 | The Father's Tragedy |  |
9
ACT I.
Scene I.
—Stirling. A Courtyard. Enter King Robert and Allan.King Robert.
A sunny day!
Allan.
Rain will be dew to-night.
King Robert.
A prophet with a voice blows no man good!
How sweet the sunshine presses on my brow,
Gently rebuking wrinkles! There's the warmth
Of a young hand in 't. Here is company—
My brother!
[Enter Albany, Prior, Councillors. Allan withdraws.]
Albany.
Grant us private audience.
King Robert.
I think I hear your words within your face,
It says displeasure plainly. Some new lapse
O' the reckless boy?
Albany.
Would he had ne'er been born
To pay dishonour as the price of life
He drew from regal loins. His folly grows
To sinful ripeness.
1st Councillor.
Which we cannot check.
King Robert.
You who are strong and wise!
2nd Councillor.
In vain, my liege,
Are strength and wisdom; for the prince whose charge
And government you laid upon our love,
10
Against our slightest check; mocks at the vow
That pledged him to our guidance; in our sight
Is boldly riotous and full of jest,
Railing derision, scorn unsuitable.
No pow'r on earth can bend him to the grace
Of honest manners and sobriety.
Prior.
No pow'r on earth! True, true! But from the heavens
Stream counsel and a strength ineffable;
These have been uninvoked. My gracious liege,
Your son is left unfostered by the Church,
A heathen and a heretic.
King Robert.
Your words
Astound my conscience, prior; on my soul,
He goes with me to chapel oft and oft.
Prior.
To mock his God with wandering eyes and lips
That whisper Belial's accents, or the sneers
Of anti-Christ. His thoughts are deadly, vile
With most pernicious modern heresy.
King Robert.
I cannot take his thoughts upon my soul;
His deeds too much afflict it. I must speak
At every moment words of reprimand
That shake my courage; I must ever dread
Some new occasion for my wearied blame;
Oppose reproof to laughter; beat my ease
To hateful effort; tear from off mine eyes
The hood that Love hath made to darken them
From sight of his offence. I cannot take
The other burden of his lawless mind.
Prior.
You are unworthy then to bear the name
That ties the young man's fate upon your care.
You put his education in the hands
Of these strong barons and grave councillors,
Because you fear'd the weakness of your love
Might prove his ruin. Ill you thought; for fear
Prepares not for calamity. These men,
11
And rigid will, confess their discipline
Is brought to scorn, and wherefore? O my liege,
You gave away the office and command
That's natural to your paternity
Through dread, which brought as its accomplishment
The very harm you imaged; for your son
No longer bows to that revered control
Which is the father's blest prerogative.
King Robert.
Was I to blame? His wild, defiant youth
Was motherless, and I, bereft of wife,—
I could not draw stern prompting from her grave
Who loved him with a sacred gentleness
That won his wayward years to her sweet rule.
Our children are her monument, the sign
That once she lived, her epitaph that's writ
On the fair living tablets that she wrought,
My love's memorial and effigy.
Prior.
Keep pure from stain of schism and of sin
These relics—these inscriptions to your love.
King Robert.
I have, I have!
Prior.
But duty, like the sea,
Flows not away, but ever back returns,
Set to the same attempt.
King Robert.
I would the boy
Were like his brother!
Albany.
Pooh, that does not help.
King Robert.
We call our children ours—yet in my son
There's something of a stranger, and 'tis hard
To play the host; he is so much unlike
All that I ever was. I think you spoke.
Albany.
My duty speaks his folly and offence,
Else were I gladly silent.
King Robert.
Albany,
I knew it; 'twas your love and vigilance
That roused my tardy fears.
Albany.
You have an eye
12
To see where carrion stinks; less fortunate,
There's eagle in my ken.
King Robert.
Ah, when you spoke,
I found I knew my son but in a mist.
What's to be done, unless we put his case
Into fair hands?
Albany.
Ha?
King Robert.
Then you've never thought
Of marriage?
Albany.
No.
King Robert.
