lowland the lone alp
That from the lowland soars. Companionless
He in his solitary conscience . . .
Modern Brutus.
Tut!
In the long run, the conscience of a man
Rests in the bosom of his class. The point
Of individual honour is for each
Fixt by the general interest of the whole.
And if I say “the whole” I mean, of course,
Merely the whole of those whose interests hang
Together in one balance. The whole tribe
Of bears, wolves, lions, tigers, have, no doubt,
Interests in common to themselves, which we,
The tribes of men, find much opposed to ours.
But, being a man, when I say “Liberty”
I mean not liberty for tigers, wolves,
Lions, and bears, but liberty for men;
Which may mean death to lions, and their like.
The Youth.
Hast thou a mother?
Modern Brutus.
No.
The Youth.
But once thou hadst?
129
None but The Revolution. Motherless
And fatherless, and nameless have I lived,
Until I lived for what is now to me
Father and mother both . . Our Cause.
The Youth.
Alas!
For then thou canst not understand.
Modern Brutus.
Why not?
The Youth.
Brother, that man once saved my mother's life.
Modern Brutus.
Which, Son of Freedom, that man's life now kills.
The Youth.
My father was—a vagrant and a thief
(For rich men have made poverty a crime).
He lived between the high road and the jail—
Lived? starved—I scarce know how: died—on the gallows.
We tramp'd, and tramp'd—my mother and myself,
A mere brat then—barefoot from barn to barn
To the great town—to beg my father's life
Back from the hangman's hand—and reach'd the town
At dawn—in time to join the gaping crowd
Beneath the scaffold where they strangled him.
My mother's shrieks disturb'd the ceremony
Which they call'd Justice Vindicated—marr'd
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They hailed her to the jail, and from the jail
They hailed her to the Justice. When a man
Insults some noble lady, what does she?
I know not. But I know that every word
That man said was an outrage, and a wrong,
An infamous wrong to womanhood: and I know,
While he was speaking, that my mother spat
In that man's face. Spit in the face of Justice?
A vagrant, and a tramp, a felon's wife?
Off with her to the whipping-post! Just then,
As they were dragging her away—I think
I hear her shrieks yet—see those eyes, and see
The stare change in them from intensest terror
To indignation, as there came a sneer
Curling the courtly and contemptuous lip
Of some young noble who had lounged in there
Whilst strolling homeward from a night's debauch.
—I think that sneer was not for my poor dam,
But her tormentors. But she knew not that.
The brute that held her had a knife in his belt.
She pluckt it out, sprang loose, and stabb'd the youth.
The wound was skin-deep, but the skin was noble.
The crime was patent, and the sentence death,
Death by the wheel. O that last night of all
Pass'd with my wretched mother, in the den
Of their condemn'd ones! O the agony
When that door open'd—as I deem'd, on death,
The death of all I ever loved—my mother!
But it was life. 'Twas the young noble's self
That came to save us. He had pleaded for her;
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If you but knew what was the meaning then
Of that word . . . Free! Brother, that noble's name
Was Orval. Brother, Orval is the man
That spared my mother's life. I cannot kill him.
Modern Brutus.
Alas! alas, my brother! O why, why
Fell not to me the glorious task? Call back
That hasty word, that breath that breaks an oath!
Brother, were men at peace,—man's great cause gain'd,
The sword of Freedom sheath'd, her banners furl'd,
Her troops disbanded, and her foes disperst,
We two might sit here, side by side, all night,
Praising this Orval for his one good deed:
And thou shouldst teach me thy dead mother's name,
That I might teach, for that name's sake, this rough
Coarse voice of mine, hoarse from harsh battle-cries,
To find out tenderer tones . . . Were there but time!
But there's no time—no peace. We are at war,
And war hath two sides only—Friend and Foe.
What separates foes from friends? A name: a flag:
A uniform: the colour of a coat:
Rude guides, but safe! No nice distinctions stop
War's brutal but inevitable path.
'Tis not a man, it is a cause, we fight,
Though with the cause we strike the man. War's fault,
And theirs that forced war on us, but not ours.
My friend, my brother in arms, O let the dead
Bury their dead! Woe be to him whose hand
Is on the plough if he turn back before
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To any man, behold, I kneel to thee!
Brother, once more, wilt thou redeem thine oath?
The Youth.
Brother, once more, I will not.
Modern Brutus.
Be it so.
Mine own I must redeem, then.
The Youth.
How?
Modern Brutus.
Unheard,
Unseen. In silence, and in secresy.
Here, and at once. Ere long the time shall be,
When the scorn'd Justice of The Revolution,
Now forced to hide in holes and dens like this
Her sacred head, and trust unwitness'd hands
Like mine to do her bidding in the dark,
Shall strike her victim on the public place,
Crowds in the streets, crowds on the housetops, crowds
Everywhere round her, to applaud the blow!
