University of Virginia Library

ACT IV

Osmunda's Pomander

Scene.—Urban's study in the Palace of Pavia. At the back a large two-leaved window, brushed by the branches of a tall lime tree. The window is draped. On the left, in a high and deep fireplace, a fire of wood burns. An oaken screen extends from the upper side of the fireplace, across a portion of the room. A curtain, on a rod joined to the screen, shuts off the fireplace except in front; but when the act opens this is folded back. In front of the screen, a couch and small table with reading-lamp. On the right is a table with documents and writing materials;

beside it a large chair; against the wall a sideboard with glasses, etc. There are four alcoves in the wall, containing parchments, scrolls, etc.; and above the alcoves, niches with busts of Alexander the Great, Cæsar, Hannibal, and Alboin. There are doors right and left; and an unseen entrance behind the screen.

It is night when the act begins; the window is open; and the waning moon shines through the branches of the lime tree.

Osmunda, worn out with nursing Urban, is lying on the couch. She has been reading, and has laid her book open on the table. The physician enters as the curtain rises.

Osm.
The king is dressing.

Phy.
What!

Osm.
He says he must.

Phy.
It means his life! Delirious strength will waste
Him in an hour. His wound will recrudesce
And suppurate. Why am I not obeyed?

Osm.
(rises).
You have been obeyed. The king's delirium
Is spent; his thought coherent; and his eyes,
That roamed like ruined light, become again
The sentinels of reason.

Phy.
Then he slept
At last?

Osm.
I was beside him when he fell
Asleep, my little Sybil in my arms.
Which was the gentler sleeper, more at home
In the benighted land of slumber, I
Essayed in vain to tell.
[steps are heard behind the screen.]
Here is the king.
I shall not see him unless he asks for me.

[goes out.]
Enter Urban, leaning on Pasqual's shoulder. He is haggard and weak.
Phy.
I trust your majesty, debating well
Ability and inclination, found
Your strength to rise equal to your desire:
To leave your bed so soon is perilous.

Urb.
The peril is my own, the praise is yours
If I resume the hardihood to risk
Relapse; but I adventure nothing; weak
[sits in the large chair.]
As water, yet I feel the founts of life
Break out again, with murmured prophesies
Of dazzling days and nights of wonderment.
I must have music! Bid the minstrels play.

Phy.
I shall instruct them. Music is the stalk
And flower of health, and most remedial.

[about to go.]
Pasq.
(whispering).
He presses me for news.
What shall I say?

Phy.
(whispering).
Say all, judiciously. 'Twill fret him more
To mark evasion than to know the worst.

[goes out.]
Urb.
Three weeks, you say, at death's door.

Pasq.
I maintain
The blade was poisoned.

Urb.
Oh, impossible!

Pasq.
But so inept a wound itself approached
Your life no nearer than a thorn-prick would.

Urb.
I am sure there was no poison: simplest wounds
That miss the first intention smoulder long.
And now the news. Three weeks behind the times!
The news! This unknown remnant of the past
Is like a caul about me. Till I know
The best and worst I am as one unborn
Why do you not begin and tell me all?
You said I must not think till I had strength
To rise. I have risen.
[Music is heard.]
Ah! the minstrelsy!
To such a melody a soul might sing
In torment, smiling and at ease.—The news!
I have a sure presentiment of ill:
Rehearse your story while the music lasts.
Why are you silent? Where is Saturnia?

Pasq.
Saturnia? It was the queen who plucked
You, bleeding, from a ring of thirsty swords,
And with her tender and importunate care
Recaptured for the world your fleeting life.

Urb.
She is a noble lady, certainly.
Where is Saturnia?

Pasq.
I cannot tell.
But I have baffling news of Lombardy.
Saturnia's fate is insignificant.

Urb.
(starting from his seat).
Saturnia's fate! What have you done with her?
[crosses the room hastily and opens a door.]
Give over there! The strings are raw; the tune
Insane.
[Music ceases suddenly.]
What is her fate?

Pasq.
I cannot tell.

Urb.
You cannot tell? You mean that she is dead!
Whoever dared to touch the life of her
Who was to me the hallowed shrine of youth,
Of love, of beauty, the ethereal part
Of the world's delicacy, shall be killed
By some new death of Eastern cruelty
Exceeding fancy.—Is Saturnia dead?