'Tis thither that I look
With confidence for help, and I am bent
On seizing all within the realm of Hope.
You doubt a last success?
Albany.
I do. Ah, well!
You've found the woman?
King Robert.
No; I lack advice.
Albany.
Leave me to choose; I have a keener sight
For that in human beings over which
Flow action and expression like a stream—
The veiled and solid stuff.
King Robert.
Let's go within—
The sun is hot!—and talk of this at length.
David is so unlike me!
[Noise without.
Albany.
There's his laugh!
Oh, every fool has bells within his mouth!
[Exeunt.
[Enter Rothsay, Ramorgny, Walter, Ralph, Randolph, and others; Huntsmen carrying a stag before them.]
Rothsay.
I'm hungry. Let us dine!
Bear forward to the cook, mine honest friends.
I'll lie upon this golden cloth of light
The sun has thrown upon the ground, and wait
Your festal summons.
[Exeunt Huntsmen.
Walter, couch you here.
Ramorgny here—for every one a place.
13
The friend of every element? Old age
Faints under heat, and trembles in the blast,
Withers with cold, and aches with rainy air;
But sun and wind and ice and storm to us
Are Nature's boon companions. While I think
Of other blessings, Walter, do you praise
King Youth with opening buds about his crown.
Walter
[sings].
Who hath ever given
Cupid's head white hair,
Or hath put our roses
Under the snow's care?
If such fool there be,
We'll cry him God's mercie!
Ralph.
Bravo!
Rothsay.
Good Walt, thy merry voice is dry—
A stream that suffers drought. Let's have a stoup;
We need not wait for dinner.
Randolph.
Nay, I'll go.
[Exit.
Ramorgny.
Ha, ha! Now speak your praise.
Rothsay.
Right joyfully,
For everything is joyful when we're young,
Immediately, fully. To old men
There's no direct and steadfast joyousness
In flow'rs o' spring; they ever see them fade,
Not sharing with them, as we do, the time,
The freshness, the astonishment. In vain
The tide of vintage strives to loose and float
Their moor'd and creaky passions; emulous,
We dip elastic prows in seas far off.
Their bond of friendship is grey Memory;
But ours is golden Hope, which gathers up
A large companionship among ourselves,
And all things in the world, which be it night
Or winter have assurance of the day
14
And dispraise Nature with their melancholy.
[Re-enter Randolph with wine.]
Ramorgny.
Here come the beakers!
Rothsay.
Let us drink to Youth!
We're mortal in this world when it is gone,
Immortal Youth!
Walter.
I pledge your dark hair and I pledge your light;
Down with the parti-colour'd and the white!
Rothsay.
Here's to your hairless chin!
Ramorgny.
To yours, and yours!
[They drink.
Randolph.
We've magpies in yon elm that tops the wall;
One!
Walter.
That's ill-luck, my stars!
One, two,—no, three!
Ralph.
A marriage! that's of merrier import.
Ramorgny.
Ugh! there's a fourth!
Mercy! a burial!
[Re-enter Albany.]
Rothsay.
Ha, ha, ha!
Walter.
Ho, ho!
Albany.
What are you doing?
Rothsay.
Sitting i' the sun.
Who'll be a dog to lend my uncle eyes?
It seems he hath infirmity of sight.
Albany.
'Tis that way lies your weakness. You I see
Couch'd here amid a litter of low churls,
Swilling untimely wine, whose place is set
Scarce lower than the throne by Scotland's voice
Calling you Regent, and endowing you
With pow'r unnatural to thwart the will
Of your anointed king and natural sire.
A senseless boy, you think to drive the steeds
Of sovereignty and never hold a rein;
Nor will you listen to the words of those
15
That will not work its lessons by our lips.
Rothsay.
Now look you here, friends, and I'll tell you this,—
Poor Youth was never yet judged by its peers;
Such have no judgment, and its case is left
To elders, who once shared its thoughtlessness,
But now look on with sharp intolerance,
And brand it to the world. 'Tis true enough
That summer recks not of the winter's cold.
