 | The Two Marriages |  |
Scene 3.
The Black Pass in the Mountains.—Enter Raynor from one side. Snow is seen all round, and rocks and precipices. The spot is most desolate. In the distance a winding path is seen for many miles.He speaks.
—A lonely spot, and fit to freeze the vengeance
Right out o' the heart of man; it is so cold.
It shall not freeze the vengeance out of mine;
Not if yon snowy mass that totters there
Should tremble and descend and bury me
And all those rocks in multitudinous ruin—
Not even so would I forego revenge.
There is a fire within me that would melt
69
The face of Beatrice would pierce the dark,
'Twould blossom—a red rose amid the white
Piled scentless heaps, and urge me on to—Fury!
Hell! thunder! there he is; am I mistaken?
Surely I know the figure like my own,
That rides along the winding mountain-path,
As I once rode—in figure like to him—
Towards Beatrice. I'll wait him here, for when
He turns that rugged corner, he will see me.
[A pause.
He sees me—knows me—leaves his horse and comes
Towards me on foot. He, too, is anxious, perhaps,
To dye the steel-blue of his blade in vengeance.
He is not all a coward—never was.
Our father's blood flows in no coward's veins,
Cowards we never are—not even if traitors.
Now he will reach me. Beatrice, “I die,
For ever loving,” should pale death be nigh!
[Enter Wilson.
Ray.
—Scoundrel! At last!
70
—I, too, have been waiting.
Ray.
—Not so—you have been flying.
Wil.
—I didn't want to kill you.
Ray.
—The time has come—you know the lives you've ruined
Through your strange pestilent, malicious hatred.
The time has come to pay off every score.
You are my brother. My own father's blood
Flows in your veins. A fratricidal act
It is to kill you; but I mean to kill you.
Wil.
—And I have somewhat also to revenge.
Your father—tender, humourous brother mine—
With that same tender humour, I suppose,
And that same high regard for proper self,
Which you show in such eminent degree,
Ruined my mother, for his casual pleasure,
Before he saw the splendid beauty you
Called mother—whose high beauty has descended
On you—whose roses burn upon your cheeks,
But redder now this strenuous anger flames,
Incarnadining all the pink thereon.
Your father—tender, humourous brother mine—
With that same tender humour, I suppose,
And that same high regard for proper self,
Which you show in such eminent degree,
Ruined my mother, for his casual pleasure,
Before he saw the splendid beauty you
Called mother—whose high beauty has descended
On you—whose roses burn upon your cheeks,
But redder now this strenuous anger flames,
Incarnadining all the pink thereon.
A truce to jesting—let us get to work!
We were always meant to kill each other, Edward;
And now I own your wife, there's double cause.
Prime vengeance that was—worthy, worthy vengeance;
Most excellent and most divine revenge.
Your father left my mother. She, sad heart,
Died miserably in Paris; the only soul
On this wide earth that I—in sorrow born,
And hardly sane, they say—have ever loved.
But her I did love, and my love became
A fire of vengeance, like your love for her
On whom I would have wreaked a sweet revenge
Had she not fled and hidden herself past finding.
Ah! would I not have sorely punished her
For all your father's cruelty and yours?
Would I not—in strange, cunning, bitter ways—
Have been the monster of her married life;
Making that life—as bitter husbands can
When versed in all the intricacies of sin—
Making that life a hopeless, joyless burden.
We were always meant to kill each other, Edward;
And now I own your wife, there's double cause.
71
Most excellent and most divine revenge.
Your father left my mother. She, sad heart,
Died miserably in Paris; the only soul
On this wide earth that I—in sorrow born,
And hardly sane, they say—have ever loved.
But her I did love, and my love became
A fire of vengeance, like your love for her
On whom I would have wreaked a sweet revenge
Had she not fled and hidden herself past finding.
Ah! would I not have sorely punished her
For all your father's cruelty and yours?
Would I not—in strange, cunning, bitter ways—
Have been the monster of her married life;
Making that life—as bitter husbands can
When versed in all the intricacies of sin—
Making that life a hopeless, joyless burden.
Your eyes flash—so did mine, with joy o' the thought—
With joy to think that those red lips of hers
Went kissing mine, and lingering over them
As flowers kiss flowers, waved by the summer wind—
All by mistake; dreaming that I was you.
Oh! glorious vengeance; but I had better still
In store. I would have told her her mistake,
And kept her bound yet closer in the thrall
Of wifehood; made her kiss me, hating me;
Bent her fair body to my every whim;
Yea—tortured her as masters when they please
Far in the South, or tyrants in the East,
Can torture with their passion wild, perverse,
The tender, yielding body of a slave;
Some fair Circassian, or some soft Quadroon—
Having upon her mastery unquestioned.