Pasq.
I cannot tell.

Urb.
Who can? Who knows her fate?
Answer me on your life.

Pasq.
The queen.

Urb.
The queen!
A woman's vengeance. Bid her come to me.
No; she shall be unprepared.
[opens the door.]
Desire the queen—
[Re-enter Osmunda.]
Ah! you have overheard.

Osm.
No, as I live!
I kept in call lest you should need my help.

Urb.
Give me your arm. Look at me—in the eyes.
Where is Saturnia?

Osm.
In a nunnery.

Urb.
Not dead?

Osm.
Oh no!

Urb.
The convent of St. Ann's?
[Osmunda assents.]
Who placed her there?

Osm.
I did.

Urb.
Why did you so?

Osm.
In the name of justice, and for my own weal,
And my daughter's.

Urb.
Yes. . . . Give order now
For her release.

Osm.
I cannot.

Urb.
Cannot! Why?

Osm.
(to Pasqual).
Have you not told?

Pasq.
He would not listen to me.

Urb.
I listen now.

Pasq.
Hildebrand and his gang
Of malcontents fled to Ravenna. . . .

[hesitates.]
Urb.
Well?
Go on! These timorous delays are wounds
Deeper than steel can trench. Say all; strike home.

Pasq.
To say it all it to strike home indeed!
Lucian is King of Lombardy.

Urb.
Lucian!
I understand you very well. I know.
You say worse than the worst by the world's width
To make the ill seem good.

Pasq.
I have said the truth.
Lucian with allies of Ravenna, and all
The Lombard rebels, overthrew your men,
Followed the Duke of Garda to the gates
Of Pavia, which he now besieges; took
The royal title, and like a gamester sets
A tempting price upon your head.

Urb.
A price
Upon my head! How much?

Pasq.
Ten thousand crowns.

Urb.
My helmet cost me more!—But is it true?
Is Pavia besieged?

Pasq.
I said besieged;
But our defeat is heavier than that:
Pavia is taken. Nothing remains to us
Except the palace.

Urb.
(rises, staggers, and clutches the screen).
Nothing.

Pasq.
And our hearts.

Urb.
Once on a time the broad earth was my room.
Between the curtains of the day and night
I strode from east to west, and hourly held
Communion with my great imaginings;
And now this prison is the only space
That's left me in a universe of worlds!
A dying rat is happier in his hole!
Had I a star to go to, even a waste
Abandoned orb, that fallen spirits shun,
My soul could live at ease. Nothing is mine
Without my kingdom!
[sinks on couch.—A knocking is heard.]
Enter, herald! Cry
The news that's knocking at my heart!

Enter Philadelphus and Junipert. Junipert has been drinking, and walks unsteadily. He keeps behind Philadelphus.
Phil.
The king!

Pasq.
Why are you in the palace, Philadelphus?

Phil.
We came this morning, Junipert and I,
The last to enter ere the gates were closed.
I am playing cicerone to the poet.—
Come, Junipert. The lobby was our way.

Pasq.
But why desert the winning side?

Phil.
Which side
Is that, my lord? The palace will endure
A three months' siege at least; and chance and change
Are most empirical philosophers.

Urb.
(rises from the couch).
Three months! Why, in three months I could create
A kingdom! All is well—better than well!
These golden drops of time, good alchemist,
Are the elixir of our immortal fame.

Phil.
Time is the elixir of all mundane things.

Urb.
I shall command in person.

[crosses the room, maintaining with difficulty an erect carriage.]
Pasq.
You cannot go!

Urb.
(thrusting away Pasqual, who has offered help).
I need no arm to lean on. I am king:
Disease and death are subject to me. Come!
To-night an onslaught in the dark shall sweep
Our hasty rebels over Pavia's walls,
Like blood-stained leaves before the whirling north.

[goes out, followed anxiously by Osmunda and Pasqual. Junipert takes a leathern bottle from under

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168

his cloak and drinks. He lays the bottle on the window-sill, removes his cloak, and steps out on the ledge. Then he gets into the branches of the tree, shakes it, and peers down.]
Phil.
I'm not a gymnast! If you fall, remember,
There's no one here to dive and fetch you up.
Air is to breathe, not swim in.
(to himself).
Drunken ape!
But something's in his head besides the wine.
[Junipert tumbles into the room.]
You have escaped! Then clearly you were born
To die in bed.

