University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

Denise's Apartment.
Enter Denise.
Den.
It is the time; had but this solid earth
A capable sense of peril, it should melt
And all disjoint itself; the builded shape of things
Should turn to waste and air. It is as strange
As is this perilous intent, that men
Should live so evenly to-night; talk, move,
Use contemplation of all common times,
Speak foolishly, make no more haste to sleep
Than other days they do; I have not seen
A man to-day seem graver in the mouth,
Wear slowness on his feet, look sideways out,
Make new the stuff and subject of his speech,
Reason of things, matter of argument,
For such a business. I see death is not feared,
Only the circumstance and clothes of death;
Or else men do not commune more with time
Nor have its purpose in them larger writ
Than a beast has. Why, I did surely think
Such ill foreknowledge would have mastered me
Quite beyond reason; wrenched my sense away,
Brought it to dull default. But I do live and stir;
Have reasonable breath within my lips:
Keep my brain sound, and all my settled blood
Runs the right way. Perhaps I sleep and dream
That such things are as my fear dotes upon.
Why then I should be mad; and being mad
I might hold sound opinion of my wit
When it were truly flawed. If I not dream
And have no passionate mixture in my brain,
Large massacre to-night should fill itself
With slaughtered blood and the live price of men.
Why this? forsooth because of that and that,
For this man's tongue and that man's beard or gait,
For some rank slip of their opinion.
I see full reason why men slay for hate,
But for opinion or slack accident
I get no cause at all. Then I am mad
That I do think what works so much awry
And is past reason so, the natural sense
Doth sicken in receiving it for news,
To be the absolute act and heart of truth.
I will not credit this. Yet wherefore am I
So used as prisoner here? why taxed with sin?
Why watched and kept so hard? called murderess?
I'll be assured of it. You gaoler, you—
And yet I am afraid to call her forth.
O, she is come.

Enter Yolande.
Yol.
Did you not call for me?

Den.
I think I did cry out, being moved in sleep:
I had a dream of you.

Yol.
Ay, had you so?
And I had set a waking thought on you.

Den.
What time is it?

Yol.
Just hard upon eleven.

Den.
I have slept four hours. I pray you tell me now,
As you are gentle—I do love you much—
Is it my dream I am a prisoner?

Yol.
Did you not call me gaoler?

Den.
True, I did.
Now I begin to patch my dream again
And find the colours right. I dreamed I was
Some sort of evil beast that loved a man
And the man's heel did bruise it in the neck.

Yol.
Take heed of it; you were a snake by this.

Den.
I do not know; it may be such I was.
I dreamed of you too; for you took me up
And hid me in a cage and gave me food—
I think I was a kind of dismal bird—
And having eaten of your seed and drunk
Water more sharp than blood, I waxed all through
Into a dull disease of overgrowth
And so was choked to death; and men there came
That roasted me for food, and having eaten
All suddenly did break in twain and die.
That was the dream.

Yol.
It was a foolish one.

Den.
Then I fell back to dream of one like you
Who held me prisoner; which was dangerous;
For I, being grown to mad rebellion,
Took thought to kill you.

Yol.
That dream was not so good.

Den.
Why do I say all this? Let me get hence,
Only the little part in heaven I have
I'll kill myself; nay, by God's name I will.

Yol.
Do your own way.

Den.
You shall be taxed with it,
(As I, more harmless, am) being guard of me;
I will find ways to leave the tax on you.

Yol.
Pleasure yourself; I bid you not refrain.

Den.
It is a most poor mercy that I ask.

Yol.
Too much for me.

Den.
O, it is less in worth
Than God spares barest men; the most base need on earth
Is richer in his pity than you are
In charitable use of me, who am
Too little for your scorns.

Yol.
I will not do it.

Den.
Some prayers, long while denied, are sweeter held
For being late granted; do not so with mine;
I will be thankful more than beggars are,
Made rich with grant too soon.

Yol.
Plead not to me;
I have no patience in my ears for you.

