 | The Father's Tragedy |  |
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ACT V.
Scene I.
—Edinburgh: Room in the Monastery of Holy Cross. Enter Walter and Allan.Walter.
His grace of Albany will soon be here;
He comes to be acquitted by the king
Of any share in God's prerogative—
A natural death.
Allan.
Keep down thy bitter voice;
No man creates a fever.
Walter.
Not so sharp!
I think thy speech is full as sour as mine;
Man cannot starve his fellow; he's too soft
And pitiful for that.
Allan.
Oh whisper me,
If you must blab street tales.
Walter.
No fear to speak
What opes the general lip and blanches it.
Think you, mine Allan, that the king hath heard
How all men say his elder son was slain.
Allan.
Ay, Walt; he will not eat until we name
Prince James; then shudders through his ancient form,
And groans within the hollow of his chest,
“Starved, starved!” I never knew so large a grief.
You lose the man within his sorrow's might.
Walter.
Oh, here he comes, as if he'd slept in tombs.
Poor royal father!
[Enter King Robert.]
King Robert.
Everything prepared.
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I'm troubled that I spake so hastily
To one of my own blood; it raises fear,
And makes my conscience feverish and ill,
To think how I accused him in my wrath.
It cannot be; I ever found him kind.
And his high office breeds in common souls
Tale-bearing envy.—You once served my son,
If I mistake not?
Walter.
Sire, I loved him well.
King Robert.
Allan, this knave shall wait on me—you two
Who both have loved my son.—D' you know, last night
I dreamt of him. Within the monast'ry
Of far Lindores I saw the straight cold tomb,
And the straight form—all the round lines of youth,
The full serenity of cheek and chin
Cut clearer in the moonlight's marble mould;
The brow a blank page of the whitest peace;
Yet round about twirled a dim company,
Grey sprites of Famine, shaking poppy-stems
And stalks of corn that wagged their lavish heads,
Deriding the lean body underneath
Its effigy, that still and satisfied
Lay close against the wall. God! to that tomb
My love is pilgrim—with my heart's red drops
Telling an awful penance.
Walter.
My dear lord,
And new kind master, do not ever dwell
On such grim churchyard thoughts. We've heaven and bliss.
King Robert.
I cannot yet go further than the tomb;
There lies the ruined body that I built,
The fair new city where I sent my hopes,
Carrying fire from my own shrine of life
To settle and increase. Yet I, even I,
Put out the hearth and overthrew the home
And pierced the very heart of my desires.
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His grace your brother comes. You'll take your seat
Upon the dais yonder, whereto flock
The people of your household; see!
[King Robert seats himself.
King Robert.
I live
Within this painted nothingness—this world
That stares into mine eyes and holds them not,
This insolent, vain show.
[Covers his face.
Allan.
We'll stand aside.
[Enter Albany, Lindsey, and other Nobles with their trains.]
Albany.
My liege, I break your meditation
For nothing less than honour, for amends
To stabbed and bleeding innocence, yourself
Have wounded first and foremost. These, your lords,
My peers and gracious equals, do acquit
My dear renown from stain of that dread crime
Whose breath would smirch my whiteness. Parliament,
After all due enquiry, strictest search,
And earnest fanning of the fearful charge,
Hath found it chaff, as these can testify.
Lindsey.
My liege, we can.
Earl of Buchan.
There is no evidence.
We frankly own him guiltless of this sin.
King Robert.
Thus we accept him with our penitence.—
O Robert!
Albany.
Sir, I'd have you quite convinced.
I'd be impregnable in pardon. Think!
Without a motive stronger than herself,
Would Nature so unnatural become
As spill her proper blood? That so she would
Is beyond all belief. In motive lies
Sole credit to my having done the deed
That seared me in your favour. First my love—
Which, though the chastisement its care advised,
Was turned of God to doom, thereby received
No taint or flaw in truth—my blood-knit love
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That I am charged withal. One royal branch
[Enter Prince James and Attendants.]
Clipt from the golden tree of monarchy
Leaves yet another in his crescent bloom—
King Robert
[aside].
He's looking at the boy with eagle eye—
It is a look of seizure!—O my James,
Come to your father's arms!
Albany.
See where he grows
From the old noble trunk. Ambition gives
No slightest motive.
King Robert.
'Tis enough. You're clear.