[Junipert gets up, secures his bottle, drinks from it, and hands it to Philadelphus, who replaces the stopper before putting it to his mouth.]
Phil.
This is the way to drink—
The philosophic way.

[seems to take a long pull.]
Juni.
Stupendous lungs!
Stop, selfish drunkard!

Phil.
Oh, there's some left yet!

[returns the bottle to Junipert.]
Juni.
I'll soon test that.
[puts the bottle to his mouth, expecting only a few drops, and is almost choked. The wine pours over his face and clothes. He looks at, and into the bottle, mystified.]
I drank the half of it;
You drank the other half, and yet it seemed
Half full and more just now! The devil's in it!

[flings the bottle out of window.]
Phil.
It was, indeed, a bottle and a half!

Juni.
(sits in the chair).
Sit, Philadelphus—here in the chair beside me.
[Philadelphus sits beside him.]
You know I am a poet; now, a poet
Is all things to all men—

Phil.
No, Junipert.

Juni.
And nothing to himself.

Phil.
No, Junipert;
That's the philosopher.

Juni.
Philosopher?
But what I want to say I'm aiming at.
True, I've been drinking—not without a motive;
Not for the sake of drinking, understand.
No, my objective as a drunkard is—
Courage.

Phil.
What need have you for extra courage?

Juni.
I have invented a prodigious plot
Which I am executing now.

Phil.
I see.

Juni.
Being what I am I need a confidant.
Why should a man be burdened with a gift
Of utterance if he's not to utter,—hey?

Phil.
Or with the gift of thirst and not to drink.

Juni.
Veracity intact! I'll write it down.
[takes out his tablets and writes. Then turns over a leaf or two.]
Here is the draft of it.

Phil.
Of what?

Juni.
The letter.

Phil.
What letter?

Juni.
Read it—read it out aloud.

Phil.
(reading from Junipert's tablets).

“Come to me to-night. My heart” . . . Who
is the subscriber? (turns over a leaf).
Osmunda!—
“Come to me to-night. My heart—
my pride is broken. I suffer every misery a
husband can inflict upon a wife he hates. I
shall die long before the palace yields if I
am not delivered from this hourly torture.” . . .

What follows here, all interlined?

Juni.
(in vain endeavours to decipher his own writing).
Minute
Instructions how to enter by the tree
At midnight.

Phil.
Yes, but who?

Juni.
Lucian, of course.
I copied it in scripture feminine,
And Lucian had it yesterday. I climbed
Into the tree to try its wooden strength,
Half hoping he might fall and break his neck:
'Twill bear him sober since it bore me drunk.
So here I hide, and when he enters—plump,
[taking a knife from his bosom.]
This dagger's in his heart!

Phil.
Oh, well contrived!

Juni.
Poor Lucian dead, the rebels slink away;
Osmunda's infidelity appears
By my epistle; Urban divorces her,
And marries his beloved Saturnia—
My muse and goddess who ascends the throne
Across my lost soul, damn you, Philadelphus!
Consummate plot! As certain as the dawn!
Oho! the poet's always misconceived!
The poet's eminently practical!

[falls out of the chair and rolls over asleep.]
Phil.
Friend Junipert, your plot is beautiful;
You forge and kill that she whom you adore
May marry some one else. Most practical!
Observe my plot now, the philosopher's.
Oh, I've a plot! More intimate am I
With this old palace, dungeon and battlement,
Than all its deepest denizens, the rats,
Or long-lived crows that whet their beaks above:
Day in, day out, I searched it for a year.
To-night, in secret, by a way I know,
Enter, who?—Hildebrand and Thrasimund!
A philosophical conspiracy!
You grant humanity consists of men?
I am a man; so when I serve myself
I serve humanity. To-morrow, freed
By Urban's death, the Lombards toss their caps
For despotism o'erthrown—humanity
In the abstract served by me; while I receive
Ten thousand golden crowns—humanity
In substance served supremely by itself.
I think my name is fixed in history now!
(at the door).
Help, here!

Enter Soldier.
Sol.
What's this?

Phil.
You see.

[Philadelphus and the Soldier raise Junipert.]
Juni.
Saturnia!

