 | Self's the Man |  |
196
ACT V
Nil Nisi Bonum
Scene.—St. Michael's Square, Pavia. A narrow street of lofty houses enters the square at the back of the stage. The Royal Palace is on the right of the square; on the left the Church of St. Michael with lofty porch. Near the centre of the square is a veiled statue. From the door of the Royal Palace a draped gangway leads to a platform beside the statue. Steps ascend to the platform in front and behind. The houses in the square and in the street are decorated with flags, banners and garlands. Two streets enter the square on either side.
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It is summer time, about an hour after noon. When the curtain rises the platform is guarded by soldiers, a crowd is entering leisurely from all sides, the people are taking their places at the windows.
From the back a Vinedresser, a Shepherd carrying his crook, and a Blacksmith with a leather bag, rush down to the front where a street enters on the right.
Vine.
This is the stand!
Shep.
Ay, here they pass in throngs.
Black.
(holding out the bag to the people entering).
Money, money! hand it out!
Golden crowns or copper groats!
Though we're poor our hearts are stout,
The Three.
And our stomachs and our throats.
Merc.
(giving money).
What lusty lungs!
You're sorry rogues, I fear.
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Your humble servants, sir! Servants of all
Exalted citizens who can themselves
Be merry, and who think it sin to see
A poor man sober on a day like this.
[singly and in groups people enter, and most of them contribute.]
Enter Urban by a street on the left. His beard and hair are white, his cheeks sunken, his eyes hollow. He is dressed like a beggar with wallet and staff. No one regards him and he heeds no one. He looks at the statue indifferently; at the Palace long and earnestly. Then he seeks a place to rest, and at last, by permission of one of the soldiers, sits on the steps to the gangway. He takes from his wallet a crust of bread and uncovers his head.
Urb.
Our daily bread! Remember, “You must live.”
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Shep.
Golden crowns, or copper groats!
Juni.
(feeling his pockets).
I had . . . why, gentlemen, no greater joy . . .
Ah, here! I've chased it home. Drink the Queen's health,
Queen Sybil. Yes, I knew her father well.
Black.
You knew King Urban?
Juni.
Did I? I was there
When Urban donned the headsman's dress to change
The luck of Lombardy.
Black.
(looking closely at Junipert).
You—let me see:
For twenty years, horseman and footman, rich
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Why, you are Junipert, the ballad-monger!
Where have you been this many and many a year?
Juni.
Ill, sir. But not to-day. I would have rent
My grave to see King Urban's brat unveil
Her father's statue; and I meant besides
To toss my old cap at her coronation;
But that was past my strength. Have you been there?
Black.
And back again, not half an hour ago.
[giving Junipert money.]
Take it, man! Not a mite; no, not from you!
Our old cloak must be clouted against the winter.
In your own way, you are a craftsman too,
And pipers don't pay fiddlers.
Juni.
Poverty,
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But—
The Three.
Though we're poor our hearts are stout,
And our stomachs and our throats.
Enter Philadelphus, hardly older in appearance, handsomely dressed.
Phil.
Money? I give it only when it's earned.
Shep.
(catching Philadelphus by the neck with his crook).
Come, come! Pay toll, old grumbler.
Phil.
Nasty villains!
You fail in common sense; it's ruinous
For able-bodied men to beg in public.
Black.
Pay, pay!
Phil.
As a philosopher, I pay;
But as a man, I . . .
[gives money.]
Juni.
Well, old enemy.
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Above ground still! What savoury salt preserves
So frail a body and so light a mind?
Juni.
Still hypercritical! I'm kept alive
By sheer sincerity, which often saves
More sinful limbs and scantier brains than mine.
Phil.
Sincerity? a wanton-virtuous word;
A pitiful petitionary word;
A mere excuse! I'll tell you what it is:
It's crass stupidity; a strength of mind;
A root of character that grows the fool,
The beggar and the outcast. Poetry,
Divine sincerity, is undeveloped
Craftiness, intelligence in the rough.
