 | The Curfew |  |
39
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
A Room in the Baron's Castle.(Enter Fitzharding followed by the Baron.)
Fitz.
The place you say is private?
Bar.
Still as night.—
Fitz.
Where sight nor sound, save of ourselves
alone, can find admission?
Bar.
'Tis an hallow'd spot,
Which I have chosen for the burial place
Of all my future race.
Fitz.
It will do well.
Bar.
There, when the turmoil of my brain is o'er,
And all my senses lie benumb'd in death,
I shall sleep soundly.
Fitz.
Ay, and quickly too. (Aside.)
Bar.
There too my wife,—for I have raised to her
As proud a monument as art could fashion,—
Instead of the vast ocean's stormy bed,
Should in the silent confines of cold marble
Have crumbled quietly.
Fitz.
It is a place
Meet for our bus'ness—when the bell hath toll'd,
We will repair to that sequester'd spot,
Where, under Heav'n's attesting eye alone,
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You are a man again.
Bar.
Accomplish that,
And name your recompense.
Fitz.
For shame! my Lord,
A pious act remunerates itself:
Or if it did not, my reward is fix'd
Beyond the utmost reach of human pow'r
To give or take away. (Music without.)
Bar.
What sounds are these?
Fitz.
Minstrels, if I may guess.
Enter Vassal.
Vass.
Three vagrant Harpers,
Who carry in their looks long fast and travel,
Beg for refreshment, and a night's repose.
Bar.
We are engaged—go give them food and drink,
And speed them on their journey.
Fitz.
Nay, my Lord,
Do not, however weightily inclined,
Forget the laws of hospitality:
They are a people, harmless at the worst,
And often entertaining; and they claim,
From long establish'd custom, as their charter,
Such entertainments, as the truly great
Bestow on humble ingenuity.
I pray you give them audience.
Bar.
Be it so.
[Exit Vassal.
Fitz.
They are the only records of the time,
And many a sad and merry chronicle,
Worthy the note of all posterity,
But for the kindling spirit of their strings,
Would sleep for ever in oblivion.
Enter the three Robbers disguised as Minstrels.
From what country, friends?
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From the North, father.
Fitz.
Whither bound?
1st Min.
For that
We trust to fortune—but the day being spent,
We would your debtors be; for a night's lodging
Such minstrelsy as our rude skill can touch
Shall be your thanks.
Bar.
'Tis well—we listen to you.
GLEE (Minstrels.)
Hark! the Curfew's solemn sound
Silent darkness spreads around,
Heavy it beats on the lover's heart,
Who leaves with a sigh, his tale half told.
The poring monk and his book must part;
And fearful the miser locks his gold.
Now whilst labour sleeps, and charmed sorrow;
O'er the dewy green,
By the glow-worm's light,
Dance the elves of night,
Unheard, unseen.
Yet where their midnight pranks have been
The circled turf will betray to-morrow.
Bar.
They have perform'd it with no vulgar
taste or common execution—
[Enter Vassal.
Well, what now?
Vass.
The woman whom you sent for is
without, and waits your further orders.
Bar.
Bring her before us— (Exit Vassal.)
Stand back a while.
[To the Minstrels.
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We'll task you further.
[Minstrels retire up the stage.
'Tis the prophetess,
Whom you, no doubt, have heard of.
Fitz.
—Tho' not giv'n
To note the fleeting rumours of the time,
Some strange and wild reports of such a person
Have reach'd our convent.
[Matilda is brought in.
Bar.
Now observe her then.
Woman, stand forth and answer to our charge.
The universal cry is loud against you
For practis'd witchcraft—the consuming plagues
Of murrain, blight, and mildew, that make vain
The peasant's labour, blasting his full hopes,
Are laid to your account—they charge moreover
Your skill in noxious herbs, and ev'ry weed
Of pois'nous growth, the teeming earth is rank with
Fatal to man and beast—that these collecting
By the full moon with wicked industry,
You do apply to hellish purposes;
To shrink up the sound limb, and with a touch
Plant wrinkles on the blooming cheek of youth.
This is not all—they urge most vehemently
That you usurp the night's solemnity
For deeds of darkness, horrible to think of!
That when the yawning church-yards vomit forth
The griesly troops of fiends, that haunt the night,
You have been heard to mutter mischief with them,
Dancing around a pile of dead men's bones
To your own howling, and with hideous yells
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How answer you to this?
Mat.
That it is false.
Fitz.
You answer boldly, woman.
Mat.
Holy father,
I answer with the voice of innocence,
That I enjoy the silent hour of night,
And shun the noisy tumult of the day,
Prize the pale moon beyond the solar blaze,
And choose to meditate while others sleep.
If these are crimes I am most culpable.