[They take Junipert out between them.]
Re-enter Urban, supported by the Duke of Garda and Pasqual, and followed by Osmunda.
Urb.
Here, on the couch. I am stronger than I seem.
[lies down on the couch.]
To-morrow I will head a sortie. Garda,
The scheme of your defence is masterly.
But go to bed: you have most need of rest.
I too shall sleep an hour. Pasqual can watch;
Then, I: so shall your mind have full repose.
Good night.
[Garda and Pasqual go out.]
Osmunda.

Osm.
Yes.

Urb.
What is the hour?

Osm.
Midnight, or near it.

Urb.
Time to sleep. Good night.
Sleep—you must sleep. To-morrow we shall talk.
[Osmunda is reluctant to leave him. She lifts the lamp as if to take it with her.]
No; leave the light.
[Osmunda replaces the lamp.]
What were you reading?
[takes up the book.]
Ah!
The life of Agis: genius against the world.
Something of me, there; something of my fate.
To-morrow—we shall try to understand.
[Osmunda goes out slowly.]
Genius against the world. . . . I should have made
Saturnia my wife. There was a gauntlet
In the brazen face of custom! . . . But I feared . . .
Is this my body's weakness? No; great men
Betray no fault of instinct, no distress
Of soul, no doubt of self in their infirmities:
But here am I, confronted with my heart
At last, a simpleton, maybe a knave!
To laugh at policy, to over-ride
Wisdom, authority, experience,
To break with all the ragged past, and be
The demiurge of order and a time
Stamped with my image—is to chafe
Mankind, and mark my power and daring, carved
In deep amazement and a world-wide frown,
Is to read triumph in a storm of hate.
But to espouse my mother's maid, a slave,
Already mine, as everybody knew?
Oh, no! the hero dreads a meaning smile,
The lifted shoulder and the current jest—
“The king? Our Urban? What can you expect?
He took to wife his mistress!” There I am!
There is the specious magnanimity
That tossed away a fortune; impotence
Pretending royal immunity—to lull
The inward sting, and shirk the stress of life.
I should have married her I love, because
I love as lovers and as women love;
No pastime, but my life. Then had my strength
Been matched with loyal fate on equal terms;
But having done dishonour to myself
In the great passion by which the world endures,
A bridge without a keystone, all my hopes
Crumble to dust and vanish in the gulf. . . .
To-morrow in the battle I can die.

[sleeps.]
Re-enter Osmunda. She looks about interrogatively; crosses to the couch and bends over Urban. Then she unfolds the curtain and sits on the chair. Lucian appears in the tree.
Osm.
He must have spoken in his sleep.
[A clock strikes. She counts the hour listlessly.]
One . . . twelve.

[Lucian enters by the window. His appearance, manner, voice are now those of a man of resolution and hardihood. Osmunda utters a smothered scream on seeing Lucian, and signs to him to be silent. Lucian takes her hand and leads her to the window.]
Urb.
(dreaming.)
A hideous blow! . . . Saturnia!

Luc.
(giving Osmunda a letter).
It is not
Your writing; but I came because a way
Was shown me.

Osm.
(reading the letter.)
Traitors in the palace!

Luc.
No;
A deliverer!

[puts his arm about her, and draws her nearer the window.]
Osm.
Lucian! so tyrannous!

Luc.
No way for me but to be tyrannous;
'Tis cowardly to say, “Thus fate ordained!”
Defeated men must fester in disgrace,
Or cut their throats, or die contending still:
I learnt that verdict in the bitter loss
Of you: yet by a miracle I now
Revoke it, and outroot the tangled wrong
My vacillation wrought.—Come.

Osm.
(returning the letter).
But you know
This writing is not mine!

Luc.
It says the truth,
Whoever wrote it. Oh, I heard the whole
Iliad of misery; the petty spite,
The indignities, the mortifying scorn
Your husband deals you.

Osm.
Not one word is true!

Luc.
Your father told me all.

Osm.
He lied who said
My husband scorned me.

Luc.
Then your father lied,
And laced the lie with oaths.—You love your husband?
Do you love Urban?

Urb.
(dreaming).
Her neck is like a lily.

Luc.
This is no time to stand on wooing terms!
Answer directly. Did you marry Urban
To please your father, or did your father lie
In that confession too?