Albany.
That all my love was mocked by the event
Is sore to think on. Who can trammel Death
With cords obedient to mortal will?
My castle hath no dungeon that would hold
Th' invisible last foe. For his offence,
Which God's great judgment-day alone can strike,
I as a man must suffer, while unscathed
Goes the arch-murderer of hope and joy.
King Robert.
It is most true. I'm sorry in my heart
That I accused you from an unchecked mouth.
Most true! Death oft makes innocence seem guilt.
Forgive me, Robert.
Albany.
Nay, I have no need.
'Twas natural that you should doubt, suspect,
Where circumstance so darkly pointed out;
And grief 's a headstrong unenlightened guide.
I knew that reason, toiling through the mists
Of sorrowful opinion and blind wrath,
Would show me white and shine on me again
Whom passion over-clouded. I am blessed
In daylight of your favour. That report
That stirs among the commoners, and sinks
Into base hearts against me, that I starved—
King Robert.
God's sake, no more!
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That villainous, black tale
Gains credit from the rumour'd cruelty
To England's second Richard. He whom Death
With still and sudden handling carries home,
Forsooth! upon the people's oath, is starved.
King Robert.
If you will have acquittal, pardon, grace,
Strangle within your throat that awful word,
And never freeze the aching man in me
With such inhuman, foul suggestion.
O God! that ever such a thing hath been
Cries shame upon Thy fatherhood—unless
Thou leav'st the punishment of children's sin
To devils of the pit. O God! O God!
The anguish burns me—shrivels up my soul
To whitened ashes and blank lifelessness.
Lindsey.
The king is moved.
Albany.
Unhappy that I am,
Pleading for pardon, that my tongue should blast
Where it would run to heal. I only spoke
To shut your doors of hearing from the sound
Of false alarum to your tender love;
And lo! I wake the sentries of your soul
To naked panic. Brother, dearest liege,
Have pity on my lips' mistake—forgive!
King Robert.
Whereas I feel that none who shares my blood,
Or of my mother drank the gentle milk,
Could within utmost limits of belief
Descend from man to monster—at this time,
Here in this place, I do acquit thy hand
Of murder pitiless, thy thought of stain
From black, disnatured treason, and thy soul—
Go, take it to the certain eye of God,
Not to the tear-dimmed vision of a man,
Thine earthly king and brother. Nevermore
Speak of this matter,—'tis my earnest pray'r.
Albany.
So much of pain it brands upon my thought,
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King Robert.
Poor brother—here's my hand!
Albany.
I kiss it, sir.
Lo! the remission for our liege to sign,
In Latin writ, which clears my innocence
And that of Archibald of Douglas, which
Hath suffered slur with mine.
King Robert.
A pen! [signing]
You're free.—
Oh! with a pen I made him prisoner!
Lindsey.
What counsel would you take with these your lords?
You summoned us to conference, my liege.
King Robert.
I'd not forgotten. It is near our heart.—
Leave us, my James; go to our rooms awhile,
Where I can find you presently—my room.—
[Exit James.
Our words concern our heir and only son.
He is a forward scholar and hath learnt
All that our northern wisdom can impart,
Alas! but little worth, to Scotland's shame.
Learning is not less golden in a king
Than his own crown; and manners grace him more,
As he can more display them in his rank,
Than those beneath his sway; we therefore dream
Of foreign education for our son
In polished France.
Albany.
[aside].
Sooth to my very aim!
My liege, 'tis prudent and well-reasoned.
Lindsey.
Yes.
King Robert.
I'm glad it meets your will. The faithful Earl
Of Orkney will attend our dearest son
With chosen servants. Ere he sail from hence,
We would consult your lordships once again.
Now we would have our privacy.
Albany.
We'll go;
And ever study to deserve your love.
[Exeunt Albany and Lords.
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Oh! it is done!
I've set my little boat upon wide seas
To save it from the jealous flames aboard
That scorch it for destruction. Allan, fetch
The Earl of Orkney hither. [Exit Allan.]
Kindly knave,
Come tell me, I'm a cruel father? Ay?
Walter.
Oh, not so cruel as the circumstance
You'd ward off from your son.
King Robert.
How? You are dim.
I wish men spoke their minds with meaning clear.
I'm an old man and my conception slow.
Walter.
