University of Virginia Library

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).
(Lifts up the trap-door—looks down, and closes it again with a sigh.)
(A distant clock strikes.)
(Looking down the ladder.)
(A youth, meanly clad, enters by the ladder, which the Modern Brutus draws up, closing the aperture.)

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,
Greater the glory . . . great if thou succeed,
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?

Modern Brutus.
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
Of most ignoble men with noble names
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?

Modern Brutus.
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
The Majesty of Law—that was their phrase—
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;
He brought her pardon . . . she was free! O Brother,
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
The field be furrow'd. I that never knelt
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.)
Panurge
(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.
This blood shall not be on it. States and thrones,
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?

Modern Brutus.
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?
That's all. That's what we must annihilate.
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?