But winter's store would ne'er be harvested
Save for the fiery sunshine of past days.
And so with your experience, wise-head!
Albany.
Hum!
Float to destruction! I have done my part,
Nor can be pilot to unyielded bark;
Run on the reefs I know and breast the waves
That draw you to a whirlpool in my chart!
I've done with you.
Rothsay.
Dismissal to us, lads!
You 're strangely still—
Come, let me hear your lips; come, make a noise,
And raise the cur's-tail droop about your heads!
His tongue will lash no more. Get up! There's Meg
Calls us to venison and smoking cheer.
Lass, I must meet these heralds.
[Kisses her.
To the feast!
[Exeunt.
Albany.
And such a bubble of humanity
Must keep me from the throne and float between
Me and the Regency! He lives a life
Blown out of pleasure's mouth and woven all
Of ardent feebleness—the chosen stuff
On which the senses paint their fickle will
In colours of the rainbow. I've a storm
Within could burst this gay impediment
Should it but reach him. Time will settle that.
Now to the point! He must be married—so!
16
Before I see him husband. Many lords
Would buy his hand for daughters of their house
With offers of much gold. Who offers most
Shall have the worthless goods.
[Enter the Earl of March.]
Greeting! You're brief,
And conversation is an enemy
For sword-cuts of your tongue. I'm not a man
Who loves a marshall'd troop of many words,
Hence will I strike the very eye of aim.
The king—this know I from his private speech—
Seeks for his son a bride; but since his chests
Are ebbing in their golden property,
He cannot deck a marriage with due pomp
And suitable festivity. I pray
Your counsel in this matter.
Earl of March.
'Twould be worth
Some paltry gold to have a future king
For son-in-law. I'd give it.
Albany.
No, you jest.
Earl of March.
I'd give two thousand pounds.
Albany.
Well, well!
Earl of March.
You mark?
Two thousand pounds to heap the treasury.
You understand me?
Albany.
Yes. We need no words.
Lady Elizabeth is queen to be,
As I am Albany and she your child.
[Exeunt.
Scene II.
—The same. A Room. Enter Douglas.Douglas.
Shall March be grandsire unto future kings,
And Douglas carry no emblazon'd fruit
On any of his branches? Question vain!
For Douglas in his issue shall be crown'd
Maternal ancestor of royalties.
17
The money for its purchase in his clasp,
Shall find himself outwitted by mere gold,
When offered by my hand and double-heap'd.
The heir of Scotland mated to his house!
Not so! I'd rather beg my weary bread;
At March's doggish portal show my scars;
Shoot out my lips in kisses to the foot
Of his new-honour'd daughter. By Saint Bride,
This gold—sun-counterfeiting coin, with stamp
Of sovereignty, the even round of Heav'n
Is bare of—this shall turn her day to night,
And wrap her pride in heavy lethal shroud.
[Enter Marjorie Douglas.]
This is your dowry. 'Tis a mighty pile!
Marjorie Douglas.
My father, who hath sought my hand?
Douglas.
No man.
Marjorie Douglas.
Then, prythee, wed me to no airy boy,
That giggles at his mistress and his clothes,
His foolish quips, the serious round of things
He takes for jests of God to move his sides.
Beseech you, spare me that.
Douglas.
Lo and behold
Your suitor in this gold.
Marjorie Douglas.
I take it, sir.
I'd rather clasp it than a tricksy hand
That's current with all maidens.
Douglas.
You divine
It is the Prince of Scotland you must wed?
Marjorie Douglas.
David of Rothsay—sweet and young and fair,
Cunning in literature, a seemly form
And able head, they say; but unto me
No more than the cold vision of a dream.
Douglas.
To-night he'll be your husband, and your arms
18
Or distant apparition.
Marjorie Douglas.
On my knees
I pray you save me from the keen disgrace
Of being called his wife. He never looks
With any favour on me, who is free
Of loving graces to all loveliness.
My father, I should hate to be his bride;
Yea, loathe it to the centre of my soul.