Osm.
That was no lie.

Luc.
You loved me when you married Urban? Speak!
I was disloyal to myself and you.
Were you unfaithful?

Osm.
(faintly).
To myself and you.

Luc.
Then must we end this infamy, and break
The prison of our love. Your father's roof
Shall shelter you; and you shall be my wife,
When I have dragged this Urban from his hold,
And thrust him headless in unhallowed ground.
[with one foot on the window-ledge, one hand on the tree, and the other on Osmunda's arm.]
Fear nothing: 'tis the tree of life!

Osm.
(recoiling).
No! no!

Urb.
(dreaming).
Remember, headsman; together, with one stroke.

[starts up awake; and, hearing Osmunda's voice, listens motionless.]
Osm.
Oh, Lucian, leave me to make up my mind
Alone! My father's ill-used power compelled
My spirit once; and now you and my love
Drive me beyond myself. I must assure
My heart, unmoved by the profound control
Of yours beside me beating, that my choice
To-night is my own will. Leave me alone.

Luc.
And if I do, how shall I know your choice?

Osm.
The window—I shall open it again.

Luc.
But you have grown in power! . . . Decide alone.

[goes out by the window, which Osmunda immediately closes. She then fills a glass with water, places it on the table, and drops into it the poison from her pomander, which, after dissolving, leaves the water colourless. Urban watches her.]
Osm.
This is the choice—my husband, death, or love.
Not life; I thought I chose that once, but found
Only a husband: women have no life.
I was, I am my husband's: shall I pass
From one man to another like a slave
That must belong to somebody? Blind love
Would have me Lucian's: were Lucian by my side
I could not bid him go again without me!
That was a conquest!
[raises the glass.]
And should I so decide
This will maintain my victory over love!
[replaces the glass; sits.]
Now, let me choose. My husband, death, or love?
[rises slowly; crosses the room, and lays her hand on the curtain. Urban keeps out of sight.]
I will not, dare not leave this beaten man;
Conspire his downfall, triumph in his death,
And reign his conqueror's bride. Here lies my fate,
My woman's duty; here, my peace of mind!

[flings the curtain aside and starts back with a cry on seeing Urban.]
Urb.
What poison's this? What tragedy, bestowed
And slumbering in your marriage-bed, awakes
Uncoils and wonders where to strike? How long
Has death been consort of your thoughts? I deemed
You still the tender woman men are taught
To prize most for a mate; whose love takes heart
With marriage only; and whose child acquits
The pensive shame that haunts her sweet desires.

Osm.
The woman never jealous, who forgives
The unrepentant, loves the sinner more;
The fabulous sweet monster men solace
Their self-conceit with! There are none such, Urban!
I, least of all, approach the inhuman thing
Your fancy fondled. . . . Shall I say it all?

Urb.
Though it should flay my soul.

Osm.
(handling her pomander).
This venom, fetched
By castaways from shores beyond the dawn
Where all the region is a labyrinth
Of wonders, Hildebrand gave to his wife
Upon her wedding-morn; for then the fate
Of Lombard women shook in the rough scales
Of war. My mother passed the gift to me;
And at my girdle it has always hung,
A treasured keepsake and the shrine of death.
At your election when you donned the crown,
And spoke your well-considered speech, I grasped
This fragrant casket, and beheld myself
Dead in my smooth and stainless wedding-sheets,
A virgin bride beyond the bridegroom's power
To waken with a whisper. Lucian's love
And mine seemed greater than the world, than life,
Power and the name of queen; marriage with you,
Warm from a harlot's bed—a common shame
That women undergo—appeared as foul
As to be shackled to a leper maimed
And mildewed with his malady. And yet
I was so weak I did not dare to die.

Urb.
So strong, I think.—You hid your hate of me?

Osm.
It vanished with your kisses, Urban. Why
Are we poor women made so!

Urb.
That the world
May never cease.—You learned to love me then?

Osm.
I thought so; you were gentle and abashed;
Observed my moods; and so devoutly begged
Where you might take, that with my body soon
I worshipped you. How could I help it, Urban?

Urb.
But it was not love?

Osm.
No; not like my love
For Lucian—now, I know.

Urb.
How came he here?