Den.
Think how you use me; even kings do leave
Some liberty to the worst worm alive,
Some piece of mercy; but you, more hard than kings,
Show no such grace as the great gaolers do
That wear at waist the keys of the world. You know
'Tis better be whole beggar and have flesh
That is but pinched by weather out of breath,
Than a safe slave with happy blood i' the cheek
And wrists ungalled. There's nothing in the world
So worth as freedom; pluck this freedom out,
You leave the rag and residue of man
Like a bird's back displumed. That man that hath not
The freedom of his name, and cannot make
Such use as time and place would please him with,
But has the clog of service at his heel
Forbidding the sound gait; this is no man
But a man's dog; the pattern of a slave
Is model for a beast.

Yol.
What do you mean by this?

Den.
To show you what unworthy pain it is
Your office lays on me.

Yol.
It is my place;
My faith is taken to assure you thus,
And you have bought such usage at my hands
By your own act.

Den.
No, by your life, I have not.

Yol.
You are impeached and must abide the proof.

Den.
The proof—ay, proof; do, put me to the proof.
There is not proof enough upon me known
To stop a needle's bore. The man now dead
I held my friend, was sorry for his death,
Not pricked for guilt of it. Poor fool, I would
That I had borrowed such a death of him
And left him better times to boot than do
Keep company with me.

Yol.
I would you had.
Were one no better dead than stained so much?
I think so; for myself, in such a scale
The weights were easy to make choice of.

Den.
I would not die.

Yol.
Did you not say his share were easier borne?

Den.
'Tis like I said so; yet I would live long.

Yol.
Why would you so? is there such grace in you
To wear out all the bar and thwart of time
And take smooth place again? The life you have,
Like a blown candle held across the wind,
Dies in the use of it; you are not loved,
Or love would kiss out shame from either cheek,
New-join the broken patience in your eyes,
Comfort the pain of your so scarred repute
Where the brand aches on it; honoured you are not,
For the loud breath of many-mouthed esteem
Cries harsher on you than on common thieves
When they filch life and all; you are not secure,
For the most thin divisions of a day
That score the space between two breaths, to you
Are perilous implements edged with all hate
To use upon your life; you are not happy either,
For guilty, shame doth bruise your side with lead,
Or clean, why rumour stabs you in the face,
Spits in your mouth. What sweet is in this life
That you would live upon?

Den.
I do not know;
But I would live; though all things else be sharp,
Death stays more bitter than them all; I would not
Touch lips with death.

Yol.
No? I have no such doubt.

Den.
Is it your place to make me friends with death?

Yol.
It is my pity.

Den.
I should find it so
Were I the cushion for a fool's feet, or
A fool indeed of yours.

Yol.
I called you none.

Den.
I were the bell i' the worst fool's cap alive
If I rang right to this wrong breath of yours.
You talk to get me harmed.

Yol.
Put off that fear.

Den.
I will not, truly; you would talk me out,
Be rid of me this whispering way, this fashion
That pulls on death by the ear; I feel your wisdom;
'Tis craft thick-spun, but I shall ravel it.

Yol.
This is your garment that you thrust me in.

Den.
It must not be so late; there will be time;
I was a fool to call it over late.
Give up your keys.

Yol.
What madness bites you now?

Den.
She called you gaoler; give me up the keys;
You have the keys; the outer door is fast;
If this be madness I am friends with it;
Give me the keys.

Yol.
Will you put hands on me?

Den.
I'll have them out, though God would make you man
To use me forcibly.

Yol.
I have none such;
Threaten me not, or you shall smite yourself.

Den.
I say, the keys.

Yol.
What will you do to me?

Den.
Keep there, you get not out.

Yol.
Are you stark crazed?

Den.
It may look like enough. What chain is that?
Give me the chain.

Yol.
I swear I have them not.

Den.
I do not ask for them. Give me the chain;
Pray you now, do; good truth you are not wise
To use me so; I know you have no keys.
Give me the chain; soft, soft—

Yol.
Here are the keys.
Take them and let me pass.

Den.
I thank you, no;
If I be mad I must do warily,
Or they will trap me. Get you into my chamber;
Now am I twice the sinew of all you
And twice as wise. I say, get in; God's love!
How you do pull my patience! in sound wits
It were too hard to bear. Make haste, I say.

[Exeunt severally.