Douglas.
My daughter shall obey me. Never yet
Hath woman of my house been obstinate
Against a father's life-controlling will.
Marjorie Douglas.
In all things I obey you, for my blood
Instructs me in that duty. Yet my veins
Are now the scene of struggle 'tween your will
And mine that is against it. You are old,
A warrior, a parent, and you win.
Douglas.
Go, get you dress'd, for I must seek the king.
Put on your best array, nor set your lips
To such a bitter aspect. Get you back.
[Exit Marjorie Douglas.
I'll move the will of Albany; that done,
The king is willing and the prince my son.
[Exit.
[Enter on the other side Lindsey and Ramorgny.]
Ramorgny.
I note that you are sad.
Lindsey.
How else, i' faith!
My daughter, my Euphemia, is dead.
The prince once bound him to her gentle love,
Forgot it or was turn'd by force of State
From truth and honour. Sweetly hath she died,
Love's flower that when the fost'ring sun withdraws
Dies patiently uncolour'd of its joy.
Ramorgny.
Alas, a careless freak to dim her life!
He thought she had forgotten him, nor slipt
One gleam to where she pined. I never dreamt
She held him bound. 'Twas but a passionate
First fancy of his boyhood.
19
These are words.
No injur'd breast is home to loyalty.
But I forgot you're of his company.
I bid you straight good morning.
[Exit Lindsey.
Ramorgny.
So it is.
I'll treasure his offence among my store
Of hoarded secrets; like a bunch of keys
Such dangle at the belt of policy.
I'd move the prince against his uncle, such
My present plot, for I am dear to him;
And if his youth could crush down Albany,
I should be foremost in the rank of men.
What could incite him more or fiercelier
Than traffic of his choice in marriage; this,
They say, is sold from March to Douglas, sold
By Albany for treasure—so the men
Of Douglas whisper, and I'll raise their voice
Until it reach the boy's dishonour'd ears.
[Exit.
Scene III.
—A Council-chamber. King Robert, Albany, and Douglas.Albany.
My lord of Douglas offers to the state
Twice March's sum to have a marriage tied
Between his daughter and your son and heir.
King Robert.
How, brother? when my son is fast betrothed
To March's daughter and his holy vows
Beyond a shameless purchase! [Aside.]
Oh, I fear
That furrow in the black earl's heavy brow
Where cuts the plough-share of an iron wrath.
Douglas.
My lord the king ...
King Robert.
Good earl, I am distraught,
Nor fully know what you would have me do.
Douglas.
Sanction another marriage for your son
With one who springs from truer loins than his
Who hath forestall'd my offer—from a house
20
Of regal blood superb within its veins.
The faith of March is but a fungus growth,
A recent wat'ry issue of his lands,
The increase of a day, the slipp'ry spoil
Of tardy, smiling favour; but my truth
Is rooted on the centuries and fed
With ancient honours and continued grace.
Albany.
My lord of Douglas, I will plead your case.
You know, my liege, the prince's hand was bound
To March's daughter on a promise rich
Of treasure to the sore-impoverish'd State.
Now comes my lord of Douglas, fired to join
With sacred bond his dear paternal love
And cherish'd loyalty; in lavish mood
He gives a double treasure to our chests
For sake of that which sluggish March obtains
With half this eager offer. Shall we starve
The gaping treasury and cheat the thin
And lacking realm thro' terror of a knot
But tied with words? Nay, rather we must stab
The empty heart of language—a mere vow,
And rend it into nothing.
King Robert
[aside].
O my soul!
He ever reasons conscience out of me
With higher goodness than my frailty owns!—
You urged me thus to move the highland clans,
Chattan and Kay, upon the Inch of Perth,
Before my face, in midst of festal pomp,
To fall upon each other like wild beasts,
And tear the crimson life as trophy out
Of eight and fifty corpses. Albany,
Through all the years until my dying day,
Mine eyes will see the sight they sicken'd from
Even to blindness. God hath planted it
Before the steadfast mirror of my soul
That cannot blink; so there is no relief.
