University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

Scene I.

—Whitehall.
Hollis, Lady Carlisle.
Hollis.
Tell the King then! Come in with me!

Lady Carlisle.
Not so!
He must not hear till it succeeds.

Hollis.
Succeed?
No dream was half so vain—you'd rescue Strafford
And outwit Pym! I cannot tell you . . . lady,
The block pursues me, and the hideous show.
To-day . . . is it to-day? And all the while
He's sure of the King's pardon. Think, I have
To tell this man he is to die. The King
May rend his hair, for me! I'll not see Strafford!

Lady Carlisle.
Only, if I succeed, remember—Charles
Has saved him. He would hardly value life
Unless his gift. My staunch friends wait. Go in—
You must go in to Charles!

Hollis.
And all beside
Left Strafford long ago. The King has signed
The warrant for his death! the Queen was sick
Of the eternal subject. For the Court,—
The Trial was amusing in its way,
Only too much of it: the Earl withdrew
In time. But you, fragile, alone, so young
Amid rude mercenaries—you devise
A plan to save him! Even though it fails,
What shall reward you?

Lady Carlisle.
I may go, you think,
To France with him? And you reward me, friend,
Who lived with Strafford even from his youth
Before he set his heart on state-affairs
And they bent down that noble brow of his.
I have learned somewhat of his latter life,
And all the future I shall know: but, Hollis,
I ought to make his youth my own as well.
Tell me,—when he is saved!

Hollis.
My gentle friend,
He should know all and love you, but't is vain!

Lady Carlisle.
Love? no—too late now! Let him love the King!
'T is the King's scheme! I have your word, remember!
We'll keep the old delusion up. But, quick!
Quick! Each of us has work to do, beside!
Go to the King! I hope—Hollis—I hope!
Say nothing of my scheme! Hush, while we speak
Think where he is! Now for my gallant friends!

Hollis.
Where he is? Calling wildly upon Charles,
Guessing his fate, pacing the prison-floor.
Let the King tell him! I'll not look on Strafford.

Scene II.

—The Tower.
Strafford sitting with his Children. They sing.
Children.
O bell' andare
Per barca in mare,
Verso la sera
Di Primavera!

William.

Anne.
But you should sleep, father: you were to sleep.

Strafford.
I do sleep, Anne; or if not—you must know
There's such a thing as . . .

William.
You're too tired to sleep?

Strafford.
It will come by-and-by and all day long,
In that old quiet house I told you of:
We sleep safe there.

Anne.
Why not in Ireland?

Strafford.
No!
Too many dreams!—That song's for Venice, William:
You know how Venice looks upon the map—
Isles that the mainland hardly can let go?

William.
You've been to Venice, father?

Strafford.
I was young, then

William.
A city with no King; that's why I like
Even a song that comes from Venice.

Strafford.
William!

William.
Oh, I know why! Anne, do you love the King?
But I'll see Venice for myself one day.

Strafford.
See many lands, boy—England last of all,—
That way you'll love her best.

William.
Why do men say
You sought to ruin her then?

Strafford.
Ah,—they say that.

William.
Why?

Strafford.
I suppose they must have words to say,
As you to sing.

Anne.
But they make songs beside:
Last night I heard one, in the street beneath,
That called you . . . Oh, the names!

William.
Don't mind her, father!
They soon left off when I cried out to them.

Strafford.
We shall so soon be out of it, my boy!
'T is not worth while: who heeds a foolish song?

William.
Why, not the King.

Strafford.
Well: it has been the fate
Of better; and yet,—wherefore not feel sure
That time, who in the twilight comes to mend
All the fantastic day's caprice, consign
To the low ground once more the ignoble Term,
And raise the Genius on his orb again,—
That time will do me right?

Anne.
(Shall we sing, William?
He does not look thus when we sing.)

Strafford.
For Ireland,
Something is done: too little, but enough
To show what might have been.

William.
(I have no heart
To sing now! Anne, how very sad he looks!
Oh, I so hate the King for all he says!)

Strafford.
Forsook them! What, the common songs will run
That I forsook the People? Nothing more?
Ay, Fame, the busy scribe, will pause, no doubt,
Turning a deaf ear to her thousand slaves
Noisy to be enrolled,—will register
The curious glosses, subtle notices,
Ingenious clearings-up one fain would see
Beside that plain inscription of The Name—
The Patriot Pym, or the Apostate Strafford!

