University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

Ethel's Tent.
Violenzia and her Waiting-woman.
W.-wo.
Take comfort.

Vio.
Ay, take comfort! Bid me take
Ice out of fire,—or bid me sleep,—
Or eat,—or die,—what's most impossible
And most to be desired; or bid young peace
On airy winnowing wing visit the earth,
And make her home with me—her sepulchre.
Methinks these eyes should be too eloquent,
And sadder with the saltness of my tears,
Not to persuade you out of that word comfort.
Comfortless comfort!
Will he come back? I do not think he will.
Why, what am I, that any living thing,
And least of all a lover, having power
To move away, should ever turn to me,
Being that thing I am?

W.-wo.
Maybe he'll come again.

Vio.
Maybe! The girl speaks doubtfully.
Base minion! if thou darest even imagine
He will not come again, I'll kill thee.
And yet I wish he would come back again.
I would not ask to touch him—only—only
At his feet to die, that dying I might tell him
How past imagination was my love;
For never once did I in all my life
Tell him how much I loved him.
I love him!
As if a yearning dead man in his grave,
Cold in corruption, should be sensible,
And wish to whisper in a living ear
That yet he loved.
What's this? a sword! Helena,
Whose sword is this?

W.-wo.
Madam, whose should it be,
Unless your lord's?

Vio.
My lord's! Well, well.
Yet once he was my lord. Does the sun shine?

W.-wo.
Ay, madam.

Vio.
Ay, and the moon; grass grows;
Men go about their business, all things move
In the old accustomed circle, and no hinge
Of the great earth creaks; and I!—Oh, the word desolate
Hath lost its meaning in all mouths but mine.
Misery and shame, wretchedness and despair,
Were but the types of that which was to be,
And I, fulfilment. Men shall point at me
In their distresses and their bitterness,
And hug themselves with comfort.

W.-wo.
O my lady!
Such things have been before.

Vio.
I'll not believe it!
Twice such a thing, and the great frame of nature,
Though physical, would have cracked—not borne it.
Ha!
Gone! and his sword left here. That's a shrewd hint.
Is't sharp, Helena?

W.-wo.
'Tis a good sword, I think.

Vio.
Could he have meant it? Prick me, Helena.

W.-wo.
Not I. Indeed I will not.

Vio.
Is it painful?

W.-wo.
No; but blood makes me sick.

Vio.
Sick! I am sick,
Beyond all med'cining but the great physician's,
Death.
O death! O dreams! mortal imaginations,
And spiritual hopes! What things are we,
That, like an infant groping in the dark,
Feel not the edge o' the bed? Bright instrument!
I can unloose with thee the threads which bind me
Unto this mortal state, and go—Oh, whither?
What is the dark that clips us round about,
And the veiled power whose irresistible mood
Plays with our helplessness? What I believed,
Or dreamed I did—the lessons of my childhood—
Are words to me. I stagger and am lost.
Alas! my tongue blasphemes. What shall I do?
I am anchorless, and drift upon the waters.

W.-wo.
What shall I do with it?

Vio.
Give it to me.
I do not think he meant it to that end;
He is compassionate. Oh, if I die,
Shall I behold that face of his again?
Merciful Heaven! be thou pitiful;
I do not say, let me be happy there.
I ask not much, you merciful sweet Heavens;
I have deserved much pain, I will endure.
But only once in many a thousand years
Let me behold his face in bliss serene.
Ah me! ah me!

W.-wo.
Wring not your hands so cruelly,
Unhappy lady.

Vio.
Would I could wring my heart!
Enter Ethel.
He has returned!

Eth.
Have patience, Violenzia.
Go in with me. Dry up these passionate tears.
Great are thy trials, O afflicted child;
But merciful the hand that sent them. Use them
As an obedient infant bitter medicine;
Or the poor dog that yet licks the painful hand
Of his kind surgical master. Shall he have faith,
And we, my Violenzia, that know
Perfect beneficence holds the scales of the world,
Shall we be too much troubled, and forget
It is a Father who thus touches us?
This is not misery, nor any grief
That on the outside lances us is not:
Sin and rebellion, this is misery.

Vio.
I have rebelled, I have rebelled, O Ethel;
But in my passion and my bitterness.
Speak to me, teach me; I will conform my heart—
I will be patient. We, that late were lovers,
May yet be friends; may we not? Say, oh, say,
You do not loathe me.

Eth.
Violenzia!
That honour and that love I have for you,
Deep, deeper than my tongue can signify,
I never will renounce, and when you doubt it,
You wrong yourself and me.

Vio.
Ethel! my Ethel!
These are not bitter tears.

[Exeunt.