For, from the inmost feeling of my soul,
I love the awful majesty sublime
Of Nature in her stillness—To o'erlook,
Fixt on some bleak and barren promontory,
The wide interminable waste of waves;
To gaze upon the star wrought firmament
Till mine eyes ache with wonder—these are joys
I gather undisturb'd—The day's delights
I am proscrib'd, and if I venture forth
To taste the morning's freshness, I am star'd at
As one of nature's strangest prodigies.
At my unmeasur'd step, and rude attire,
The speechless babe is taught to point the finger,
And unbreech'd urchins hoot me as I pass,
And drive me to the shelter of my cottage.
The very dogs are taught to bark at me!
But to your charge: I am accused, most wrongly
Of having both the faculty and will
T'infest the earth with plagues, and man with sickness—
Of holding converse with superior beings:—
Why, what a mockery of sense is this?
It is the wildest stuff of folly's dreams,
That I, possessing super human pow'r,
Should thus submit to human agency,
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Stand to be judg'd by man!
Fitz.
That's shrewdly put—
This is no common woman. (to the Baron)
Bar.
Hear her further.
Mat.
Yet have I not consum'd the lapse of time
In fruitless musing—something I can do,
Of mine own pow'r—for other I have none,
Of which the mention may create a smile,
A sneering smile of infidel contempt,
But whose performance would convert you all
Into the bloodless forms of staring statues.
Have you a dear departed relative,
A buried friend, still living in your hearts,
Whom in their earthly and corporeal state
You would behold again?
Bar.
Woman, beware!
Mat.
Thy wife, shall I revive her? Speak!
Bar.
Away!
Mat.
Be she in Heav'n or Hell, I'll bring her to thee—
Scatter'd throughout the ocean, I'll reknit
Her sea-bleach'd bones, put living flesh upon them,
Light up her eyeless sockets with twin stars,
Bid the warm blood rush thro' her kindling veins,
And her heart beat with new created life;
A breathing woman she shall stand before thee,
And thou, in freezing horror and amazement,
Shalt look more like a corse unshrouded.
Fitz.
Nay, my Lord—
You let the wild words of this foolish beldam
Take too strong a hold upon you.
Mat.
I have promis'd, Sir,
And to the very height of expectation
I will fulfil my pledge. (They bring in Florence.)
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Who have you there?
Vass.
A lad whom we found lurking at the cottage
Fitz.
'Tis time to end this foolery. (Aside.)
Bar.
Speak, boy:
What led you to the dwelling of that woman?
Flor.
I had heard mention of her wond'rous skill
In divination, and I sorely long'd
To put her to the proof—for I myself
Can tell of things to come—command that no one
Stir from this spot, till I have told my story.
Fitz.
What can this mean (aside)
, My Lord? you will not hear him;
He hath confess'd himself to be inspir'd,
Which, by the tenor of the law, is death.
Flor.
Forbear a moment, I will tell you that
Shall make your blood start back upon your heart,
And all your senses pause entranced with wonder—
To night, to-night—
Bar.
What will befal to-night?
Flor.
Nay at this moment, a foul plot is hatching,
Whose birth will be the death of all thine house.
Thy Castle walls, breaking their peaceful silence,
E'er the cock crow, will shriek to rape and murder.
I say this very hour, almost before
The bell of night breaks off the gossip's tale,
A fierce banditti will besiege your Castle—
Look to the Northern gate, for there they'll enter,
Fitz.
Peace, beardiess prophet!—I will hear no more—
46
A miserable waste of precious time,
And an enormous blasphemy against reason,
To listen to the lunatic discourse
Of this audacious boy.
Flor.
Why, holy father,
I didn't say thy cloak conceal'd a villain,
Tho' saintly outsides sometimes mask foul hearts;
But for those minstrels yonder, you will find
They are not what they seem.
Bar.
Search them. (They strip off the Robbers disguise.)
Fitz.
All's lost. (Aside.)
Curse on the hag, how narrowly she eyes me.
(Observing Matilda looking at him.)
Mat.
Some villain, on my life (Aside.)
Flor.
What think you now, Sir?
(To Fitzharding.)
Fitz.
I am struck mute with wonder.
Mat.
(Aside.)
With strong guilt.
(They bring forward the Robbers.)
Bar.
Speak, wretches, or the torture shall wring from ye
Who, and what you are.
1st Rob.
Let your prophet tell you; 'tis bad
policy when rogues betray each other, but he
must be a fool indeed that turns evidence against
himself.
2d Rob.
That we come upon no charitable design
our present appearance speaks—that's all the
information you'll get from me.
3d Rob.
Or from me.
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Take them away, and watch them carefully.
[The Robbers are carried off.
What have you more to tell us?
[To Florence.
Flor.
Nothing, Sir,
Bar.
How!
Flor.
For your safety I have said enough.