Oh! would I not have made the fair eyes weep,
The fair lips languish, and the fair tongue spell
Hard lessons that my cruelty designed,
Till all her spirit was broken, and she felt
The near approach of death—from which, by some
New spell, I would have wakened her for fresh
Access of lavish misery.
With joy to think that those red lips of hers
Went kissing mine, and lingering over them
As flowers kiss flowers, waved by the summer wind—
All by mistake; dreaming that I was you.
72
In store. I would have told her her mistake,
And kept her bound yet closer in the thrall
Of wifehood; made her kiss me, hating me;
Bent her fair body to my every whim;
Yea—tortured her as masters when they please
Far in the South, or tyrants in the East,
Can torture with their passion wild, perverse,
The tender, yielding body of a slave;
Some fair Circassian, or some soft Quadroon—
Having upon her mastery unquestioned.
Oh! would I not have made the fair eyes weep,
The fair lips languish, and the fair tongue spell
Hard lessons that my cruelty designed,
Till all her spirit was broken, and she felt
The near approach of death—from which, by some
New spell, I would have wakened her for fresh
Access of lavish misery.
Ray.
—Oh! wretch!
What stays me now from killing you in the speech?
Only the thought of your sad mother perhaps,
73
That, as the rumours told you, you are mad!
But peace between us now there cannot be;
No peace till one at least of us is dead.
Swords—pistols—Wilson; which is it to be?
[Offering both.
Choose quickly for (looking round hastily and uneasily)
a storm is in the air.
[Thunder and wind. The sky darkens.
Wil.
—Pistols—they are the fitter for our work.
Here in this Alpine solitude we need
Not fear, lest interruption mar our pleasure.
Pleasure I say—for labour it is not.
[Bowing politely and sarcastically towards Raynor.
We need not fear the cunning-eyed, quick police,
So jealous now, and swift to interfere
When gentlemen would settle debts of honour.
We need not seek some petty border town—
Some valley hidden from the keen-eyed Mayor
Or Provost of the district: here indeed,
Amid the rocks and snow-wreaths we are safe.
Here in this Alpine solitude we need
Not fear, lest interruption mar our pleasure.
Pleasure I say—for labour it is not.
[Bowing politely and sarcastically towards Raynor.
We need not fear the cunning-eyed, quick police,
So jealous now, and swift to interfere
When gentlemen would settle debts of honour.
We need not seek some petty border town—
Some valley hidden from the keen-eyed Mayor
Or Provost of the district: here indeed,
Amid the rocks and snow-wreaths we are safe.
I have some pistols in my holsters—thanks—
[Declining those which Raynor offers for him to choose from.
They are good, I doubt not: I prefer my own.
I'll fetch them while you load and look to yours.
Each with his own true weapon let it be.
We have no cursed blundering seconds here
To bother about the pistols; mark and choose
And portion out a similar tool to each,
Teasing the very air with quips and fancies,
While Death is languishing to grasp his prey.
A duel à outrance, doubtless (Raynor bows quietly)
. So I thought.
[Wilson moves off towards his horse. Raynor looks up to the sky (now very black and threatening) and the mountains. He draws a deep sigh.
At last—at last! the holy time has come.
Now, Beatrice, thou art to be avenged!
Here in this fierce abode of rocks and snow
I do remind myself of garden lawns
In summer, and of roses budding near—
Sweet, gracious roses, perfect in pure bloom—
Sweet, tender roses, delicate in scent—
I do remind and pierce my soul with these,
Yea, with the thought of these—that mercy come
Not now with piteous wings of soft intent
Between my purpose and my bitterest foe.
I arm myself with malice; put away
All peevish, charitable woman's thoughts,
All thoughts of love and pardon—dreams of God—
Desires of purity and hopes of heaven.
All hints of mercy—feminine resolves—
Longings unconquered—yearnings unsuppressed—
Aspirings foolish—intuitions frail.
All these I do abolish and consume
In one wild flame of vengeance that shall leap
Upon him as a lion roused from sleep—
Upon him as a tiger from its lair.
Oh, sweet face, lost to me—sweet face so fair—
Now will I bring thee a blood-red crown to wear!
[Wilson has reached his horse, which is at some little distance, near or under an overhanging rock. He fumbles in the holsters for the pistols, takes them out and examines them. He, presently, fires one off, thinking that the priming may be damp, in order afterwards to reload it. His horse is startled at the explosion, which rings loudly among the echoing rocks, and plunges furiously. The leaping of the frightened horse and the reverberations of the air from the shot,
together, bring down the avalanche
trembling overhead. It descends with
an awful crash, and, sweeping away
both Wilson and the horse, hurls them
over the precipice, burying them besides
in vast heaps of snow at the bottom.