21
Albany.
Ay, so I said, and so it proved, my liege.
Your lowlands lie in rip'ning repose,
And harvesters, with sickles round the neck,
From brown lips bless my counsel.
King Robert.
Christian deeds
Are said to lay a peace upon our souls
Like hush of snow: the virtue which you preach
Tears like a howling tempest, sharp and foul.
One falls a blessing, and one roars a ban;
Yet both are righteousness and both of God!
Help me, ye heavenly pow'rs!
Albany.
Alas, on earth
The choice is often between good and good,
Not good and evil; hence a struggle scars
The upright, tender conscience that must turn
Its back upon some part of righteousness
To face a fuller portion. So a king
For sake of those he rules must bear a strife
Between the holy teachings of his heart
And holier duties of his crownèd head.
King Robert.
Yes, you are right. The gold upon my brow
Hath often bought the voice within my breast.
Proceed! This contract split, do you not fear
The wrath of March? Methinks it might so rage
Our coffers would be emptier than ere
Lord Douglas filled them, and we broke our word.
There lies the pinch of conscience.
Douglas.
Choose your foes—
The fickle March or staunchest Douglas! Choose
To tie me closer to your love, or break
The bonds of fealty my injured pride
Would burn to carry.
Albany.
Think of it, my liege—
Lord Douglas is the pillar of the realm;
His pow'r the very dais of your throne.
King Robert.
Good cousin Douglas!
22
Brother, I have urged
The harsh and stinging duty of a crown;
A sweeter reason waits for utterance,
Private, paternal. Ofttimes have we mourn'd
The free, immodest living of your son;
We dreamt of marriage as a bond to clasp
His vagrant love and fancies wandering.
For this the woman of our choice should bear
A firm and constant nature, little touch'd
With fickle luring passion and mere grace
Of colour'd beauty. Such are threads of silk;
We seek for chains infrangible and sure.
Slender and soft is March's daughter, trick'd
With cloying charms; but strong and proud of heart,
Solemn in years and grave in countenance
Is Marjorie of Douglas, framed to curb
Ill-mannerly approach, and turn to shame
The levity of green unbridled youth.
[Enter Rothsay.]
King Robert.
David! I shrink to meet his glance.
Albany.
How now,
Lord Regent, that you break upon us thus?
We rarely see you at the council-board.
Your seat is yonder.
Rothsay.
In the market-place
Slaves stand for sale. I will not sit; I'll stand
In purchasable shame before you all
Who bargain for my manhood; stand and watch
My father sell the birthright of my flesh;
Yea, stand and bear a sacrilege my youth
Must damn itself to credit.
King Robert.
David, peace!
Rothsay.
God! I am faint with insult, and the thought
I had of my own self is sick to death;
I'm wounded in a place no tears can wash,
Outraged beyond the surgeon's knife of speech;
I cannot lift the colour to my face,
23
Hucksters!
King Robert.
Oh, silence!
Rothsay.
Nothing glorious
Is marketable—fame, nor love, nor deeds
Of any virtue, youth nor happiness;
Nothing, oh nothing, but the meanest things
Of which I am the meanest. On my soul,
You drag me in the dirt and there I'll lie
And dash it in your faces; [to King Robert]
ay, in yours.
'Tis well you are my elders; if you were
My age, I hardly think that I could bear
To leave you living.
Albany.
Wherefore all this noise
And rampant passion? We would understand
The tossing cause thereof.
Rothsay.
Speak it! Oh no!
'Twould want an old and worldly merchant, one
Who has a counting-house. I'm still a prince
About the lips, nor know your tricks with coin,
Your sales of man for woman, your low truck
And miserable frauds. You've ruin'd me,
And thrown my youth down to the bottom step
Of Pride's high stairs. I'll never climb again.
Douglas.
Now by Saint Bride ...
Rothsay.
Prate not of brides to me in holy terms,
Ye cursèd purchasers of manhood's fame!
A bride! A mistress owning whom she serves,
The handmaid to her lackey hired with gold!