Osm.
I scarcely understand. Not with my will!
Urban! You cannot think—

Urb.
Nothing of you
I think except divinely.

Enter Nurse from behind the screen.
Osm.
What do you want?

Nurse.
I'm sure the child's bewitched;
It tosses, sobs, and knits its brows and stares.
[Osmunda motions her away.]
You bade me call you if it would not rest.

Urb.
Go to our child.

Osm.
And come again to you
When she has fallen asleep?

Urb.
Yes, come to me.
[Osmunda and the Nurse go out. Urban, fascinated by the poison, raises the glass.]
Was this poured out for me? A draught of death,
The only true elixir! I have filled
The land with woe—carnage, and fire and mourning;
And for a dream troubled the lives of women
Who gave me love and duty! That I, who left
My foes unwatched, and made a laughing-stock
Of him I should have won at any cost,
Or promptly killed—
[laughs ruefully.]
That I must set about
To reconstruct the world!—If I drink this
It shall appear I overtaxed my strength
And died expectedly. . . .
[takes a glass from the sideboard; pours water into it, and places it instead of the poisoned one.]
She must not know, were I to do this thing. . . .
[opens the window.]
That was her signal. Lucian. . . . What is best?
Saturnia. . . . I must not think of her.

[is standing behind the leaf of the window, looking at the glass against the light. Lucian, re-entering by the window, thrusts the leaf against Urban's arm, and the glass falls. Lucian does not hear the crash, as his sword clanks on the window-sill; he goes a few steps into the room, and meets Osmunda, who re-enters from behind the screen, alarmed by the noise.]
Luc.
Osmunda, mine in love and deed!

Osm.
No! No!

Luc.
Why is your window open? You shall not
Repent!

Osm.
I did not open it. But where
Is Urban? Have you killed him?

Urb.
(stepping from the window).
I am here.

Luc.
Mine, and the world's rash enemy!

Urb.
The world
Will never beat a better-tempered foe.

[Lucian attacks. Urban is powerless to resist him.]
Osm.
Lucian! For shame! Look, he can hardly stand.

Re-enter Philadelphus ushering Hildebrand, Thrasimund, Ludolf, Adalbert, Lords and Soldiers. Except Philadelphus, all stare astonished at Lucian, who is equally surprised.
Voices.
The king!

Urb.
(under his breath).
The king.

Luc.
What mystery is this?

Phil.
I know the origin of both your wonders.

Thra.
That can be told again. Now, Lombards, strike
For liberty!

[Urban is attacked.]
Osm.
(hanging on Hildebrand's arm).
Oh, father, spare his life!

Hild.
(flinging Osmunda aside).
I have no child until his blood be shed.

Osm.
No child!
[lifts the glass and holds it up. All look at her inquiringly.]
This is my weapon! I hold a poison here
That kills like lightning. If one blow be struck
I drink and die.
(to Lucian).
Give me my husband's life!

Urb.
Oh tenderest conscience, there your poison lies!
[points to the broken glass and then to that in her hand.]
That is as innocent as your fail soul—
Think what you please. Have at me! This is best!
I shall die fighting with my back to the wall.

[Urban is again attacked, and his sword struck from his hand at once. He steps forward to meet their points. Osmunda, desperate, drags Lucian between Urban and the Lords.]
Osm.
Save him! save him!

Luc.
But he wishes death.

Osm.
He is ill and weak; he left his bed to-day
Against all counsel.
(on her knees).
Lucian, save my husband.

Luc.
Stand back!
[All the Lords fall back except Hildebrand.]
Stand back!
[Hildebrand also steps back.]
I spare your husband's life
If you consent never to see him more.

Osm.
(still on her knees).
I . . .

Luc.
Silence! Yes or no is life or death.

Osm.
(faintly).
Yes.

[rises, watching Urban intently.]
Hild.
(fiercely).
Then there is no peace in Lombardy!

Luc.
The peace of Lombardy shall be secured
By Urban's exile.

Urb.
(mournfully).
Exile!

[sees his sword on the ground, and with a joyful cry stoops for it; but Osmunda picks it up before he can reach it.]
Osm.
You must live!

Urb.
(looks fixedly at Osmunda. Then including Lucian and Hildebrand in a haughty glance).
The world is wide. Beyond the Adrian sea
I'll carve an eastern kingdom for myself.