Behold thy grave.
(He opens the trap.)
Mother of mighty times,
Goddess armipotent, whose strong right hand
Plucks down upon the heads of trembling kings
The mouldering masonries their slaves have built
Against the march of thy majestic hosts!
Fair harvester, whose foizon, now full-ear'd,
Is ripening fast, large-hearted Liberty,
Look down, and bless thy victim, and thy priest.
Brother, one last embrace . . . brother no more!
Not I have torn our bond of brotherhood.
Pardon me, as I needs must pardon thee,
Unhappy youth! Sad for thy sake am I
Who dare not spare thee, for the sake of Her
That claims, from me the blow, from thee the blood.
This is not murder: it is sacrifice.
Thou hast been judged.
Panurge
Goddess armipotent, whose strong right hand
Plucks down upon the heads of trembling kings
The mouldering masonries their slaves have built
Against the march of thy majestic hosts!
Fair harvester, whose foizon, now full-ear'd,
133
Look down, and bless thy victim, and thy priest.
Brother, one last embrace . . . brother no more!
Not I have torn our bond of brotherhood.
Pardon me, as I needs must pardon thee,
Unhappy youth! Sad for thy sake am I
Who dare not spare thee, for the sake of Her
That claims, from me the blow, from thee the blood.
This is not murder: it is sacrifice.
Thou hast been judged.
(suddenly appearing through the open trap.)
And art acquitted.
Modern Brutus.
Thou!
How art thou here, Panurge?
Panurge.
Lucius Junius,
Wherever the Cause needs me, there am I.
What matter how? Dost thou not know me yet?
Brutus, withhold thine hand. Rise up, young man.
I have heard all. And, for thy broken oath
This once, I pardon thee.
Modern Brutus.
My chief, our laws . . .
Panurge.
Enjoin unquestioning obedience,
Brutus, to me. Not against human rights,
But human wrongs, my banner is unfurl'd.
134
And dynasties, and churches, have been founded
On crimes: whereof I hold the worst of all
To be Ingratitude. Our empire, boy,
Needs no such vile assistance. Lucius Junius,
Open this door, and let that ladder down. (Brutus obeys in silence.)
(To the Youth, in a whisper).
Young man, I cannot save thee, nor thy friend,
Beyond to-night Lord Orval's life is doom'd:
His death is certain . . . save for the sole chance,
The last, that's left to him . . . Let him know that . . .
Flight. Instant flight. Let him know that, young man,
If thou would'st save him. Hush! (Aloud).
Brutus, thou hast
Served firmly, and served faithfully, the Cause.
Blessèd are they that hear and do. Embrace
Thy pardon'd Brother.
Modern Brutus.
He hath yet to prove
He is my brother.
Panurge.
And he shall. Away,
Young man! Thou hast thy brother's confidence
To win back,—mine to justify. Depart.
(Whispering).
Make haste! Thou hast not half an hour to lose.
(The Youth descends the ladder.)
Did I not tell thee, Lucius Junius Brutus,
This man would fail us?
135
But why pardon him?
Why didst thou let him go?
Panurge.
Because I knew
That he would go to carry out my will.
Modern Brutus.
What! dost thou trust him yet?
Panurge.
Implicitly.
Modern Brutus.
To do what?
Panurge.
To warn Orval.
Modern Brutus.
To warn him?
Wilt thou let him escape?
Panurge.
Unthinking boy!
How can he? If he fly, he is lost. I fear,
I fear he will not fly!
Modern Brutus.
But if he do?
Panurge.
Disgrace first, and death afterwards, for him.
His life? that's nothing. But his influence?
136
Dost thou not see how easy it is to take
This man's life? but how difficult to take
Its influence from the lives of other men?
'Tis that which we must aim at. If he fly
(Be satisfied, I have him in my net
He cannot 'scape me)—if he fly—why then,
His influence flies with him, and is lost.
Then, body and soul, and name and fame, he is mine!
Boy, there are lives and lives, and deaths and deaths.
This man's life is impress'd in palpable forms
Upon the public mind; and this man's death
Must be impress'd upon it also thus.
'Tis not enough for me to have his life.
There's too much of it living in his name.
I must have both. I know that frighten'd hind,
Soon as he leaves this house, will haste to warn him.
My only fear is that he will not fly,
So will he 'scape me. I shall have to weave
New webs. But doubt not, I shall catch him yet.
His mind to mine for mastery? . . . We shall see!
Now leave me, Brutus. I must be alone.
Modern Brutus
(going).
What, if Panurge is betraying us?
Scene VII.—Night. A Chamber in the Castle. Lights, &c. Physician and Kinsman.
First Kinsman.
Undoubtedly. Most sad. But are you sure, sir?
Stone blind?
137
Unusual . . . extraordinary,
So young . . .
Second Kinsman.
He always was a weakly child.