I meant that many dangers threaten him
Who is sole heir to sovereignty—no more.
King Robert.
That was not it.—Good fellow, do you think
That I shall live to see my son return?
Walter.
O sire, you're hale in body.
King Robert.
But the heart—
D' you think that it can hold such space of time?
Walter.
With patience, yes!
King Robert.
With passion—no! Then there is memory,
And all this mourning we must add thereto.
[Enter the Earl of Orkney and Allan.]
Good earl, 'tis settled that you go with him.
Thank Heaven that you live whom I can trust.
You will be very watchful; if he die,
I am an old and childless man, an end,
A mortal Omega, a mere life's term,
And ancient monument to Hope's defeat.
Earl of Orkney.
My liege, I will protect him, watch and love
With upright loyalty and perfect care.
Allan.
Why do you weep so bitterly, my liege?
King Robert.
O Allan, 'tis a very bitter thought
That turns my tears to Marah. O my son!
Allan.
'Twill grieve him sore to part with you.
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Of him
I was not thinking. He is true and fair,
But very young, and he will soon forget.
Storms crush the bearded grain; 'twill never rise.
The tender sprouting blade is dashed, but springs
The better for its grief.—Your arm, kind earl.
There's much to settle, many things to do
Before you start. We'll walk together, earl.
[Exeunt.
Allan.
We'll to his chamber, Walt, and gladden it
With sun and air and cleansing.
Walter.
'Tis high time,
For like a bat's nest hath it been of late.
His absence is our opportunity.
[Exeunt.
[Re-enter Albany and a Servant.]
Albany.
Go, fetch the prior.
Servant.
I will, your grace.
Albany.
At once.
I'll wait him here. I cannot sleep at night;
[Exit Servant.
Dreams enter when I close my eyes, and stalk
Along the silent passages of thought
Like ghosts. My health is touched. This must not be.
Rest is a precious store I cannot spend
On vanities and filmy toys of fear.
This prior shall obtain for me from Rome
A pardon that will lay my haunting crime
With sacred exorcism. Here he comes.
[Enter Prior.
Hail.
Prior.
Benedicite!
Albany.
So would I were,
Yet scarcely live I blessed, with dark reports
So cast within the mirrors of my soul
That she is well-nigh blinded to herself,
And takes the dirt that's thrown as native filth
And dregs of her impurity. I scarce
Believe that I am Albany—so vile,
Corroded, monstrous, full of subtle sin,
My enemies declare me. You have heard
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The king declared my spotlessness and health.
You think I have enough restored my soul?
No; there's the holy Church I grieved with guilt
Apparent. I would have her pardon, claim
Exoneration from the weight of crime
Which those who freely hate me still would heap
On my bewildered innocence. I ask
This right, that she establish me in faith,
In guiltlessness, and loyalty.
Prior.
Your grace,
Why need you pardon where there's no offence?
Albany.
To fortify from slander. Those that brag
Against my newly washed, unsullied name,
As if it once were black, will lose their tongue
When they shall find any untoward speck
Of former misconception, error, fault,
Which no man, by his nature, can escape,
Is cleared by holy Church.
Prior.
Your grace takes note
Too closely of the swarms that sting your name
With wounds ephemeral. Such ever fret
The ease of reputation.
Albany.
Pardon me.
I suffer from no pricks, but trenchèd scars.
The brand of Cain, the infamous red curse,
Is struck across the brow of my repute.
Prior.
'Twill blush the more if pardoned. To forgive,
Where sin is absent, fills the emptiness
With sin's own lurid stain.
Albany.
Not so, not so.
It is a measure of state-policy
To silence evil tongues.
Prior.
To teach them words
Of stablished calumny.
Albany.
There you misjudge.
I know men better. Obloquy is dumb
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I'd have you write to Rome this very night,
And send a speedy messenger.
Prior.
Take thought.
If, with a soilèd conscience you would steal
The balm that heals confession into peace,
Great were your condemnation.
Albany.
Priest, you tread
Too near our honour. Am I not declared
By the vox populi—the voice of God—
In parliament, and by my peers, unblamed,
Unblameable?
Prior.
You are.
Albany.
And by the king
Acknowledged sinless?
Prior.
Yes, you are.
Albany.
What more
Desire you?
Prior.
That your lips should firmly seal
The clean page of denial with the stamp
And image of your soul.