Should I more circumstantially relate
The means which have possess'd me of this secret
I may betray myself—urge me no further:
What I have said will happen—My tir'd spirits
Have need of rest.
Bar.
(to Vassals)
Attend, and wait his bidding.
Flor.
One thing I had forgot—amongst the band
That will beset your Castle, there is one
A tall fresh-colour'd youth, his curling hair
Black as the raven, but the truest mark
That shall denote him to you, is a scar
On his right cheek.
Mat.
My son! (Aside.)
Flor.
Upon your lives
Touch not a hair of him. As you would shun
The pangs of deep contrition, and remorse
Indelible: have mercy on that youth.
You shall know more hereafter.
[Exit. with Vassals.
Bar.
Is't not strange? (to Fitzharding.)
Fitz.
Most wonderful—that may recover all.
(Aside.)
Bar.
There must be something in it. For this woman,
Whom vulgar clamour only hath accus'd,
And no particular grievance, she is free.
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Touching my skill to raise again the dead,
You shall have full conviction.
Bar.
Well, to-morrow.
Mat.
Perhaps to-night.
This priest and I must have some conference.
(Aside.)
[Exit with Vassals.
Bar.
To night? what can she mean?
Fitz.
Some things I've studied,
But I profess not to interpret woman.
Bar.
I am confounded with these mysteries.
Fitz.
Why 'tis a night of riddles—Tho' not apt
To trust foreboding tales of dreaming wizards,
And quake myself into an ague-fit,
When toothless hags have mumbled prophecies
I cannot chuse but wonder.
Bar.
'Tis most clear
Some foul play is intended.
Fitz.
I'm afraid so.
Bar.
I'll have those minstrels rack'd until the truth
Be forc'd from their keen tortures.
Fitz.
Hold, my Lord—
No doubt they have deserv'd the sharpest justice—
But they are stubborn villains, men of steel
Who with clench'd teeth will smile at your inflictions,
And mock your bloody executioner.
Or if they should confess, can you believe them?
Truth is not to be torn from tortur'd limbs;
Its dwelling is the heart, and he who knows
Deepest to sound the heart, has found the key to't.
49
Desp'rate as savage beasts in their wild courses,
Dead to all punishment of pain or shame,
Who in a dark and solitary cell,
Whence stern reflection will not be shut out,
And the persuasive rhetorick of the church,
Have felt compunction creep upon their natures,
And melting into penitence and shame,
Unbosom'd all their guilt?—Such men are these:
Leave them to my discretion—presently
I'll bring you the full scope of their intents,
Or else the wide spread fame I have acquir'd
For holy influence o'er the minds of men
Is built on no foundation—
Bar.
You shall try them.
Fitz.
I'll touch their conscience to the quick, depend on't;
There is a sacred something here within,
Whispers a prosperous issue.
Bar.
Speed you well—
I will but give directions to my vassals,
And here attend you.
Fitz.
You may soon expect me.—
[Exit Baron.
So constant spirits draw safety from their dangers.
Enter Matilda.
This woman still—Your bus'ness?—I'm in haste.
Mat.
No friar art thou.
Fitz.
If not, what is't to thee?
Mat.
It is a lonely spot that you have chosen
For a mysterious work.
50
'Twill suit the purpose.
Mat.
A ruffian hour—what holy purpose is't
That the sun must not look upon?
Fitz.
A deed
That better suits the winking eye of night.
Mat.
Some horrid meaning lives in your dark looks—
I mark'd you at th'unmasking of the minstrels,
It was not mere surprize that shook you thro',
But the strong stir of guilty apprehension,
That trembled in the paleness of your cheek,
And fix'd you horror-struck.
Fitz.
—I am their Captain—
You know me now—but build not upon that—
Your son—
Mat.
What of him?
Fitz.
Safe within my gripe
He pants an easy prey—observe me well:—
We hold him on strong grounds, a recreant traitor
To this night's enterprize, which if it fail—
If by design or chance (no matter which)
Aught lights on me untoward to my hopes,
He dies on the instant.
Mat.
Heavenly powers protect him!
Fitz.
It works as I cou'd wish (aside)
—therefore be wise—
As for this foolish baron and his fate,
'Tis not within the compass of thy spells—
For vainly seeking to enfranchise him,
You will yourself entangle—Keep aloof,
Home to your hovel and your housewif'ry,
And when the bell of night has toll'd his summons,
Peep not abroad—there will be mischief stirring
Which 'twill behove thee better to avoid
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Thy son, remember, he but draws his breath
Whilst I walk harmless.—Home, and be advis'd.
[Exit.
Mat.
Thus on a double precipice I stand,
And either way must fall—Ye sacred guards
Of innocence, some portion of your pow'r
Breathe into me, that something may be done
To save the father, yet preserve the son.
[Exit.
| The Curfew | |