[The Children resume their song timidly, but break off.
Enter Hollis and an Attendant.
Strafford.
No,—Hollis? in good time!—Who is he?

Hollis.
One
That must be present.

Strafford.
Ah—I understand.
They will not let me see poor Laud alone.
How politic! They'd use me by degrees
To solitude: and, just as you came in,
I was solicitous what life to lead
When Strafford's “not so much as Constable
“In the King's service.” Is there any means
To keep oneself awake? What would you do
After this bustle, Hollis, in my place?

Hollis.
Strafford!

Strafford.
Observe, not but that Pym and you
Will find me news enough—news I shall hear
Under a quince-tree by a fish-pond side
At Wentworth. Garrard must be re-engaged
My newsman. Or, a better project now—
What if when all's consummated, and the Saints
Reign, and the Senate's work goes swimmingly,—
What if I venture up, some day, unseen,
To saunter through the Town, notice how Pym,
Your Tribune, likes Whitehall, drop quietly
Into a tavern, hear a point discussed,
As, whether Strafford's name were John or James—
And be myself appealed to—I, who shall
Myself have near forgotten!

Hollis.
I would speak . . .

Strafford.
Then you shall speak,—not now. I want just now,
To hear the sound of my own tongue. This place
Is full of ghosts.

Hollis.
Nay, you must hear me, Strafford!

Strafford.
Oh, readily! Only, one rare thing more,—
The minister! Who will advise the King,
Turn his Sejanus, Richelieu and what not,
And yet have health—children, for aught I know—
My patient pair of traitors! Ah,—but, William—
Does not his cheek grow thin?

William.
'T is you look thin,
Father!

Strafford.
A scamper o'er the breezy wolds
Sets all to-rights.

Hollis.
You cannot sure forget
A prison-roof is o'er you, Strafford?

Strafford.
No,
Why, no. I would not touch on that, the first.
I left you that. Well, Hollis? Say at once,
The King can find no time to set me free!
A mask at Theobald's?

Hollis.
Hold: no such affair
Detains him.

Strafford.
True: what needs so great a matter?
The Queen's lip may be sore. Well: when he pleases,—
Only, I want the air: it vexes flesh
To be pent up so long.

Hollis.
The King—I bear
His message, Strafford: pray you, let me speak!

Strafford.
Go, William! Anne, try o'er your song again!
[The Children retire.
They shall be loyal, friend, at all events.
I know your message: you have nothing new
To tell me: from the first I guessed as much.
I know, instead of coming here himself,
Leading me forth in public by the hand,
The King prefers to leave the door ajar
As though I were escaping—bids me trudge
While the mob gapes upon some show prepared
On the other side of the river! Give at once
His order of release! I've heard, as well
Of certain poor manœuvres to avoid
The granting pardon at his proper risk;
First, he must prattle somewhat to the Lords,
Must talk a trifle with the Commons first,
Be grieved I should abuse his confidence,
And far from blaming them, and . . . Where's the order?

Hollis.
Spare me!

Strafford.
[Turning to Hollis's Companion.]

Hollis.
Whom forgive,
As one to die!

Strafford.
True, all die, and all need
Forgiveness: I forgive him from my soul.

Hollis.
'T is a world's wonder: Strafford, you must die!

Strafford.
Sir, if your errand is to set me free
This heartless jest mars much. Ha! Tears in truth?
We'll end this! See this paper, warm—feel—warm
With lying next my heart! Whose hand is there?
Whose promise? Read, and loud for God to hear!
“Strafford shall take no hurt”—read it, I say!
“In person, honour, nor estate”—

Hollis.
The King . . .

Strafford.
I could unking him by a breath! You sit
Where Loudon sat, who came to prophesy
The certain end, and offer me Pym's grace
If I'd renounce the King: and I stood firm
On the King's faith. The King who lives . . .

Hollis.
To sign
The warrant for your death.

Strafford
“Put not your trust
“In princes, neither in the sons of men,
“In whom is no salvation!”

Hollis.
Trust in God!
The scaffold is prepared: they wait for you:
He has consented. Cast the earth behind!

Charles.
You would not see me, Strafford, at your foot!
It was wrung from me! Only, curse me not!

Hollis
[to Strafford].
[Voices from within.