Albany.
You ask for much.
No Christian dares to say he hath no sin.
Prior.
Your peers declared you sinless, so you plead.
Will you accept the declaration?
Albany.
No.
Prior.
The declaration for the special sin
That's laid to your account?
Albany.
You pry too far.
Go, write the letter. I disdain to speak
The answer to suspicion.
Prior.
I will write.
I know not if His Holiness will grant
The pardon you desire.
Albany.
Nay, urge him to 't,
As I am rich and great within the land.
Prior.
Not so, your grace, as you are innocent;
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That you are pure of murder. The clean hand,
Unreddened by the stain of blood, as much
Detests the golden taint of proffered coin.
Dishonoured is the honour that is bought.
Albany.
You wrong me. I but said that as I'm great,
Pre-eminent in riches, which are snares
Fate spreads for Envy's watching, it were best
I should be fortified with clear renown
And holy recognition. By the death
Of the king's son, I'm Regent—at the point
And pinnacle of influence. A slur
Cast on my faith, looses the bond of trust
That girdles monarchy;—rank treason spreads
Among the scattered members, social craft,
Domestic infidelity, the guile
Of business, and the tricks of usury.
His Holiness will never thus dissolve
The unity of State, and strike the Church
With such unsanctified and rude assault
To manners and religion. Put this down
Within the letter, using choicer phrase
Selected by your learning.
Prior.
I will write.
God knows I'd have your grace unsullied.
Albany.
Write
This very eve.
Prior.
I will.—Contrition makes
Appeal far surer than my feeble pen.
Albany.
Your pen be strong! To-morrow I'll to shrift.
Why do you pause?
Prior.
Acknowledgment is grace.
Albany.
Go to!—I'd have you purge disloyalty,
Pardon foul lips, detraction infamous.
I would forgive my enemies in thus
Securing false forgiveness for myself.
Mac Louis!
[Enter Servant.
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[Exit Servant with Prior.
This will establish peace within my breast.
Oh, may it pacify the corpse of him
Who cannot sleep at Lindores! It is said
That prodigies make eloquent his tomb,
And call for blood to still the murdered soul
With slumber of accomplished Nemesis.
My blood he asks—mine, or my children's blood.
If not my blood, then theirs! Not theirs, not theirs!
Child of my brother, O avenging ghost,
As thou wert young, ask not my children's blood,
And cut not off my seed, though such a doom
Were perfect justice! I must wait my time;
So must they wait. We know not here nor there,
How, when, requital comes; but if besought
Thus from the bed of stone where murder lies,
Its coming is secure. And yet I think
These miracles are old wives' tales—no more.
Guilt blurs my understanding. Twice to-day
I stumbled,—when I named my crime aloud
Before the king, and when I offered gold
For Church's pardon. Twice the cloud hath swept
My brain's clear weather. But here comes a gleam
Of goodly sun—that James is bound for France.
It promises the mid-day of my fame,
The perfect shining of my dearest hope.
I'll sleep on it. [Re-enter Servant.]
To-night I'll have strong drink—
A posset! Bring it to my sleeping-room.
[Exeunt.
Scene II.
—A Chamber. King Robert, Prince James, and the Earl of Orkney.Earl of Orkney.
The convoy waits his highness.
King Robert.
Rather say
That dangers wait him; harsh, ambitious seas,
And pulseless rocks and unrelenting winds.
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They have no bonds, no sanctities. I've watched
All day the West imbrued with sable storm.
I think the breeze is higher.
Earl of Orkney.
Nay. I'll swear
Its freshness hath declined.
King Robert.
Good! Then we'll wait
Till all the air is motionless and safe.
Earl of Orkney.
Tarry no more, my liege. To slowly part
Doth make the rift of parting an abyss.
King Robert.
O earl, I cannot heave up from my heart
Its anchor with Farewell!
Earl of Orkney.
Yet must you part.
King Robert.
Not yet—not yet! I cannot loose at once;
With soft persistence must the minutes work,
Or I shall die.
Prince James.
Father!
King Robert.
My only child!
Last leaf of my sere bough, when once I loose
Thy bond of dear reliance from my side,
Untraversable space cuts in between,
And I am bare for ever.
Earl of Orkney.
Come, my liege,
You speak as journey never had return,
And Providence were nought.