And I maintain that as sincerity
Is to stupidity, so intelligence
Must always be to insincerity.
There, the philosopher's golden rule of three!
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You prating liar!
[flings a coin in Philadelphus's face.]
Take your dross again!
We've no blood-drinkers here!
Vine.
Blood money! How?
Black.
Look at him! Know him yet? That's Philadelphus.
Shep.
What! Him that sold King Urban?
Phil.
An ancient story!
Black.
But we remember it to-day!
Phil.
Good fellows—
Voices.
Hi! Beat him; stone him; strip him; hang him, dog!
[Philadelphus runs out, pursued by the crowd.]
Juni.
Fate of philosophy! Poetic justice!
Urb.
(approaching Junipert).
Is this some kind of masque—some play?
Juni.
A play?
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You spoke of Sybil—Queen Sybil. Who is she?
Juni.
The daughter of our Lombard hero, Urban.
Now, where have you been gathering ignorance?
Urb.
I came across the world to die at home.
Juni.
To die! Not yet a while!
Urb.
But this is Pavia?
Juni.
The very Pavia Urban loved—my friend,
King Urban.
Urb.
Who are you?
Juni.
One Junipert.
I was King Urban's friend, and laureate
To the divine Saturnia.
Urb.
What?—who?
Juni.
She that is now the Abbess of St. Anne's,
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King Urban gave her half his patrimony.
I have a treasure hidden in my house—
A crown she gave me once, a golden crown.
Urb.
And Lucian?
Juni.
Lucian! Five years beneath the sod.
You are a stranger!
Urb.
I forsook this land
Long before Lucian's death.
Juni.
Then you must know
That Lucian died of disappointment; nibbled
To death by slow chagrin, the Lombards think,
Because Osmunda would never marry him.
Urb.
She would not marry him.
Juni.
Osmunda would not.
Urb.
Osmunda.
Juni.
Yes; she died a year ago.
Urb.
Osmunda died.
Juni.
Osmunda, Urban's wife.
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Urban himself is dead; but I believe
He sleeps somewhere enchanted in the east.
Mark me; our army starts to-day to fight
The conquering Franks—Oh, these are high-strung times!
Well, if you live it out, you'll hear of this,
Or I'm no prophet. When the battle bends
Against us, and the Lombard banners droop,
Upon a warhorse, thundershod, behold
In burning mail, a godlike champion,
Whose single arm shall stem discomfiture—
Urban, come back again!
Urb.
Come back again.
Juni.
Well, as I told you, Lucian in the grave,
Old Hildebrand—
Urb.
Hildebrand! Thrasimund!
Juni.
Thrasimund! Worm's meat ages since! His wife
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So Hildebrand, the toughest statesman known,
He named his grandchild queen, and crowns her now,
War being at our doors, to give the state
Stability. With filial tenderness
She on her coronation day unveils
This statue of her father, Urban the Great.
Urb.
Urban the Great.
[The door of the Palace is thrown open, and Trumpeters enter, sounding a flourish.
Urban hangs inertly on his staff, then seeking support, leans in the angle between the platform and the steps.
At the sound of the trumpets the crowd pours into the square, the windows fill with spectators, and a number of men climb to the top of the church porch.
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The Royal Procession then enters from the Palace, including Hildebrand, very old and withered, but still erect; Almeric, Ulric, Pasqual, and the Duke of Garda, now arrived at middle age; Sybil wearing the iron crown of Lombardy, her royal train borne by pages, and attended by ladies, and by Saturnia in the dress of an abbess, and two nuns.
Sybil pauses as she crosses the threshold of the Palace, and the crowd bursts into a roar of welcome. Urban staggers out of the corner, and shading his eyes with his hand, looks at his daughter. His intelligence quickens; he moves towards her. Soldiers attempt to intercept him. Struggling with them mechanically,
he endeavours to reach the gangway.]209
Syb.
