 | The Father's Tragedy |  |
45
Scene IV.
—Stirling. A Courtyard. Enter Allan, Prince James, and an old Lunatic (regarded as Richard II. of England, who was starved at Pontefract).Old Man.
He, he, he! I'm poor and naked. Naught
Of empery in any of my limbs.
My knees!—Here's carpentry; I pray you look.
I am a little humble man.
Allan.
Alas!
A pretty monarch once!
Prince James.
I thought all kings
Had beards of holy silver down the breast,
And bland, sage brows, and comfort at the heart,
Such as my father ever shows us.
Allan.
Ah!
Prince James.
Why do you sigh?
Old Man.
Not Richard! I am Dick.
He, he!—the foe of God the King.
Allan.
A fool
That envieth at Heaven.
Old Man.
God the King
A' sits so safe up i' the sky and reigns—
I crawl, crawl, crawl!
Prince James.
Nay, Allan, lift him up.
We will not see a monarch grow a worm.
[Enter King Robert and Duchess Marjorie.]
King Robert.
O Allan, hath no messenger arrived
Through all the day? No word from Albany?
Why doth he hang his tented warfare up
Beyond the reach of David's utmost need?
Why doth he linger when round Edinbro'
The English fasten with a brazen clasp?
'Tis strangely done, unnaturally done,
To leave the lad to perish!
Old Man.
He! you're great!
Dost think of change?
King Robert.
Oh, do not put my tongue
46
Old Man.
Go, make a grave!
'Twill change as you change, low when you are low,
But make it great and high the while you live.
King Robert.
Old bitter king, I'll build no haughty tomb
Who am a wretched worm and vilest sinner.
I'd lay me for sepulture among clods,
So might I purchase rest unto my soul.
Prince James.
Father!
King Robert.
Quick, Allan, run! I hear a horn.
[Exit Allan.
Duchess Marjorie.
You heard aright. They come.
[Re-enter Allan with Ramorgny and Walter.]
Walter.
'Tis victory!
King Robert.
He's safe?
Walter.
Oh, bless you, sire, as glad as day,
Pouring out wine to match the deathly flow
Of the great toper War.
Ramorgny.
The ruffian foe
Wrench'd at our city's girdle, but within,
Our hearts were high and though in desperate case
Supreme o'er insult. Through ungarnish'd streets
Grey Famine dragg'd her bones, yet every man
Did feed on steaming courage.
King Robert.
And the prince ...?
Ramorgny.
Was brave and headstrong. Softly be it said
He sent a challenge to the English king
To pick him out a hundred Englishmen
To meet our countrymen to that same tune,
And on the issue of the combat stake
The freedom of our nation.
King Robert.
God above!
Has he no reason, is he lunatic,
A simpleton, a blusterer, a child,
To play such hare-brain'd antics on a foe?
Anxieties perplex and choke my thought;
Fear in the cage of my close heart doth pant
47
Will dig my grave.
Ramorgny.
'Tis but a pleasant tale
Among the soldiers.
Walter.
By my troth, Sir John,
Why did you take it from the common mouth
To misbecome your lips. The merry faults
Of friends are ever sacred to their band,
Or woe is me for all good fellowship!
Ramorgny.
Nay, Walt, no treason; 'twas the marvel of't
That rush'd from off my lips.
King Robert.
Does Albany
Know of this shameful frolic?
Walter.
No, sire, no.
He hath not stirr'd his arms from Caldermoor.
King Robert.
What will he say? How shall I bear his eye
Who have begot this son?—A crowding noise!
Allan.
Of shouts and songs and triumph. 'Tis the prince.
[Enter Rothsay with marshal array.]
Old Man.
Eyes—eyes of jailers. I must hide from eyes;
They make me king again, and treat me ill,
And capture me. I'll creep behind this cloak,
This furry cloak—warm prison!
[Hides under the King's long mantle.
King Robert.
Fated boy!
I'm glad he's safe at home!
Rothsay.
Well, Father, James!
Ramorgny, jolly Walter! Duchess, there,
You've not a forward welcome.
Duchess Marjorie.
To a back.
And so you conquer'd?
Rothsay.
Laurels! That I did;
And March is beaten back. I never knew
What life I carried till the flinty days
Of peril struck it out—a joyous blaze
That lit my blood to gold. What ho! A check!
48
That's just blown in upon me with a hurt
That rankles in my joy. You stand like men
O' snow. What is it, father?
King Robert.
Your rash deed.
Rothsay.
What deed?
King Robert.
Your wicked message to the King
Of England, whereby, as I understand,
You staked upon the issue of a joust
The freedom of your country.
Allan
[aside].
Sire, not now.
King Robert.
I am surprised and pained that you should stoop
To such a jester's action. Do not flush
And start away; I speak it out of love.
Rothsay.
We'll go elsewhere for welcome. Not enough
The empty doorways and the cheerless board,
The dull and tardy greeting—with your words
You set a canker to the triumph, joy,
That rioted in blossom at my heart.
You've made for me no welcome—dearest word,
The home that language raises by the voice,
That the eyes light, whose doors are open hands;
None of you built me that—not one of you.
Only I pass the bare unfeeling walls
Behind which I was born.
King Robert.
Your talk shoots off
From my direction, which was gentle blame
Of a grave wrong.—Tears!
Rothsay.
Come, friends, 'tis forgot
We saved our country by determined arms
And empty mouths. I think within the streets
We'll find a younger memory. Come on!
[Exit with Followers.
King Robert.
O God, the thought of him is ever near,
The person ever bitterly apart;
Yet 'neath Thy will did I beget his form,
49
'Tis well his mother lives not.
Allan.
Ah, 'twere well
She were not dead.
King Robert.
What, sirrah, do you mean?—
[Aside]
They would not let me rule the land as John,
My name, because 'twas ominous and sad.
They call'd me happy Robert. Ah, the name
Is nothing; fate is deeper-set than words.
Old Man.
Starved!
King Robert.
What a cry! Art cold?
Old Man.
Some folks alive
Would keep a body breadless, and that's cold;
For breadless, cold, and dead are all one thing.
They tried to starve me in a prison once.
You'll never starve a-body?
King Robert.
Dreary sport,
This play on starved!—No, never. Come within.
The rain drips sulkily. Another horn
Blows out a new arrival—Albany.
I'll go to meet him, and unload my grief
Of its unsharèd burthen, which is great.
[Exeunt.
| The Father's Tragedy | |