King Robert.
A keen rebuke!
God has a human family, and I
Have but one mortal son.—Oh, let me look,
Gaze at your face and see the future in 't.
I shall not watch its changes—never seize
The gracious steps whereby your favours mount
To manhood's comely top. Your brother's face
Was far more delicate, the lips more full
And chafing, and the brow less wide and free,
With less of gentle space between the eyes
As frank as yours. It was a face that drew
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Or scorn envenomed. You are sweetly tuned,
An even nature; on your forehead dreams,
And empire on your mouth. You'll be a man
Beneficent and royal. Check those sobs.
If I am dead, my spirit will rejoice.
Prince James.
I cannot leave you.
King Robert.
Child, nor I loose you.
And yet I must, if in the barren world
My flesh would still have aught to call its own.
Go!—nay, but wait! You'll think of me at night,
The games and studies done—think how I lie
And ponder you. To Memory, as God,
The darkness and the light are both alike.
Prince James.
I'll say “good-night,” and leave the southern winds
To give it to the northern.
King Robert.
I shall pray,
And plunge your name into a well of tears
To send it washed to Heaven.
Prince James.
I will kiss
My hand to you ere sleeping.
King Robert.
And you'll love
The rude land of your birth, nor jest at it?
Prince James.
I've got some heath to carry into France;
They say at Paris it is never seen.
King Robert.
A bushy lock clipt from your country's brow,—
Join it with this from my white forehead ta'en.
Be faithful to the twisted memories.
And, James, there is a head as bright as yours
That's laid beneath the ground. Remember it;
James, James, remember how your brother died.
Prince James.
I will—when I am king.
King Robert.
I know thou wilt.
The close lips are an oath.
Earl of Orkney.
My liege, time runs.
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The hour-glass of my very fatherhood
Shows all its moments gone. I cannot say
The dire word that bereaves me; once I signed
A warrant ... Earl, no torture man conceives
Could crush this centre down;—God has a rack
Whereon He breaks some hearts.—I keep you, earl.
My child,
One mighty speechless clasp! Thus, thus, begot,
Thus lost for ever to my arms' embrace. ...
Now falls the stroke—now, now!
Prince James.
I'll run away.
King Robert.
Settle thy chin nor weep. All's over now.
James, send me all the verses that you write;
Your masters' names and how you spend each day;
And who is kind and if the land is fair.
[Exit Prince James, hiding his face.
He's gone! Good earl, go after! Shut the door.
[Exit the Earl of Orkney.
Starved, starved! Starvation! David, David! Son!
It's in my heart the hunger and the want,
And from the lenten depths of my own soul
I pity thee. And—oh!—to think of it!
His vivid youth and golden beauty gone
To the unloved Obscure, the comfortless
Environment of Night. I know they think
That I forget him; for his memory
That like a grave-stone stood against my heart
Hath sunk into its substance, and now seems
To careless eyes half lost; but so much more
'Tis hidden in my love's dark sepulchre.
He gave his lusty years to wantonness
And shameful riot. All my being's hope
I'd give for his deliverance. And yet
I did not train him with strict uprightness;
I gave my precepts with a fearful voice,
O'erlook'd his irreligion, made excuse
For spotted innocence and growing guilt.
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With gross dishonour—so he died in heart.
I left his punishment in other hands;
And then he died in body; triple death,
Three-fold starvation! I am judged. Ah me!
And yet I send my sole surviving child
To a licentious court, that I may shun
His arduous protection. God is just.
I who have loosed all duties from my neck,
Shall sometime feel the stone of Sisyphus
Rolled on to me for carriage. Yet—O God!—
The stranger's care alone could save my child.
[Exit.
Scene III.
—The same. A Hall. Enter Albany.Albany.
My son and grandsons in a vision bowed
Their heads before me, and my phantom-hand
Let fall the hungry steel upon their necks.
My sin, my sin was executioner,
For I myself was dead as midnight ghost.—
All this is fever; yet within the lines
Of sane and irreproachable surmise
My fear attains to danger; for my son
Is feeble, indolent,—a man of peace,
Unworthy of my loins; he'll lose my gain,
Drop what I've damned my soul to lay on him.
Then is there James. ... Would he might share
His brother's grave! A like captivity
Shall wither him—
[Enter an Attendant.]