(impulsively to the Soldiers).
Oh, let the old man be; he seems wayworn.
Voices.
Long live the queen!
Juni.
Heaven help her tender heart!
[With the exception of Sybil, Saturnia, Hildebrand, the Duke of Garda, and one or two ladies, the members of the Royal party descend to a portion of the square, in front of the platform reserved for them. Urban, Junipert, the Blacksmith, the Shepherd, and the Vinedresser, with a few others, are pressed by the throng into this reserved space.
Hild.
May it please your majesty. My lords, and folk
Of all degrees, when we in wrath expelled
The world-embracing aim, the patient love
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Of men and motives that in Urban formed
A power, prevailing now more than the whole
Precedent fame of our unconquered race,
We blindly wrought the heaviest sin that time
Has yet recorded against Lombardy.
To-day repairs as far as afterthought
Can make amends for past misdeeds, the ill
We did ourselves and him. His soul is young
Again in our young queen; his prophecy
Directs our arms though late; and in the midst
Of Pavia, his image shall remain,
A public inspiration, as in our hearts
The poignant savour of his memory dwells.
Urb.
(to himself).
Old Hildebrand.
[Sybil unveils the statue.]
Voices.
God save the queen!
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My people,
[pointing to the statue],
He is your captain, and through me he speaks
Once more the message none who heard believed,
Though all remembered it because the words
Were branded on their hearts. My father said,
Appealing for his life: “We must be first,
Though everlasting war cement each course
Of empire with our blood; or cease to be,
Our very name and language in dispute.”
Help me, my father, lest I break down and weep!—
That which he bade the Lombards do, the Franks
Have done; and we against their empire fight
For power, for life itself. We have a soldier
Worthy to lead the Lombards—my father's friend;
[gives her hand to Garda.]
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Oh, I have garnered all my father's words,
And wear them like a rosary in my thought.
He said, and reverently I say it too—
“I am become this land, this Lombardy,
With famous cities zoned from sea to sea,
From Alp to Apennine; and in my heart
The Lombards have their home—the quick, the dead;
The ancient story, and the flying days,
We'll fill with noble deeds!”
Voices.
God save the queen!
[While his daughter speaks Urban gradually acquires a proud attitude like that of his statue.]
Voice.
Saturnia!
2nd Voice.
Ay, ay, Saturnia!
[Urban shrinks into himself.]
A Man
(rising suddenly on the top of the
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Yes; some of us keep things in mind. It's well
To have a hero; and we need one too!
But who can worship him who cast aside
His noble wife; and, when his enterprise
Was ripe for action, wantoned time away
In masques and childish tricks and revelry?
[The Man sinks down immediately and is not seen again.]
Black.
That's a bold fellow. Why, he's gone already!
(to Urban).
Father, this Urban had his faults and flaws.
Urb.
He had one fault.
Black.
One only? What was that?
Urb.
Himself.
Shep.
Right! Something nibbled at the root.
Vine.
All said and done, a wolf among the flock.
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She leads a holy life—Saturnia?
Black.
Ay, now she leads a holy life.
Voices.
The queen!
Syb.
(having spoken with Saturnia).
You call on one who is most dear to me.
My mother in her agony when death
Became impatient, and she too, longed to go,
Accepted not the hand that beckoned her
Till she had seen Saturnia. Then these two
Forgave each other silently with tears,
For neither found an apter eloquence
To spend the treasure of their burdened hearts.
And since that time I know no closer friend
Than she who now will wind the tangle up
Of that old lie no honest heart believed.
Voices.
Saturnia! The Abbess! Hear the Abbess!
Sat.
It is to clear King Urban's fame I speak.
[Urban listens with bent head.]