Strafford.
You'll be good to those children, sir? I know
You'll not believe her, even should the Queen
Think they take after one they rarely saw.
I had intended that my son should live
A stranger to these matters: but you are
So utterly deprived of friends! He too
Must serve you—will you not be good to him?
Or, stay, sir, do not promise—do not swear!
You, Hollis—do the best you can for me!
I've not a soul to trust to: Wandesford's dead,
And you've got Radcliffe safe, Laud's turn comes next:
I've found small time of late for my affairs,
But I trust any of you, Pym himself—
No one could hurt them: there's an infant, too.
These tedious cares! Your Majesty could spare them.
Nay—pardon me, my King! I had forgotten
Your education, trials, much temptation,
Some weakness: there escaped a peevish word—
'T is gone: I bless you at the last. You know
All's between you and me: what has the world
To do with it? Farewell!

Charles
[at the door].
Balfour! Balfour! Enter Balfour.

The Parliament!—go to them: I grant all
Demands. Their sittings shall be permanent:
Tell them to keep their money if they will:
I'll come to them for every coat I wear
And every crust I eat: only I choose
To pardon Strafford. As the Queen shall choose!
—You never heard the People howl for blood,
Beside!

Balfour.
Your Majesty may hear them now:
The walls can hardly keep their murmurs out:
Please you retire!

Charles.
Take all the troops, Balfour!

Balfour.
There are some hundred thousand of the crowd

Charles.
Come with me, Strafford! You'll not fear, at least!

Strafford.
Balfour, say nothing to the world of this!
I charge you, as a dying man, forget
You gazed upon this agony of one . . .
Of one . . . or if . . . why you may say, Balfour,
The King was sorry: 't is no shame in him:
Yes, you may say he even wept, Balfour,
And that I walked the lighter to the block
Because of it. I shall walk lightly, sir!
Earth fades, heaven breaks on me: I shall stand next
Before God's throne: the moment's close at hand
When man the first, last time, has leave to lay
His whole heart bare before its Maker, leave
To clear up the long error of a life
And choose one happiness for evermore.
With all mortality about me, Charles,
The sudden wreck, the dregs of violent death—
What if, despite the opening angel-song,
There penetrate one prayer for you? Be saved
Through me! Bear witness, no one could prevent
My death! Lead on! ere he awake—best, now!
All must be ready: did you say, Balfour,
The crowd began to murmur? They'll be kept
Too late for sermon at St. Antholin's!
Now! But tread softly—children are at play
In the next room. Precede! I follow—

Enter Lady Carlisle, with many Attendants.
Lady Carlisle.
Me!
Follow me, Strafford, and be saved! The King?
[To the King.]
Well—as you ordered, they are ranged without,
The convoy . . . [seeing the King's state.]
[To Strafford.]

You know all, then! Why, I thought
It looked best that the King should save you,—Charles
Alone; 't is a shame that you should owe me aught.
Or no, not shame! Strafford, you'll not feel shame
At being saved by me?

Hollis.
All true! Oh Strafford,
She saves you! all her deed! this lady's deed!
And is the boat in readiness? You, friend,
Are Billingsley, no doubt. Speak to her, Strafford!
See how she trembles, waiting for your voice!
The world's to learn its bravest story yet.

Lady Carlisle.
Talk afterward! Long nights in France enough,
To sit beneath the vines and talk of home.

Strafford.
You love me, child? Ah, Strafford can be loved
As well as Vane! I could escape, then?

Lady Carlisle.
Haste!
Advance the torches, Bryan!

Strafford.
I will die.
They call me proud: but England had no right,
When she encountered me—her strength to mine—
To find the chosen foe a craven. Girl,
I fought her to the utterance, I fell,
I am her's now, and I will die. Beside,
The lookers-on! Eliot is all about
This place, with his most uncomplaining brow.

Lady Carlisle.
Strafford!

Strafford.
I think if you could know how much
I love you, you would be repaid, my friend!

Lady Carlisle.
Then, for my sake!

Strafford.
Even for your sweet sake,
I stay.

Hollis.
For their sake!

Strafford.
To bequeath a stain?
Leave me! Girl, humour me and let me die!

Lady Carlisle.
Bid him escape—wake, King! Bid him escape!

Strafford.
True, I will go! Die, and forsake the King?
I'll not draw back from the last service.

Lady Carlisle.
Strafford!

Strafford.
And, after all, what is disgrace to me?
Let us come, child! That it should end this way!
Lead then! but I feel strangely: it was not
To end this way.