Attendant.
Your grace, Sir John is dead.
Albany.
Ramorgny? He hath lived
A white and staring life these many days.
How ended it?
Attendant.
He hung against the wall
Within a dusty corner.
Albany.
Self-undone.
'Twas melancholia!—Attend my charge
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Here is a purse.—Rest not, until you lay
Its sealèd sheet within his royal hand.
Attendant.
My bounteous lord, this opportunity
To do you service—
Albany.
Speak not; but begone.
[Exit Attendant.
O Opportunity!—
My soul, self-murdered, rots beneath the stake
That pointed her direction. Now again
She glimmers on the crooked, deep-cut way
Of treachery, and I will follow her.
She is the fleeting guide that draws my life
Through all its paths of darkness; she's the star
That leads ambition forth! My letter greets
The King of England, tells him how the seas
Are bringing James to France, sets down the points
Where he will touch on English ground, and when.
The lure will take; my last impediment
Find, like my first, a prison. I am blessed.
Would that the pardon came, and that I felt
Less sick at banquets, and saw less of dreams.
[Exit.
Scene IV.
—The Castle of Rothsay in Bute. A Chamber. King Robert, the Duchess Marjorie, Allan.Duchess Marjorie.
Now that my infamous, false bond is loosed,
And death has cleared my wrong, with sweetened thought
I tend and love my monarch's broken age.
My pride no longer fills my care with gall
As when his son was living.—Let me put
Your cushion smooth and easy for the head.—
Good Allan, help me.
Allan.
Blank—no gratitude.
His agèd sight is travelling across
The limit whence his life will follow it.
He listens to our human speech no more
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More than to learn his son is safe in France.
King Robert.
Ha! France!
Allan.
Yes, sire—Prince James is surely safe.
The wind hath favour'd sailing.
Duchess Marjorie.
Let me raise
Your feet, my father, on this other stool.
Allan.
He's gone again.
Duchess Marjorie.
A lost, a feeble face
That makes no terms with Death.
Allan.
Lady, I'm glad
That I have had no children. It is sore
To lose them—see them die like upward sparks,
And your own embers burning still to ash.
Duchess Marjorie.
Yes—and to see them sin and sell their souls
To vanity. I'll never give the world
More lives to waste.
Allan.
An' yet to have no love!
I loved your husband; I had been forlorn
Without his kindly laugh.
Duchess Marjorie.
Enough! He died
In time to save his kindness from all taint,
But nothing else.
King Robert.
Look! Does the weather-cock
Still point to south?
Allan.
Yes, and the day is fair
And full of shining.
King Robert.
Help me to look out.
Duchess Marjorie.
You are too weak to move.
King Robert.
I must look out.
Support me to the window.—Over there
Is France, the sunny land, beyond those fields
Of wheaten green, beyond, beyond, beyond!
And where's the east?
Allan.
'Tis yonder.
King Robert.
Over there
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That make the distance mourn—beyond, beyond!
Both unattainable! O heart, too far!—
Now I'll sit down.—Why runs that man so fast?
Allan.
Perchance he brings us happy tidings, sire,
That the young prince is well.
King Robert
[struggling to speak].
My tongue hath swooned
At presage of his tidings. Haste—O stay—
Not more ... I should be stronger tasting death
To bear it. ...
Allan.
Nay, 'tis surely happy news.
Our gallant prince in health and full of joy.
Look! they are come. What ho! Prince James is safe!
[Enter the Earl of Buchan and Walter.]
Earl of Buchan.
He's in an English prison—in the Tow'r
That frowns upon the Thames. King Henry hath,
Against the laws of knighthood, seized the ship
That bore our prince, and vows he'll teach the tongue
Of France to Scotland's heir.
King Robert.
He's dead.
Walter.
No, no:
In prison, and a kindly one they say.
King Robert.
He's dead—he's dead! They told me such false tales;
David was but in prison, in kind walls—
And he was dead. I'm near the grave for lies
To much avail you.
Earl of Buchan.
No; he is not dead.
He's well and treated in most gracious ways.
King Robert.
Starved?
Earl of Buchan.
He is well attended and well kept,
Even from the royal board.
King Robert.
Away, begone!
I'm dying, and you thrust the earth on me.
