 | The Father's Tragedy |  |
Scene II.
—Falkland Castle. A Dungeon. Rothsay.Rothsay.
I cannot tell if it is night or day—
How many nights and days have gone outside,
And I been hungry here. 'Tis all one night,
One dream of anguish. I can only think
Of bread, bread—bread!—the pulling hot desire
That ever strains to seize upon the thought
And eat it into nothing. Oh, without
Are many cornfields—and the river! God!
I scarcely can remember anything
But the white floods, and the last scrap of meat
I emptied from my wallet. Once I fed,
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Laughing together. Past all things, 'tis strange
That once I laughed. Would I had ne'er been born!
I'm nothing but a heap of crying bones
And maddened flesh. Oh that the earth would gape!
Would it were famished too!—The holy bread,
They give it to the dying ... and the taste
Would make me live. But I'm forgotten clean,
As I had lived a thousand years ago—
Mere unrequiring dust—and every atom
Is grasping like a murderer! I'll lie
Flat on the ground, for then my hunger's less,
It pities my submission. On my face!
They put them with it upward in the grave
That they may rise; but I would fall and hide
Where life can never come. The other way
Is hope—the proneness of my head despair.
[Throws himself down and sobs.
Selkirk
[without.]
The dog is still.
Wright
[without.]
Contented with his bones.
Selkirk
[without.]
Ha, ha! good wit—a very lively wit!
[They enter.]
Rothsay
[springing up.]
You're bringing me some food?
Selkirk.
It's here within.
Rothsay.
Give it me! give it me!
Selkirk.
Take it from me, then.
Rothsay.
Where is it? I would rather look on it
Than sun or anything that eyes can see!
Wright.
Ho! it's about him!
Rothsay.
Where? I shall go mad
With thinking of its nearness. Give it me.
Selkirk.
If you can take it from my stomach's grasp,
You're welcome to it.
Rothsay.
Oh! With hands, knees, lips,
I pray for bread; and if 'twill move your grace,
I'll press the floor with brow as well as knees.
Wright.
King Selkirk! bless us!
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As you're men, and made
In this poor fading image; as you have
Lips—flesh that fails, as fire at curfew-time,
Unless 'tis fed; as you have appetite,
That struggles like a lion in his net
Till the first mouthful frees it; as you've blood,
That is a river dried by famishment;
As you have teeth, tongue, stomach, all the parts
That give us glad renewal; if you've known
Faintness and hollow suffering and thirst;
If you have seen the table spread, have drunk
Your fill with friends, have tasted the cold brook
Or seen the harvest grow, pity my want,
My pain, my tortured memory.
Selkirk.
How fine
We talk for belly's sake! As to your feasts,
I've seen you with your swinish company
Rocking the bench from which you thrust us out
To the mastiff i' the yard.
Wright.
We'll cast you now
Back to your barking stomach.
Rothsay.
Pity me!
I am so young—so young in my desire
For food—so strong, so helpless are my pangs.
Have you fed children?—I am scarce eighteen.
I've all their need. If you will fetch me bread,
I'll love you better than my father.
Selkirk.
Ay,
That were small love, and scarcely worth a kick.
[To Wright.]
Come, we'll begone; our dinner's on the air.
'Twill taste the better—la!—for this lean talk.
[Exeunt.
Rothsay.
Bread, bread! The mocking stones!
[Flings himself on the ground.
Would I were old,
With one weak thread to crack and so to die;
But, oh! the mighty cable of my youth
That knots me to despair!—I ever thought
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I fed and never knew it; now I starve.
Here is the skeleton I've seen in books!
'Tis I—the knarled and empty bones.—Here, here—
The grinning dints! I thought Death anywhere
But near my life; and it is in the pith
And centre of my body. Horrible!
I was conceived, shaped in Mortality's
Own ribb'd and ghastly image; but the bread,
The bread that is denied me, hid the thing
I am—it clothed me. I am naked now.
Its clothes I want to dress this skeleton,
And wrap it from my sight. Death is not dead;
O God! he lives in me—in me must die;
And I must watch him with these burning eyes,
Like candles set aflare upon my corpse.
Hell? Hell itself to this were Paradise,
For there there is no waiting for an end,
Heart-wringing expectation of a term
To madden'd vigil. Would I were in Hell,
Immortal and contemned. Ah, torturing fires,
They're in my brow; come out and circle me,
So only I may burn with you, nor stop
To all Eternity.—A sound outside!
Out in the blessed world where there's the sun,
The fresh-grown wheat, the wild carousing wind,
Man's gay, habitual intercourse, the chime
Of frequent laughter, happy wonted sleep,
The daily meal. Bread, bread! I cannot starve,
Grow strange to all that gave me joy. O Earth,
Sprout me some strangled grains here in the dark;
For see! I die because I have no bread.—
Bread, bread! Oh! oh!
Woman
[without].
Now prythee hold thy peace!
A cur at midnight has not sharper throat.
Peace, peace!
Rothsay.
They're starving me. ...
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Then come this way.
I've got some tiny oaten cakes. But mind!
No yelping!—Lord, to have it follow you!—
Now thou'lt be still?
Rothsay.
As death, if I may live.
Where are ...?
Woman.
Here, here! I'll slip it through the bars.
Caught it? ... Nay, honey, do not eat so fast.
My word o' faith! It is a youngster—this—
An' thin as trees i' the winter.
Rothsay.
More—one more!
Woman.
There—gently! 'Tis so dim. His poor pinched sides
Have known some soft embraces. Hey, to think
He is not in his coffin!
Rothsay.
What?
Woman.
Nay then—
Rothsay.
Another one!
Woman.
I'll put thee all I have.
Rothsay.
But you will come again—not let me die,
Go to that other prison, where the worms
Cling like a second famine, and the walls
Are built as firm as these, but have no bars
Where comfort can slip in.
Woman.
I'll come, poor lad.
What is thy name?
Rothsay.
David—Prince David.
Woman.
What!
Our bonnie wicked prince!—our madcap prince,
Of whom they tell such tales! The Lord above!
How came you here, my liege?
Rothsay.
I cannot tell.
My father sent me.
Woman.
Good King Robert?
Rothsay.
Yes.
Curse him!
Woman.
Hush! hush!
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It is a father's deed.
I thought to foster was his very charge;
Even the beasts do that. But you are come,
And have so kind a voice. Is 't possible
To let me have some water?
Woman.
How, my lord?
There is no jug will pour between the bars,
Nor any vessel.
Rothsay.
I shall die of drought;
And the bread makes it worse. My lips are stiff
As clay in August. I can eat no more.
There, father, to your face!
[Throws down a cake.
Woman.
Patience, my lord,
I cannot think he knows.
Rothsay.
He's cast me off,
Prey to the thirst and hunger he has chained
Within me from my birth! He's slipped the leash!
Help me!
Woman.
I'll do the utmost woman can.
[Aside.]
There's Emmeline the armourer's wife.—Be sure
I'll help you if I can.
Rothsay.
Then I shall live,
Live and be young again—perchance escape.
I will be patient—there's the sound of life
Within your voice; it wakens me. You've seen
The sun to-day, and I shall see 't again.
You've brought me hope.—I cannot talk.
Woman.
Nay, nay.—
Bless me! His eyes still ask!—I'll come anon.
[Exit.
| The Father's Tragedy | |