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Her father's reign was spotless. Not more true
To Lombardy than to his marriage vow,
By day or night, he never sought me once;
Nor met me; nor with any deed or gift
Approached my memory. The guilt was mine:
I, unrepentant, desperate, sent him word,
And plausibly secured an audience;
Where he rebuked me, even when my craft of love
That had ensnared my own desire, intrigued
Most cunningly for his. Relentless foes
Interpreted our meeting impiously;
But I would have the whole world know at last,
Although my name be therefore held in scorn,
That he was loftier than men—in love,
In triumph, in defeat, a deity.
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(crying out).
No! No!
Hild.
What now?
Soldier.
My lord, the vagabond
The queen protected.
Syb.
Would he speak with me?
Urb.
Come nearer—nearer yet.
[Sybil comes to the verge of the platform immediately above Urban.]
Whose child are you?
Your father's image—so the flatterers say?
Hild.
Off with him! Scourge him!
Syb.
Gently, Hildebrand.—
They say I have my father's look and poise.
Urb.
Osmunda's mouth; and that's a gracious gift.
Syb.
You knew my father?
Urb.
I knew him—impotent,
In poverty, alone; an exile gnawed
Remorselessly by dogged memories.
Discrowned and hopeless, like a star unsphered
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And noisome dregs of being, with the madman,
The outlaw and the rat, ere Lombardy
Had well begun to wonder at his fall.
Pasq.
Insane old man! He had the highest heart
That ever beat with life.
Urb.
I doubt it not;
But that was broken. For his head, 'twas warped
With waste ambition; and he saw the world
Misshapen like a semblance in a pool
The wind perturbs. He that was stuck by chance
A flaunting feather in the age's cap,
Essayed to be the sword of destiny,
And with the dust and straw was swept aside,
A bitten quill used once to write a name.
Pasq.
Ignoble, envious wretch!
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Pluck out his tongue!
Trample him in the dirt! Tear him in bits!
[Urban is set upon and maltreated by the crowd.]
Syb.
Deliver him! No blood must stain to-day!
[Soldiers rescue Urban from the crowd. He is unconscious and bleeding.]
Sat.
They've mauled him pitilessly. Come down with me.
[Saturnia and the Nuns assist Urban.]
Gard.
Slanders die hard, but here has one been killed
By a brave woman. As for this new lie
Of Urban's life in exile, I can count
A score at least before it, spread abroad
By beggars, palmers, jugglers, mountebanks,
All circumstantial, opportunely launched
To startle fancy, or elicit alms;
All equally authentic.—Forward there,
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To greet King Urban's daughter and their queen.
Syb.
Lead on, my father's friend!
Gard.
To victory!
King Urban's spirit shall triumph in our arms.
[The Royal procession descends from the platform by the steps behind, and goes out accompanied and followed by the cheering crowd. The spectators leave the windows, and Saturnia and the Nuns are left with Urban.]
Sat.
(supporting Urban's head).
He lives. Go quickly and prepare a room.
[The Nuns go out.]
Urb.
(opening his eyes).
Saturnia!
[Saturnia draws away from him; but looking again into his eyes she recognizes him, and with a low cry
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Urb.
The war is over now!
My daughter, Sybil, Queen of the Lombards, rides
Victorious into Pavia.—Ask me not
What I have been! My life went swiftly down
Beneath the harrow: I came home to die;
Let no one know; bury me in your heart.
[The music comes nearer.]
My daughter Sybil rides victoriously!
The gates of death are open! Have no fear!
How will Saturnia greet me when we wake?
Sat.
Oh, I will greet you with a kiss and say
Good morning in the land beyond the grave!
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Where is that lying fellow on the porch?
Urban was noble—do you hear?—and great.
Take this from me: Learn to forgive yourself;
Though you were Judas, learn to forgive yourself.—
Saturnia, help me up!
[Saturnia helps him to his feet.]
I cannot die
Beneath the harrow nailed into the earth.
I would . . . die . . . standing.
[His head falls on Saturnia's shoulder, and he dies.]
Enter, crossing the street at the back, the van of the Lombard army with the crowd shouting joyfully.
THE END
| Self's the Man | |