University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.

—House of Brutus. Publia, hanging round an urn; Vindex by her.
Vindex.

Nay, come out, mistress, and let the old slave
reach you some food. You've tasted not a bit, and your
cheeks wax as white as the ashes you dote on.

Publia.
Ashes—the strong, young limbs, the joyous hearts,
The comely faces! Ashes—all my toil,
My child-bed labour, and my nursing cares!
My pride, and all my motherhood burnt out;
And this the casket of my wedded love—
This urn? The icy metal strikes within,
And kills my feeble heart. Cold death, make haste.

Vindex.
[Aside.]

It all comes of that eaves-dropping.
I'm punished, for it never leaves my ears—their shrieks,
their cries for life, and the rods harrying them—it never
stops. Yet she bade me dodge about and follow them.
To think that they could touch their father's life. I'd
have winked at lesser villanies. And she does not
see how he misses them; that's worse. He's no pity for
himself, and he gets none. [Aloud.]
Lady, you think
not of your husband. You'll not die and leave him
untended? I could but wait on him, and all the while
he'd be alone. A wife can find her way within a man.

Publia.
I know no entrance. I could only reach
His distant being as his matron-wife,
The mother of his children. He hath shut
That gate, and barred it. I can never more
Come back to him. I'm banished, and must die.

Vindex.

Mistress, he is so tender about your health
and sorrows. He sent me to watch you, and stroked the
head of a little music-girl, urging her to play you back
into comfort. But the child is frightened.

Publia.
Brutus, I feel it—Brutus, thou art great.
But I am weak, and have no part at all
In what remains, now thou hast slain my sons,
And all my spousal brought to thee is gone.

Vindex.

She pants and clings to the bronze as she'd
press her heart through it. Her head droops. Mistress!

Publia.
My children, I will journey to attest
You have a mother still, who dies to keep
Her boys about her. Titus, do you moan,
Lost on the dull strand, shivering, condemned?
I'll come and play with you unearthly games
Around the mournful willows. I belong
Wholly to you, my sons. I brought ye forth,
And cherished. Now I'll fend for ye in hell.

Vindex.
[Looking doubtfully at her.]

I'll fetch master.
She'll not mind him now. He's kept away, for she never
spoke to him, and her look was like a dumb creature's.
Yet she's not hurt like him; she'll recover, when she gets
to her boys. They may be a bit changed; but no matter;
they're hers, and she'll own them. The lord Jupiter must
look to his case; it's a mystery for the gods. Now, I
wonder, shall I let be, or make believe she asked for him
at the last. Nay, nay, I'll just beckon him. I'm a free
man, and must leave off my slave's juggleries.

[Exit Vindex.

Publia.
Together come and meet me. You are mine,
Not his, not his! Gods! they are shuddering,
As though a spectre beckoned them. I'll keep
My flesh and blood;—boys, it is just the same.
There's a dark river rushing past my eyes;
Don't wail so on the banks. A lullaby,
For ye are children still. Ah, I forget.

[A strain of timid music.

[It stops; she dies.

[Enter Brutus and Vindex.]
Brutus.
Nay, Vindex, back! Before I enter in
I know what is. [Exit Vindex.]
O death, how soft
Thou work'st thy sentence! The reproach is gone,
And these young lips, that I have never touched
Since her sons' kiss, recoil from me no more.
Farewell, farewell! I have no part in ye;
My murderer's work is done. Now, when the Lars
Are wreathed, on happy days of festival,
When families are gathered round the hearth,
What worship shall I bring? Before the gods
I stand abhorred and monstrous. Shall I hope
To found a state upon a rifled home,
A murdered matron, a polluted house?
Can chastity and justice win no awe
Save by such sacrifice? Ah me! What guilt
It takes to breed one virtue. Would that heaven
Might judge me in the midst of my remorse,
And, by this urn and slowly-blanching corpse,
Assign my doom. I would feel punishment,
For in myself I cannot suffer more;
I grow a blank, and shall be imbecile
Unless I am afflicted. What! a stir,
A message in the air, a company
Of blessèd spirits, a triumphant strain!

Lares.
[Whispering.]
Brutus, Brutus!
Soon shall we meet thee;
Thy ancestors, fathers,
Loftily greet thee;
We of high influence
The guardians sublime,
With memory lighting
Indifferent time;
We who at festivals
Silently trod,
Each served, unbeholden,
An intimate god.
Soon shall thy glorious,
Terrible fame,
Wake young futurity,
Awed by thy name.

Lemures.
[Sighing.]
Woe, Woe!
We have no part nor lot
In honour's state,
We are remembered not,
Or cursed by hate.
Thy children, we shall crouch
Far from thy shade,
In uncheered company,
Dumb and dismayed.
No willing feasts of joy
To us are made,
Only propitiations desolate
From men afraid.
Alas, Alas!

Lares.
Joy and eternal praise.