 | Rayner |  |
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
The inside of the prison. Rayner and Elizabeth are discovered sitting sorrowfully by one another in earnest discourse.Ray.
Thou sayest well, my sweet Elizabeth;
In this I have against thy love offended.
But in the brightness of fair days, in all
The careless gaiety of unruffled youth,
Smiling like others of thy sex, I loved thee;
407
With the braced firmness of unyielding virtue
In the dark storms of life—alike to flourish
In sunshine or in shade.—Alas! alas!
It was the thoughts of seeing thee—but cease!
The die is cast; I'll speak of it no more:
The gleam which shows to me thy wondrous excellence
Glares also on the dark and lowering path
That must our way divide.
Eliz.
O no! as are our hearts, one is our way,
And cannot be divided. Strong affection
Contends with all things, and o'ercometh all things.
I will unto thee cling with strength so terrible,
That human hands the hold will ne'er unlock.
Ray.
Alas, my love! these are thy words of woe,
And have no meaning but to speak thy woe:
Dark fate hangs o'er us, and we needs must part.
The strong affection that o'ercometh all things,
Shall fight for us indeed, and shall o'ercome:
But in a better world the vantage lies
Which it shall gain for us; here, from this earth
We must take different roads and climb to it,
As in some pitiless storm two 'nighted travellers
Lose on a wild'ring heath their 'tangled way,
And meet again.
Eliz.
Ay, but thy way, thy way, my gentle Rayner—
It is a terrible one.
Oh flesh and blood shrinks from the horrid pass!
Death comes to thee, not as he visiteth
The sick man's bed, pillow'd with weeping friends:
O no! nor yet as on the battle's field
He meets the blood-warm'd soldier in his mail,
Greeting him proudly.—Thou must bend thy neck,
This neck round which mine arms now circled close
Do feel the loving warmth of youthful life:
Thou must beneath the stroke—O horrid! horrid!
Ray.
(supporting her from sinking to the ground).
My dear Elizabeth, my most beloved!
Thou art affrighted with a horrid picture
By thine own fancy traced; look not upon it:
All is not dreadful in the actual proof
Which on th' approach frowns darkly. Rouse thy spirit;
And be not unto me at this dark push
My heaviest let; thou who shouldst be my stay.
[She groans heavily.
What means that heavy groan? I'll speak its meaning,
And say, that thou to nature's weakness hast
The tribute paid, and now wilt rouse thyself
To meet with noble firmness what perforce
Must be; and to a lorn and luckless man,
Who holds in this wide world but thee alone,
Prove a firm, gen'rous, and heart-buoyant mate,
In the dark hour. Do I not speak it rightly?
Eliz.
Thou dost, thou dost! if nature's weakness in me
Would yield to the heart's will.
[Falling on his neck in a burst of sorrow.
Enter Father Mardonio.
Mar.
My children, ye have been in woful conference
Too long: chide not my zeal that hither brings me
To break upon it. On you both be shed
Heav'n's pitying mercy!
Ray.
Amen, good father! thou dost call us children
With a most piteous and kindly voice:
Here is a daughter who in this bad world
Will yet remain to want a father's care;
Thus let me form a tie which shall be sacred;
[Putting Elizabeth's hand into Mardonio's.
She has no parent.
Enter Keeper of the prison.
What brings thee here? We would be left in peace.
Keeper
(to Rayner).
I am by a right noble stranger urged,
Who says he has in many a rough campaign
Served with your valiant father in the wars,
To let him have admittance to your presence.
Bertram conducts him hither.
Ray.
Served with mine honour'd father! and thus circumstanced,
Now comes to see his son! Well, be it so:
This is no time for pride to wince and rear,
And turn its back upon the patt'ring hail,
Bearing the thunder's shock. Let it e'en be:
Admit him instantly.
[Calling him back.
Nay, ere thou goest,
What is he call'd?
Keeper.
The Gen'ral Hardibrand.
Ray.
An honour'd name.
[Exit Keeper.
(To Elizabeth.)
Retire, my love:
I cannot bear to have thy woes exposed
Before a stranger's gaze.
[She retires with Mardonio to an obscure part of the prison at the bottom of the stage.
Enter Hardibrand and Bertram.
Har.
(to Bertram: stopping short as he enters, and gazing upon Rayner, who is turned away from them, and looking after Elizabeth).
It is the son of Rayner: in his form
And face, though thus half turn'd from us, I see
His father. Still a soldier and a gentleman
In ev'ry plight he seem'd. A clown or child
Had sworn him such clad in a woollen rug.
[Advancing to Rayner.
Young soldier, I did know your gallant father;
Regard me not as an intruding stranger.
408
I thank you, courteous sir: in other days
Such greeting to my heart had been most welcome.
A gallant father and condemned son
May in the letter'd registers of kindred
Alliance have; but in the mind's pure record,
They no relation bear: let your brave friend
Still be to you as one who had no son.
Har.
No, boy; that sentiment bespeaks thy blood.
Heed not those fetter'd hands: look in my face,
Look in my face with the full confidence
Of a brave man; for such I'll swear thou art.
Thinkst thou that I am come to visit thee
In whining pity as a guilty man?
No, by the rood! if I had thought thee such,
Being the son of him whose form thou wearst,
I should have cursed thee. Thou by mis'ry press'd,
Hast strongly tempted been, I know thy story:
Bertram has told it me: and spite of courts,
And black-robed judges, laws, and learn'd decisions,
I do believe it as I do my creed.
Shame on them! Is all favour and respect
For brave and noble blood forgotten quite?
Ray.