Lady Carlisle.
Lean—lean on me!

Strafford.
My King!
Oh, had he trusted me—his friend of friends!

Lady Carlisle.
I can support him, Hollis!

Strafford.
Not this way!
This gate—I dreamed of it, this very gate.

Lady Carlisle.
It opens on the river: our good boat
Is moored below, our friends are there.

Strafford.
The same:
Only with something ominous and dark,
Fatal, inevitable.

Lady Carlisle.
Strafford! Strafford!

Strafford.
Not by this gate! I feel what will be there!
I dreamed of it, I tell you: touch it not!

Lady Carlisle.
To save the King,—Strafford, to save the King!

[As Strafford opens the door, Pym is discovered with Hampden, Vane, etc. Strafford falls back; Pym follows slowly and confronts him.
Pym.
Have I done well? Speak, England! Whose sole sake
I still have laboured for, with disregard
To my own heart,—for whom my youth was made
Barren, my manhood waste, to offer up
Her sacrifice—this friend, this Wentworth here—
Who walked in youth with me, loved me, it may be,
And whom, for his forsaking England's cause,
I hunted by all means (trusting that she
Would sanctify all means) even to the block
Which waits for him. And saying this, I feel
No bitterer pang than first I felt, the hour
I swore that Wentworth might leave us, but I
Would never leave him: I do leave him now.
I render up my charge (be witness, God!)
To England who imposed it. I have done
Her bidding—poorly, wrongly,—it may be,
With ill effects—for I am weak, a man:
Still, I have done my best, my human best,
Not faltering for a moment. It is done.
And this said, if I say . . . yes, I will say
I never loved but one man—David not
More Jonathan! Even thus, I love him now:
And look for my chief portion in that world
Where great hearts led astray are turned again,
(Soon it may be, and, certes, will be soon:
My mission over, I shall not live long,)—
Ay, here I know I talk—I dare and must,
Of England, and her great reward, as all
I look for there; but in my inmost heart,
Believe, I think of stealing quite away
To walk once more with Wentworth—my youth's friend
Purged from all error, gloriously renewed,
And Eliot shall not blame us. Then indeed . . .
This is no meeting, Wentworth! Tears increase
Too hot. A thin mist—is it blood?—enwraps
The face I loved once. Then, the meeting be!

Strafford.
I have loved England too; we'll meet then, Pym.
As well die now! Youth is the only time
To think and to decide on a great course:
Manhood with action follows; but't is dreary,
To have to alter our whole life in age—
The time past, the strength gone! As well die now.
When we meet, Pym, I'd be set right—not now!
Best die. Then if there's any fault, fault too
Dies, smothered up. Poor grey old little Laud
May dream his dream out, of a perfect Church,
In some blind corner. And there's no one left.
I trust the King now wholly to you, Pym!
And yet, I know not: I shall not be there:
Friends fail—if he have any. And he's weak,
And loves the Queen, and . . . Oh, my fate is nothing—
Nothing! But not that awful head—not that!

Pym.
If England shall declare such will to me . . .

Strafford.
Pym, you help England! I, that am to die,
What I must see! 't is here—all here! My God,
Let me but gasp out, in one word of fire,
How thou wilt plague him, satiating hell!
What? England that you help, become through you
A green and putrefying charnel, left
Our children . . . some of us have children, Pym—
Some who, without that, still must ever wear
A darkened brow, an over-serious look,
And never properly be young! No word?
What if I curse you? Send a strong curse forth
Clothed from my heart, lapped round with horror till
She's fit with her white face to walk the world
Scaring kind natures from your cause and you—
Then to sit down with you at the board-head,
The gathering for prayer . . . O speak, but speak!
. . . Creep up, and quietly follow each one home,
You, you, you, be a nestling care for each
To sleep with,—hardly moaning in his dreams,
She gnaws so quietly,—till, lo he starts,
Gets off with half a heart eaten away!
Oh, shall you 'scape with less if she's my child?
You will not say a word—to me—to Him?

Pym.
If England shall declare such will to me . . .

Strafford.
No, not for England now, not for Heaven now,—
See, Pym, for my sake, mine who kneel to you!
There, I will thank you for the death, my friend!
This is the meeting: let me love you well!

Pym.
England,—I am thine own! Dost thou exact
That service? I obey thee to the end.

Strafford.
O God, I shall die first—I shall die first!