A sanctified and blessèd state, my lords!
King Robert.
David! It is not so. ... At least—
Rothsay.
It is.
King Robert.
For your sake and the country's ...
Rothsay.
I must wed
The wither'd lass of kind Earl Archibald.
Douglas.
Sir David, Duke of Rothsay ...
Rothsay.
Bear her tongue,
24
Albany.
Nephew, these words are childish; this the rage
Of young and milky feeling, when the tough
And unfamiliar bread of this world's life
Forces soft inclination from its pap
And diets it on dry necessity.
Those of your birth must ever pay such price
For their high station.
King Robert.
And their people's good.
Albany.
Thus hath it ever been and so must be
With you as princely others in all lands.
Rothsay.
Elizabeth was fair!
Albany.
And Marjorie
Is noble.
Rothsay.
Balanced cunningly! Ha, ha!
Albany
[aside].
He's dropp'd to levity and lost his case,
Now I can handle him.— [Aloud.]
There is no way
But that you yield, and with untroubled mind
Enjoy such freedom as your birth allows.
King Robert.
Brother, what do you say?
Albany
[aside].
The honey—hush!—
Commending to young lips the medicine.—
[Aloud.]
Use charily the privilege.
Rothsay.
Not I!
Oh, write your contract, for it joins my life
To snaky-headed Sin, in whose hot breast
I'll know what pleasure is. Call forth your priest—
He's but a pander in the guise of Heav'n.
Let Hymen's torches flare—they smell of pitch
And sulph'rus fever of contemn'd desire;
Ring from your steeples—'tis the curfew bell;
Prepare your bridal veil—'tis hiding night;
Present your hateful bride to pulseless arms—
And Lust receives the harlot in its clasp.
King Robert.
Mine ears have never yet unclosed their doors
25
Of wrath and opposition in your soul
That rages in such speech. Your headlong sense
And reinless fury well deserve more curb
Than marriage with a noble woman, one
Whose touch is conquest and whose presence peace.
Your land requires the sacrifice, if such
You hold the sacred tie; and there you stand
With selfish tumult on abandon'd lips,
Disgraced by Reason's flight. You cannot know,
Thus senseless, if you love ...
Rothsay.
Love! Speak it not!
It is a glorious word whose ecstasy
Opens the soul to morning; a sweet bird
That sings along the tangled forest ways
Of Impulse and Enchantment. Name that name,
I'll lock it in your throat.
King Robert.
Son David, hold!
You have forgotten in your frowardness
To whom you speak.
Rothsay.
No surely—'tis my sire
Who puts me up to auction; that the face
My mother chose. Forget! My brain is clear
To take such recognition, keep its brand
Till death unkin me. That the hoary frame,
Whose flesh inherited ties down my life
To bondage till the worms unloose the web.
Work out your pleasure; use me as you will;
I do not care; I'm yours to mar or make.
Marry my hand, turn all my heart to gold,
The filthy gold that's damn'd me! Walter, Ralph,
Ramorgny, to the tavern!
[Rushes out.
King Robert.
Woe is me!
There is my own blood in that flashing face;
I feel it stir the currents of my life.
Albany.
You must be firm. My lord of Douglas bends
A raging brow that dooms unless assuaged.
26
Cousin, forgive my son his thankless mood.
He's restive against bridle; his free youth
Chafes at the sound of bondage, tho' the reins
Be in a woman's hand.
Douglas.
Fear not, my liege.
The priest shall rivet marriage with my house.
Albany.
Lord David's rash offence will soon dissolve
Beneath his nature's lightness.
King Robert.
Think you so?
When roused, he hath a stubborn petulance
That swells above control.
Albany.
A song or dance
Open safe floodgates to his giddy fume.
King Robert.
Ay, so it seems; but in his bitterness
There is a sly tenacity that coils
Within the colour'd vestment of his mirth,
Cold as a snake and ready for the hiss.
Albany.
Youth, youth—mere youth! 'Tis ever harsh and sweet,
Honey and gall, the zephyr and the blast,
The union of jarring opposites.