[Raynor gazes; astounded and in terror.
Good God!
[After a time he slowly, and dropping first his weapons, advances to the edge of the precipice; falls on his hands and knees and looks over. After a time he rises, and faces the audience.
No hope—the heaped-up mass is far beneath—
Enough to bury a city in itself—
And there's the fall besides! That fall would kill
A giant. Even Prometheus could not stand it!
But I will to the village—send up help—
At any rate they may regain the bodies—
But hope of life there is not—cannot be.
And this is vengeance; now she is avenged,
But not by me—by the stroke of Fate itself.
Ah, God! Thy ways are wonderful indeed,
Beyond our knowing, and beyond our thought.
[Takes up the swords and breaks them—flings the pistols over the precipice.
Away, base weapons—ye are poor, indeed;
Poor—vulgar—paltry; despicable things,
Before the instruments which God most high
Uses to carry out His purposes.
Oh, Beatrice! it may have been some prayer
Of thine which, flying through this icy air
Towards God's pure throne, delivered me from sin;
Thy pardon and His grace I now may win.
To me the glory of the grace divine
Is one thing, lady gentle—one with thine;
And now my soul before this awful fact
Gathers new clearness—fresh desire to act.
[Sky begins to clear, gently.
I will be pure as thou art—in the end
Thou shalt rejoice that thou hast called me friend.
[Declining those which Raynor offers for him to choose from.
74
I'll fetch them while you load and look to yours.
Each with his own true weapon let it be.
We have no cursed blundering seconds here
To bother about the pistols; mark and choose
And portion out a similar tool to each,
Teasing the very air with quips and fancies,
While Death is languishing to grasp his prey.
A duel à outrance, doubtless (Raynor bows quietly)
. So I thought.
[Wilson moves off towards his horse. Raynor looks up to the sky (now very black and threatening) and the mountains. He draws a deep sigh.
At last—at last! the holy time has come.
Now, Beatrice, thou art to be avenged!
Here in this fierce abode of rocks and snow
I do remind myself of garden lawns
In summer, and of roses budding near—
Sweet, gracious roses, perfect in pure bloom—
Sweet, tender roses, delicate in scent—
I do remind and pierce my soul with these,
Yea, with the thought of these—that mercy come
Not now with piteous wings of soft intent
75
I arm myself with malice; put away
All peevish, charitable woman's thoughts,
All thoughts of love and pardon—dreams of God—
Desires of purity and hopes of heaven.
All hints of mercy—feminine resolves—
Longings unconquered—yearnings unsuppressed—
Aspirings foolish—intuitions frail.
All these I do abolish and consume
In one wild flame of vengeance that shall leap
Upon him as a lion roused from sleep—
Upon him as a tiger from its lair.
Oh, sweet face, lost to me—sweet face so fair—
Now will I bring thee a blood-red crown to wear!
[Wilson has reached his horse, which is at some little distance, near or under an overhanging rock. He fumbles in the holsters for the pistols, takes them out and examines them. He, presently, fires one off, thinking that the priming may be damp, in order afterwards to reload it. His horse is startled at the explosion, which rings loudly among the echoing rocks, and plunges furiously. The leaping of the frightened horse and the reverberations of the air from the shot,
76
[Raynor gazes; astounded and in terror.
Good God!
[After a time he slowly, and dropping first his weapons, advances to the edge of the precipice; falls on his hands and knees and looks over. After a time he rises, and faces the audience.
No hope—the heaped-up mass is far beneath—
Enough to bury a city in itself—
And there's the fall besides! That fall would kill
A giant. Even Prometheus could not stand it!
But I will to the village—send up help—
At any rate they may regain the bodies—
But hope of life there is not—cannot be.
And this is vengeance; now she is avenged,
But not by me—by the stroke of Fate itself.
Ah, God! Thy ways are wonderful indeed,
Beyond our knowing, and beyond our thought.
[Takes up the swords and breaks them—flings the pistols over the precipice.
Away, base weapons—ye are poor, indeed;
77
Before the instruments which God most high
Uses to carry out His purposes.
Oh, Beatrice! it may have been some prayer
Of thine which, flying through this icy air
Towards God's pure throne, delivered me from sin;
Thy pardon and His grace I now may win.
To me the glory of the grace divine
Is one thing, lady gentle—one with thine;
And now my soul before this awful fact
Gathers new clearness—fresh desire to act.
[Sky begins to clear, gently.
I will be pure as thou art—in the end
Thou shalt rejoice that thou hast called me friend.
[He departs towards the village.—Scene closes.
| The Two Marriages | |