I'm on my way to judgment. Let me face
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Each other, I consenting; no poor souls
I've left to evil men; no innocents
Condemned by wicked judges I have feared
To thwart; no beggars, stripped by greedy lords
Whose avarice I bore; no murdered forms
Whose murd'rers I forgave. No need of such.
I plead that I am guilty.—Bring them not.
I'm guilty on my solemn oath, O God.
Father of men, King of the universe,
I've sinned in Thy great offices—in both!
Bring not Thy witnesses—my people's ghosts.
Bring not that dear dread witness, with pale hands
And different keen face and eyes, whose look
Would fix a root of horror in my soul
To grow up like a yew-tree from a grave.
Let me be judged within an empty court!
Or, if we're judged together,—when the book
Is opened, where in lines of red are writ
The sins of his few years,—
And he stands far apart in white despair,
Then shall he answer to a few that fall
From the accusing lips, but point the sum
To me for answer. I will take them all
As blessings:—for a father's sins extend
Far over his own blotted page; yea, fill
With scarlet of damnation many blanks
His children had left clean except for him.
Allan.
How solemn is this judgment before death,
Enacted for our profit.
Walter.
Thus to see
A soul in flesh corruptible appear
Before th' immortal bar.
King Robert.
My God, my God!
I wait Thy sentence; I am self-contemned,
Without a word from any human voice.
It will not be to flames! Some writers say
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Than change of states—each man his opposite.
If so, then I shall be a childless slave,
My fatherhood and royalty displaced,
Seen in some other, who within my sight
Leans his one hand upon a goodly son,
The other on a sceptre. Then, oh then,
The penal fires would be like Heaven's glow,
Their smoke refreshing cloud and covering
From the heart-scorching sight.
Allan.
Will none approach
To hold him up?
Duchess Marjorie.
I will.—His eyes are wild
With something in the depths.
King Robert.
Lost! lost! 'Tis done.
There is no crown upon my head. Oh say,
Is nothing on my head?
Duchess Marjorie.
A little round
Of sovereign gold.
King Robert.
But I can feel there's naught;
And in me all my father's love is sucked
Forth by the cruel wind.—What face is that?
I never knew it. Yet the hair—the hair!
But oh! the eyes—I've never looked on such,
Nor known those lips. If it should be my son,
I do disown him, disinherit, curse!
Now Hell receive me!
Duchess Marjorie.
See, the change hath come,
Death's ashen tread, before it stoops to take.
Allan.
Gather about him now the strife is done.
Peace presses us together.
King Robert
[in a whisper].
Prison! Death!
The cloud of night is rising in mine eyes;
I feel Life turn the key upon my heart.
There is no op'ning.—It is dark—I die.
[Dies.
Duchess Marjorie.
That was the last heave of the broken heart,
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Allan.
My king, my lord!
I never thought thy death would be so strange,
With all that pain to end a gentle life.
[Enter Albany.]
Duchess Marjorie.
Your grace, the king is dead.
Albany.
How!—dead!—the king!
Duchess Marjorie.
He died upon the news that James is ta'en
The King of England's captive.
Earl of Buchan.
Now your grace
Is Regent, till the prisoner is loosed,
Whose chains bind down our restive fealty
And tie it to your will.
Albany.
A trust I hold
But for the regal future. Lift the head!
Died he at peace?
Walter.
Oh no, he mourn'd his son
Till we could hear no more.
Albany.
Alas! and this
Is rule and monarchy—to be like this,
Poor, old, unhappy, ignorant, extinct.—
[Aside.]
For this I've doom'd my soul. What's done is done.
I'll use my fortune till I'm even thus.—
He had few sins to dread.
Duchess Marjorie.
And yet he died
Most full of hellish terrors.
Albany.
I will send
A great procession. John, I mourn thy fate.
False was the comfort that new-nam'd thy state.
[Exit.
Duchess Marjorie.
I'll to a convent's refuge, there to pray
For his affrighted soul, and sooth to say
For his sake will I join another name
To his and never think they're not the same.
[Exit.
Allan.
His heart was broken, not by strokes of Time,
But thrusts of him who should have propp'd it. Crime
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On the third generation. Raise the dead.
[Enter procession of Churchmen and Lords.]
His doom was in his gentleness and fear.
His changèd name still brought him to this bier.
[Exeunt omnes.
| The Father's Tragedy | |