The mother died . . . you understand?
Physician.
The mother?
How? . . . do you mean . . . ?
Second Kinsman.
Precisely.
Orval
(entering).
Pardon me,
Gentlemen, for so long detaining you.
But 'tis not till past midnight that of late
The crisis comes. Then he begins to speak.
Follow me. This way, Doctor.
Third Relation.
After you, sir.
Physician.
I am all anxiety to contemplate
This deeply interesting phenomenon.
(Exeunt).
Scene VIII.
—A Bed-chamber, dimly lighted. Orval, Physician, Nurse, and Kinsmen as before. Muriel asleep.First Kinsman.
Hush! Listen!
138
Is he awake? His eyes are open.
And yet he seems to hear not.
Physician.
Gentlemen,
Really, I must entreat your silence.
Second Kinsman.
Strange!
Muriel
(rising).
Away! away!
Second Kinsman.
Mark! the arms folded.
Fisrt Kinsman.
Ay,
Upon the breast. He seems to walk as one
That walks with difficulty through a crowd.
Physician.
Gentlemen, I entreat . . .
Nurse.
Dear Lord!
Muriel.
Avaunt
Creatures of Darkness! Am I not the son
Of Light and Song? Where are my singing robes?
Off, Hell-garb! Who hath clad me in it? Ye?
What will ye with me? Shall I yield to ye
139
Never, abortive terrors, sullen shapes
Sent to torment me, never shall I be
The slave of him whose sceptre sent you forth!
Not though mine eyes be taken from me: mine
Mine eyes are still. I know where they are gone.
My mother bathes them in the light of Heaven:
They shall return to me, star-sighted, strong,
Sun-searching, splendid with sidereal fire.
First Kinsman.
Mad! Just like his poor mother.
Physician.
As I suspected.
Nurse.
O Holy Virgin, give the lad these eyes
Of mine, or I shall weep them blind as his!
Second Kinsman.
It is a melancholy satisfaction
Always, to be quite sure one can do nothing
To mitigate the affliction of one's friends.
Nurse.
Lord! Lord! that I should live to hear him talk
Like a proud Pagan, or wild man o' the woods,
Or any other common creature! I
That suckled the poor brat at mine own breast,
Ay, did I! and a finer babe was never
Put to the nipple. Many's the time I said it,
140
Come not to something great!” And, O Lord, Lord,
To come to this!
Physician.
Be silent my good woman.
This is extremely interesting.
First Kinsman.
Hist!
Muriel.
Mother!
Dear Mother of mine in Heaven, I prithee send
Down to me images of lovely things:
That I, with these, may make me, here i' the midst
Of this great darkness, Mother, a new world,
Like that which I have lost.
Second Kinsman.
What think you, Coz?
Physician.
Gentlemen, really . . .
First Kinsman.
Listen!
Muriel.
Come with me.
Let us go hence . . . April hath gone before.
I know the way she went. And we shall find
Things dropt by her in the grass. Come down with me
Into the dimmest wildness of the wood,
141
Brightens the clear translucent green, and paves
Our whisperous path with drops of fire, that trickle
Through tender webs of winking shade. The moss
Is ever fresh and buxom to the foot
Under these low-bent boughs. I know a place
Quiet and happy, quite shut in with leaves
And flowers; faint woodbine, and the bramble rose,
And freckled foxglove, cloven ivy, and loose
Convolvuluses, all the walls have woven
With fragrant broidery: and underneath
The pleasant grass is multitudinous all
With merry daisies thick as evening stars,
And plots of tufted thyme, and primroses,
Pale priestesses, with countenances calm
In sanctuaries of rough dewy leaves,
And cowslips, and anemones, and violets,
And crocuses, like points of windless flames
Tenderly curved and stain'd. This place is safe.
An old tree holds it in one arm of his.
The winds are warn'd to vex us not.
Orval.
Alas!
Second Relation.
His talk is wholly unintelligible.
Physician.
Precisely as I had anticipated.
Muriel.
Ah, they have spoil'd my palace! Bud and leaf
142
Again the ghastly darkness! Mother! Mother!
First Kinsman.
I never saw such anguish in a face.
Muriel.
Mother, I hear thee not. I hear thee not!
Leave me not all alone in the great darkness.
Oh!
Second Kinsman.
What a moan!
(Muriel sinks back, exhausted, on the bed.)
Physician.
My lord, it is my duty
To state the truth to you without reserve.
Second Kinsman.
Ay, hear him, Cousin. Speak out, Doctor. Tell us
Precisely what this means.
Physician.
My lord, your son
Is victim to a mental malady,
Superinduced by a too exquisite sense,
Become habitual, as I greatly fear,
Of his sad physical calamity.
Extreme cerebral agitation thus,
Acting upon a bodily frame o'erwrought
Already by the habit of a life
Somewhat too studious for his childish years,
Induces the condition of what, thus
143
Must be call'd normal trance.
