 | The Father's Tragedy |  |
Scene I.
—A Tavern. Enter Wright, Selkirk, and Hostess.Wright.
Hi, hi! The mastiff crack'd your little cur.
Fine bloody sport!
Hostess.
As I am woman born,
Rascals, you set him on.
Selkirk.
Ho! The last grip
Was none of our contriving. Merry game
To have 'em tug and tear while we could fill
Our cans an' watch 'em bleed. The mongrel! Ho!
They tore like devils.
Wright.
Sweet to hear the yells
O' the small beast. They told me how 't would end,
An' fed my comfort.
Hostess.
Oh me! Bess, my Bess!
You are no men, you lubber patches you!
All who have man about them love fair play.
'Tis only demons crow to see the weak
O'ermatch'd by brutishness. Begone! My house
Is built for human creatures with a thirst
For harmless wines, and not for cruel blood,
Tho' 'tis a beast's poor drops. Off! off!
[Enter Rothsay, Ramorgny, Walter, Ralph, etc.]
My lord,
They've killed my coddling fav'rite, yellow Bess.
They loosed the mastiff on her.
Wright.
Heart! She raves!
Rothsay.
Dastards! Go kick them to the brinded beast,
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Sirrahs!
Wright.
Ugh!
Selkirk.
Heigh!
Rothsay.
They're drunk. Lay on your feet,
And send them sprawling to the kennel there.
Poltroons!
Wright
[aside].
I'll—venge, revenge!
Selkirk
[aside].
I'll pay you, dog.
[Exeunt, dragged out by Ralph and Randolph.
Rothsay.
Varlets!—Be comforted. I'll send thee Blanch.
You know her, Walt—a toy to ease your grief.
Sweetheart, a kiss! Go, fetch us cheer.
[Exit.
My lads,
She's true and pretty, young and fanciful,
Free to be kiss'd, free to be left alone,
Warm as a May noon, merry as a kid.
Heigh-ho!
[Re-enter Ralph and Randolph.
I am not thirsty. How your faces fall!
Pray me to speak of marriage.
Ramorgny.
I for one.
Walter.
And I.
Ralph.
And I.
Randolph.
And I. We pray you speak.
Rothsay.
I will. 'Tis slavery, and round my heart
Is the vile collar of my servitude.
Marriage! It is a bond of ice that ties
My passion's stream; it is the grappling—ay,
Of hostile vessels! ...
Walter.
Now, friends!
[Re-enter Hostess.]
Rothsay.
Fill, wench, fill.
Let's pledge the newest beauty. What coy nymph
Hath listened to thy tongue, my soothing John?
Ramorgny.
Faith, there's a merry dozen down the street
As wide awake as nightingales, with eyes
That are a flock of stars.
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We'll follow them
Soon as the Court's asleep. Here's to their light!
Pah! Wine hath lost its flavour and its joy.
I drink it, but 'tis dirt across my lips.
The more I thirst, the more I loathe the cup,
Which yet I clasp the more. Sun, exercise,
Laughter and song, all that was happiness
And close upon my life hath faded back
And fallen to illusion.
Ramorgny.
Here's a change!
I've often heard you swear that no such thing
Was in the world. Illusion! How you storm'd
And vow'd it was the filming of the eye
In stricken age.
Rothsay.
And so it is, my friends.
Only Time strikes much sooner than I thought,
And falsifies our nature. My true youth
Is gone, the morning-red, the dew, the notes
Of soft dawn's youngest confidence—all gone;
And that immortal gift of gaiety
That flies with the approach of deathly years
Of knowledge and experience and age.
Ramorgny.
Ho! You're a frosty day-spring! Search his poll;
Is there a thread from Winter's distaff on 't?
Ralph.
Yellow intact, I'll swear.
Walter.
All gilded yarn.
Rothsay.
When once regret has breathed upon our days,
Youth is a bird that flies.
Walter.
I'll springe the lark!
[Enter a Councillor.]
Who's here? A grey-beard, with the very stamp
Of Age's silver currency.
Rothsay.
A fool,
A spy on my morality. Good faith,
I'll give him whiffs of nether smoke to save
His search from disappointment.
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Do mine eyes ...
Rothsay.
Or does your nose—?
Walter.
Or do your ears—?
Rothsay.
Or tongue—?
They are offending senses. Exile them!
If you are present but one moment more,
We'll bleed our casks and drown you in the tide,
Till Age is red as babyhood.—The cur!
[Tosses wine in his face. Exit Councillor hastily.
Ramorgny.
Your uncle sets them on.
Rothsay.
I know. 'S blood,
Ramorgny, how I hate to see him rule
My country and my father and my king.
He is as false as sin, himself his god,
And I the rebel he must damn to reign.
Ramorgny.
Comrades, withdraw a moment. I have words
Occasion bids me utter, which must rest
Alone within the ears for which they rise
On my reluctant lips.
Rothsay.
Withdraw, withdraw!
[Exeunt.
Ramorgny.
There is a road, a dark and narrow way
The dagger opens for our enemies.
Rothsay.
John, are you speaking? or are these the words
Your evil angel forges on your tongue?
Ramorgny.
My very words, as I shall answer God.
Your uncle seeks your life, and his own blood
Must shield you from the loss; he seeks your rights;
His power o'erthrown must pay the penalty;
Or mark my words, your life and rights will line
His ruthless feet, thus shod for monarchy.
Rothsay.
You're false as he.
Ramorgny.
Nay, true and politic.
For Friendship is a Janus, double-faced;
Truth to the right, to the left policy.
Rothsay.
I'll have no friend who looks not straight before;
I'll have no devil in my bosom-faith,
Tempter to unimaginable sin.
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Glares with hell-lighted letters Murderer;
You'd brand it there for ever! Fiend, begone!
I hate my uncle, but within the bounds
Of honourable nature and just deed.
Oh, I rejoice to tear the hood of lies
From off the naked face of his self-love.
But tear the garment of his flesh away
With stab of secret malice! God forbid!
My own soul too forbid! I've done with you
If you're for plotting; and your orat'ry,
Matchless in praise of beauty, music, verse,
Hath in it the wasp's sting, no honey-tongue
Free-feeder 'mong the sweets. Curse policy!
My marriage was a plot, a gross deceit.
'Twould be a merry world if senses ruled,
And brains were fettered from their craft and lies.
I'll not betray you, wretch. I scorn the tongue
By which you thought to pull me to your depth;
How dare you dream it!
[Exit.
Ramorgny.
To a lower depth,
As low as drops the coffin shalt thou sink,
Mine honest fool. That yellow sheaf of hair
That's ripe upon his brow,—I'll beat it down
Beneath the flail of Misery! My tongue,
That hath procur'd him Pleasure by its guile,
Shall wheedle Death now to attend on him—
A mistress fitted to his moral mood;
She shall be tedious.
[Exit.
| The Father's Tragedy | |