King Robert.
He never has forgiven me, forsooth,
Because I gave his training and control
To certain grave and pow'rful councillors,
Who cut him off from growing wantonness,
Unseemly conversation and light sports.
He seem'd with whole and gracious heart to bend
To this my wish and swore obedience;
By healthy counsel braced, conform'd himself
To their direction and good mastership.
But ever and anon a shaft was sped
From scorn-bent lips that pierced my fair content;
And when his mother died, he rush'd away,
As if a noose were broken, from restraint
Of agèd wisdom, gave himself afresh
To lightness, and no force can bend him now
To gravity of manners.
27
Save a wife
Of noble mould and calm austerity.
King Robert.
So have I dreamt. I shall be glad when peace
Commends this business; when I lay my hands
In wonted blessing, often gently ask'd,
On David's head. To feel the golden curls
Is richer than a gilded treasury!
[Exeunt.
Scene IV.
—An upper room. Enter Elizabeth Dunbar and Women with flowers.Elizabeth Dunbar.
This is a chamber where our pleachèd blooms
Will never summer-sicken, till they crown
My wedding. Fah! How damp is the gay store;
Ere I unseat this rose, shake forth its dew.
1st Woman.
'Twill fall.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
Then let it. Ah, 'tis gone, fair cup!
But I will have no weeping.
2nd Woman.
None at all?
Why, lady, every blossom is in tears.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
It shall not be. Go, take them to the fire,
And lay them in the comfort of its light
Until they laugh.
2nd Woman.
'Twill wither them.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
Take all;
I'll have no mourners. Would that I were safe.
[Exeunt Women.
As future queen! queen! Oh, to think of it!
To be the dimple on the cheek of state,
The centre of all smiling and all grace;
This hand a little silver shrine to bless
All lips that seek it, and about my head
The glory of the sun in all his pow'r.
They call me fair and gracious; even now
28
Then every moment will be on its knees
A servant to my charms.—I'm public. Ah!
Visited royally!
[Enter King Robert and Albany.]
I wait my maids
To bring me flow'rs to wreathe. My lords, the dawn
Had made them goblets of bedewing grief
I set the flames to sip.
Albany
[to King Robert].
Speak!
King Robert.
Nay, not now.
Albany.
Lady, the king hath somewhat he would say.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
Speak, sire; attention kneels.
King Robert.
Such winsome smiles!
Oh, lady, but I would not have them win
Sorrows as do the sunbeams, which receive
The damps and mist of earth.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
A riddle, sire!
King Robert.
I may not dare to give you what of ill
I, shamèd, have begotten; tho' the words
Wring all the father in my heart.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
Your son!
Oh never fear but I will turn him to
Some sunrise transformation, give him gold
And purple of new manners.
King Robert.
Albany,
Speak; I beseech you speak.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
I am betroth'd;
You dare not break that vow.
Albany.
We've weigh'd the risk,
And needs must run it. Think you we dare lay
Upon the recent homage of your sire
The burthen of the shame that drags our house
Down to the very dust! It cannot be.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
I'll move him—plead with him.
Albany.
In any case,
The realm hath not assented. The Estates
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The binding word.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
Oh, sire!
Albany.
It shall not be.
King Robert.
I pity you as only those can do
Who say of any grief 'tis not the first.
Albany
[to King Robert].
Wilt please you to withdraw?
King Robert.
Yes, yes. [To Elizabeth.]
One frost
Hurts not the spring. Be comforted; my son
Were an abiding blight.
Albany.
We'll straight descend.
[Exeunt.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
They cast across my hopes the blackest shades.
The storm must come. But now there's vacancy
Before all grief and anger. I believe
That I shall never hate, nor weep, nor know
All that has happen'd till I fly this place
Where suddenly my fate hath caught me round.
Escape I must.—I never thought of it—
That I was trembling. ... Oh, I dare not yet
Think of the downward steps.
[Enter the Earl of March.]
Earl of March.
My daughter! God!
