University of Virginia Library

Scene VIII.

—A Bed-chamber, dimly lighted. Orval, Physician, Nurse, and Kinsmen as before. Muriel asleep.
First Kinsman.
Hush! Listen!

Second Kinsman.
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
The empire of my soul? Ye? I defy ye!
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,
“Look if our little lord (the Saints preserve him!)
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,
Where only here and there the hidden sun
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
Shatter'd! Is no place safe from them? Ah me,
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
Developed, as we find it here, my lord,
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.

Muriel.
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.

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).
(Burns the letter in the candle.)

The Nurse.
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.