Orval.
Inscrutable
Lawgiver! hear how glibly doth this pedant
Explain thy laws!
Physician.
A pen and ink, if you please.
We must try soothing remedies. I fear
'Tis no great use, though. Laurei decoctio . . .
Aqua. . .
Orval.
You will find all that you can want, sir,
In the next room. Go,—write out what you will.
Gentlemen, Cousins, I entreat your leave
To be alone.
Kinsmen.
Cousin, good night. Good night.
(Exeunt with the Physician.)
Muriel
(waking).
Good night? . . A long, long night! They should have said
A night without an end. Not good! not good!
Father, I am very tired.
Orval.
Lean on me, lad.
So . . Let me lift thee into bed.
144
My sleep
To-night was broken by strange voices, Father.
Where are we? If I could, I would sleep again.
I am so tired.
Orval.
Sleep, my poor boy. Sleep sound.
Thy father's blessing be upon thy dreams.
My blessing? Ah, what can my blessing give him?
Not light, alas, nor health, nor joy, nor peace.
Sleep, Muriel. Sleep, unhappy child!
Thy father's blessing be upon thy dreams.
My blessing? Ah, what can my blessing give him?
Not light, alas, nor health, nor joy, nor peace.
Sleep, Muriel. Sleep, unhappy child!
For me
The blood-red battle-dawn is breaking. Here
There is no time for tears, none for regret!
Soon, at the head of a half-barbarous
Handful of men, must I go forth, to cope
With the mad masses of mankind. And thou?
How shalt thou fare, poor boy?—sick, helpless, blind!
Child-poet, with no audience in a world
Of grown-up miseries! Poor perishing bud,
Blighted from birth, and canker'd in the green,
Last of a lofty, old, illustrious tree!
Sole, fragile, scion of a haughty House
Whose sires, of yore, in iron harness trod
Tremendous fields, and bearded brawling kings.
Farewell! O heart of mine, bear up, bear up
Against this load—Break not, thou stubborn heart!
Let all break on thee, till this breaking world
Be ended. Sleep, my son. He sleeps already.
And, sleeping smiles . . . ah, not on me! Once more,
Once more . . . one last sad kiss . . . and then . . . farewell,
Thou most unfortunate of the angels stray'd
From Heaven!
The blood-red battle-dawn is breaking. Here
There is no time for tears, none for regret!
Soon, at the head of a half-barbarous
Handful of men, must I go forth, to cope
With the mad masses of mankind. And thou?
How shalt thou fare, poor boy?—sick, helpless, blind!
Child-poet, with no audience in a world
Of grown-up miseries! Poor perishing bud,
Blighted from birth, and canker'd in the green,
Last of a lofty, old, illustrious tree!
Sole, fragile, scion of a haughty House
Whose sires, of yore, in iron harness trod
Tremendous fields, and bearded brawling kings.
Farewell! O heart of mine, bear up, bear up
Against this load—Break not, thou stubborn heart!
Let all break on thee, till this breaking world
Be ended. Sleep, my son. He sleeps already.
And, sleeping smiles . . . ah, not on me! Once more,
145
Thou most unfortunate of the angels stray'd
From Heaven!
Andrew
(entering hastily).
My lord, the man that brought this letter
Refused to wait: but left it, vehemently
Affirming it to be of urgent import,
Concerning nothing less than life or death
Or imminent danger to your lordship.
Orval.
Good.
Leave it. And leave me.
(Exit Servant.)
I am weary of all things.
Life can bring nothing new . . . not even death.
(Opens the letter, languidly, and reads).
“Thine hours are counted. Fly, Lord Orval, fly!
There is no inch of all this land that's safe
For thee to stand on. The Sworn Brotherhood
Are sworn to have thy life. Their hands are lifted
Invisibly against thee, everywhere:
Their daggers are all round thee, day and night,
When the air seems most empty: and their eyes,
Unseen, are on thee. Linger not an hour.
One whom thou hast befriended; and that knows
More than he may reveal.
There is no inch of all this land that's safe
For thee to stand on. The Sworn Brotherhood
Are sworn to have thy life. Their hands are lifted
Invisibly against thee, everywhere:
Their daggers are all round thee, day and night,
When the air seems most empty: and their eyes,
Unseen, are on thee. Linger not an hour.
One whom thou hast befriended; and that knows
More than he may reveal.
Burn this. And fly.”
I fly? He little knows me that wrote this.
(Burns the letter in the candle.)146
My lord, the Doctor asks your presence.
Orval.
I come.
Rest by the boy. And watch him well. He sleeps.
. . . . Rather to arms at once! to arms! Arise,
Arise, mine eagle! Havoc calls. I come.
END OF THE THIRD EPOCH.
| Orval, or The Fool of Time | |