 | Fortunatus the Pessimist |  |
157
ACT III
SCENE I
[Urania's garden.]URANIA
(alone at the gate).
Would he were here! though haply, when he comes,
His presence will be only pitying pain.
No, now he is my kinsman. That saves all,
And he with that sweet bond will be content,
And love be loved in consanguinity.
Once that delirious dreams from April's sleep
Are patiently dissolved, how she will joy
To find he is no stranger. Hark! ... But no!
We hear that which we listen for, and hope
Befools like fear.
[She leans over the gate, reading. As she does so, Fortunatus gallops up.]
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How—how—is April? Take me to her straight.
URANIA.
Forbear, a little while! for, when she wakes,
The fever flames afresh, and thought of you,
So curiously dominant, recurs
Through her meanderings of speech and song.
I left her, sleeping, but a moment since,
To hearken for your hoofs. I little deemed,
When yesternight I heard them faint and fade
Into the forest avenues, I should
So soon again be straining toward their tread.
FORTUNATUS.
I should have come unsummoned, though your message
Quickened my advent. For my midnight ride
Through the illuminated woodland brought
Pathetic revelation which your ears
Must hearken, and your tenderness forgive.
I—I—am April's father!
159
(starting back).
And her mother?
FORTUNATUS.
Is where that father oft would fain have been,
And, but for April, now too fain would be,
Absolved in death.
URANIA.
You loved her?
FORTUNATUS.
That, I did not;
Or loved her—well, as men too often love,
When haplessly they may not love at all,
Yet cannot live without love's counterfeit.
URANIA.
But how could you forsake her, when her life—
FORTUNATUS.
Forsake her? Nay, you wrong me. It was she
Who left me, claiming marriage, having no claim
Through guile, or guilt, or promises of mine;
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The force of my refusal when she might
Sue at my heart with April in her arms.
She died,—a mother; and Abaddon laid—
So he avouches—April in the wood,
With purpose—fair or fiendish, who shall say?—
That you should foster her. How came he thus
To tamper with my fate, I did not learn;
For, just as I was probing him for more,
The moonlight madcap vanished in the chase,
Astride of one of its unbitted colts,
And, though on him I pressed with leaning speed,
In winding of the ways I lost his trail,
And tell a gaping story,—withal true.
URANIA.
Never did pity tell a sadder tale.
Peace to the dead! forgiveness to the living!
Forgiveness, and compassion.
FORTUNATUS.
Sister mine!
Nay, foster-wife, for April's foster-mother,
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Our lives so fondly. What is it you read?
[He takes the book from her.]
Where did you get this volume?
URANIA.
From Abaddon.
I bought it from his pack, three summers since,
Just as my nature budded to receive
Its sunshine and its dew, its wandering winds
Of music and of magic, light and shade
Of solemn joy and hopeful sorrowing,
The poet's message, comforting the sad,
Admonishing the happy. From that hour,
Its thoughts enrich my poverty, its verse
Grafts on my growth a glory not my own.
FORTUNATUS.
Know you who wrote it?
URANIA.
If I knew but that,
Then—nay, 'tis better that I should not know.
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But ask me nothing further. What I know,
I told last night. Forgive me! but my heart
Irrevocably is to him betrothed
Who first unsealed my nature through this book.
FORTUNATUS.
'Twas I that wrote it!
URANIA.
Is it true?
FORTUNATUS.
As true
As time and as remembrance! ay, as true,
Urania, as your heart, and as my love!
SCENE II
[Three days later.]FRANKLIN.
Yes, I have pondered deeply, and the last
Conclusion of reflection but confirms
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Reluctant shall I quit this narrow plot,
Long co-extensive with the world, and leave
You and Urania, wedded, to maintain
Its shy felicity. Duties there are,
Imposed upon the Present by the Past,
And not to be foregone. I see that, now;
And them I will discharge, for they are mine,
Till time shall come they will in turn be yours.
Prepare for them by labour, by disdain
Of accidental splendour, by faith, hope,
Love, constancy, and joy in simple joys.
But, above all, foster Humility.
For Pessimism, latest, lewdest birth
Of Pride of Life and Lust of the Flesh—
FORTUNATUS.
How strange!
Abaddon arrogated those twin names
In many a mocking utterance.
FRANKLIN.
Then he was
An honest Devil.
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But do you conceive
Him other than a pedlar?
FRANKLIN.
Who shall say?
Voices there are, and spectres plausible,
Fantastic simulations suddenly flashed
From the retentive Underworld, and they
Who own these not have but imperfect senses.
Demon or pedlar, he proclaimed a truth
By his self-christening. Therefore, kinsman dear,
Before you lead Urania to her hearth,
Wend with her meekly to the village Church,
And, stooping low, pass through the little door,
Door of Humility, that April named,
And kneel, as others kneel, the poor, the simple,
And celebrate your nuptials even as they.
That which we know, tenaciously must be,
Tenaciously if meekly, not forsworn.
But the Unknown deny not, and revere
The circumambient mystery that inspires
With kindly curtain our foreshadowing dreams,
And, when in individual darkness, seek
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Is it not plain the experienced Past must be
Wiser than any Present, and mankind
Surer than you or I? My Mother strove,
With love, with admonition, with reproof,
To make me humble, and alas! in vain.
Life has enforced the lesson. ... But I keep you.
Urania beckons from the casement. Go.
SCENE III
[Urania's chamber.]URANIA
(to APRIL).
Sweet! he is here, and wants to talk with you.
APRIL.
Then, now we can take the swarm. A swarm in
May, a swarm—But you have not brought the
beanstalk, Urania; so grand-dad will have to take
it. I don't like that story; it's too sad. But they
can sip the honeyed wine. What a dear beautiful
Queen! Poor leper!
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Thus do the equitable hours avenge
Our wayward purposes, just as we scan
Their true-appointed goal! She does not know me.
URANIA.
Love! it is he you sent for, he that laid
Your cheek against his cheek upon the wain,
And told you pretty stories.
APRIL.
This is not broken meat; these are myrtles. What
a wicked king! The bees are in your hair, Urania;
and yet I limed the hive with hydromel. When will
he come again?
FORTUNATUS.
See! I am here; and never to depart.
You know me, do you not?
APRIL.
Yes, a most lovely lady. Suppose they were to
slay you? Is my new frock ready, Urania? Because,
you know, he is coming.
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Thus did she wail and wander through the night.
[Taking April in her arms.]
Nay, let me try to lullaby her tongue.
Sleep, angel! sleep!
FORTUNATUS.
Alas! there is no ditty,
No note nor incantation of despair,
Can rock her random musings. ... Now, you know me?
APRIL.
Yes, dear grand-dad. If you love me, stay in
Heaven, and shine above me. Now we have housed
them snug and warm, have we not? Urania, read
from that pretty book about the stars.
URANIA.
Your book, she means; the volume that betrothed,
With its premonitory spell, my life
Insensibly to yours. She loves to hear
Verse that she understands not.
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Is that sure?
Haply she apprehends what you who read,
And I who wrote, farther from Heaven than she,
Miss of its meaning.
APRIL.
But we must sing it, all together, you know. Shall
I begin? When the ladysmocks have faded. I
forget the rest. O, I remember now!
Now the April days are over!
FORTUNATUS.
See! now she sleeps.
URANIA.
Only to wake in Heaven!
END OF ACT III
| Fortunatus the Pessimist | |