Her wraith!—I come to find the king.—Art sick?
It cannot speak. She's mad.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
Fath—er.
[Falls on his neck.
Earl of March.
My child,
What is 't? Oh, tell me you are sane, not sick,
Nor supernatural. I feel your tears
Scalding from life's red fires. These raging drops!
Oh, what an ocean swells!—You'd have mine ear?
Elizabeth Dunbar.
Re—ven—ge me!
Earl of March.
That I will, and to the death.
On whom?—Not yet! I'll wait. Within her throat
The child of anguish labours.
[Re-enter Women with flowers.]
Elizabeth Dunbar.
Oh!
[Faints.
30
She'll die.
1st Woman.
Go to the well in haste.
[Exit 2nd Woman.
Earl of March.
Her poor lids gape,
Like the wild gates of a surprisèd town.
1st Woman.
Lady, you know me? I am Kate.
3rd Woman.
Look up.
Poor lady, are you better?
Earl of March.
Hold your peace.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
Send them away, and all the blossoms too.
The storm abhors them. ... Just one rose to crush,
Red as his life.
[Re-enter 2nd Woman.]
2nd Woman.
O sir, it cannot be!
It is not true, it never can be true!
They say the prince ... O Kate! ... he's turn'd her off,
And chooses Marj'rie Douglas for his wife.
Earl of March.
Begone, you women folk.
[Exeunt.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
On Albany
Revenge me; on King Robert and ...
Earl of March.
Within
This fleshly scabbard I'm all sword. I'll break
From execrable homage, bear my wealth,
My armies, and my anger to the king
Of England.
[Enter Duchess Marjorie.]
Woman, will you dare to flaunt
Your triumph in the eyes of her defeat?
Her father ...
Duchess Marjorie.
O Elizabeth, believe—
This ring, this bond, first link upon the chain
That fetters all my days, should clasp your flesh
If I had will to work it. But you see
My honour's in this circle; this cold spell
Hath bound it in a sleep that Merlin's fay
Could whisper to no freedom. I have sworn
31
Through all the burthen'd years, who have within
The rigid mind of chill virginity,
And am less wife than you whom bright desire
Hath thrill'd with promise. By your eyes I see
You will repay. Forgive me! Vengeance fall
Where it is due—upon the guilty heads
That hatch'd this treason.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
I shall never know
If you are faithless; but I hate the sight
Of your black face—the raven to my heart
That's dying at your sounds.
Earl of March.
God's light! You lie,
Cursed brat of Douglas, lie before my face,
That's lightning-furnished for the vengeful doom.
How came you married in this shameless haste,
Without a prick of liking?
Duchess Marjorie.
There is none.
No spirit haunts with heavenly surprise
Our wedded veins. My husband at the shrine
Took with averted head my idle hand.
Earl of March.
You would befool us. Hence, nor mock our wrath
With feign'd propitiation. Traitoress,
You come to buy our peace toward him you wed
At price of your own womanly reserve.
We spurn the secrets of your doorless breast.
Duchess Marjorie.
Henceforth 'tis shut for ever. Hell's black key
Nor Heaven's golden instrument shall e'er
Withdraw its bolts. I'll rust in sufferance
Cold as my heart and icy as my pain.
If you revenge—
Earl of March.
You'll join in our revenge?
Duchess Marjorie.
Never. Declare my rancour!—I'll be true,
True to the faithless boy, who even now
32
That name I'll keep as white as is the band
On a nun's forehead.
Earl of March.
Get you to your pray'rs!
Elizabeth Dunbar.
Oh, I am cold!
Duchess Marjorie.
I'm sharper than the frost,
And silent too. If ever I forgive,
Spring will be come.
[Exit.
Elizabeth Dunbar.
My crown, my crown!
Earl of March.
I'll pour
The scorching embers of my rousèd ire
On the king's head. Thou'lt marry Percy's son,
The gallant Hotspur. We'll to England straight.
Cover your eyes, and lean upon my arm.
[Exeunt.
| The Father's Tragedy | |