Ah, do not fear! they will remember that,
And nail some sable trappings to my coffin.
Har.
I would that to their grave and pompous chairs
Their asses' ears were nail'd! Think they that men,
Brave men, for thou thyself—What corps, I pray thee,
Didst thou belong to in thy prince's service?
Ray.
The first division of his fourth brigade
Was that in which I served.
Har.
Thou hast companion been to no mean men.
Those six brave officers of that division,
Upon the famed redoubt, in his last siege,
Who did in front o' th' en'my's fiercest fire
Their daring lodgement make, must needs of course
Be known to thee.
Ray.
I knew them well; five of them were my friends.
Har.
And not the sixth?
Ray.
He was, alas! my greatest enemy;
To him I owe these bonds.
Har.
A curse light on his head, brave though he be!
Ray.
O curse him not, for woes enough already
Rest on his wretched head.
[Bowing low, and putting his hand on his head.
Har.
Ha! thou thyself,—thou wast thyself the sixth!
Thank heav'n for this! Then let them if they will
Upon a thousand scaffolds take thy life,
And spike thy head a thousand feet aloft;
Still will I say thy father had a son.
[Rushing into his arms.
Come to my soldier's heart, thou noble bird
Of a brave nest!—must thou indeed be pluck'd
And cast to kites? By heav'n thou shalt not die!
Shall such a man, as thou art, from his post
Be shamed and push'd for one rash desp'rate act?
It shall not be, my child! it shall not be!
Ray.
(smiling).
In faith, good gen'ral, could your zeal prevent it,
I am not yet so tired of this bad world,
But I could well submit me to the change.
Har.
I'll with all speed unto the governor,
Nor be discouraged, though he loudly prate
That grace and pardon will but leave at liberty
The perpetrators of such lawless deeds
To do the like again, with such poor cant.
[Elizabeth, who has been behind backs, listening eagerly to their conversation, and stealing nearer to them by degrees in her eagerness to hear it, now rushes forward, and throws herself at Hardibrand's feet.
Eliz.
We ask not liberty; we ask but life.
O grant us this, and keep us where they will,
Or as they will. We shall do no disquiet.
O let them grant us life, and we will bless them!
Ray.
And wouldst thou have me live, Elizabeth,
Forlorn and sad, in loathly dungeon pent,
Kept from the very use of mine own limbs,
A poor, lost, caged thing?
Eliz.
Would not I live with thee? would not I cheer thee?
Wouldst thou be lonely then? wouldst thou be sad?
I'd clear away the dark unwholesome air,
And make a little parlour of thy cell:
With cheerful labour eke our little means,
And go abroad at times to fetch thee in
The news and passing stories of the day.
I'd read thee books: I'd sit and sing to thee:
And every thing would to our willing minds
Some observation bring to cheer our hours.
Yea, e'en the varied voices of the wind
O' winter nights would be a play to us.
Nay, turn not from me thus, my gentle Rayner!
How many suffer the extremes of pain,
Ay, lop their limbs away, in lowest plight
Few years to spend upon a weary couch
With scarce a friend their sickly draughts to mingle!
And dost thou grudge to spend thy life with me?
Ray.
I could live with thee in a pitchy mine;
In the cleft crevice of a savage den,
Where coils the snake, and bats and owlets roost,
And cheerful light of day no entrance finds.
But wouldst thou have me live degraded also;
Humbled and low? No, liberty or nought
Must be our boon.
Har.
And thou shalt have it too, my noble youth:
Thou hast upon thy side a better advocate
Than these grey hairs of mine. (To Elizabeth.)
Bless that fair face! it was not made for nothing.
We'll have our boon; such as befits us too.
409
[Taking her eagerly by the hand.
Come with me quickly; let us lose no time:
Angel from heaven thou art, and with heav'n's power
Thou'lt plead and wilt prevail.
Ray.
In truth thou wilt expose thyself, my love,
And draw some new misfortune on thy head.
[Endeavouring to draw her away from Hardibrand.
Eliz.
(to Hardibrand).
What new misfortune? can they kill thee twice?
We're tardy: O move quickly! lose no time!
Har.
Yes, come, and Bertram here will guide our way:
His heart is in the cause.
Ber.
Yes, heart and soul, my gen'ral. Would my zeal
Could now make some amends for what those hands
Against him have unwittingly committed.
O that the fellest pains had shrunk their nerves
Ere I had seized upon him!
Ray.
Cease, good Bertram!
Cease to upbraid thyself. Thou didst thy duty
Like a brave man, and thou art in my mind:
Not he who seized, but he whose gen'rous pity
Did, in my fallen state, first show me kindness.
[Bertram kisses his hand.
Go go! they wait for thee.
Ber.
They shall not wait. Would that we were return'd,
Bearing good tidings!
Har.
O fear it not, my heart says that we shall.
[Exeunt Elizabeth, Hardibrand, and Bertram. Manent Rayner and Mardonio.
Mar.
Hope oft, my son, unbraces the girt mind,
And to the conflict turns it loosely forth,
Weak and divided. I'm disturb'd for thee.
Ray.
I thank thee, father, but the crime of blood
Your governor hath ne'er yet pardon'd; therefore
Be not disturb'd for me; my hopes are small.
Mar.
So much the better. Now to pious thoughts
We will direct—Who comes to interrupt us?
Enter the Turnkey.
Ray.
It is the turnkey; a poor man who, though
His state in life favours not the kind growth
Of soft affections, has shown kindness to me.
He wears upon his face the awkwardness
And hesitating look of one who comes
To ask some favour; send him not away. (To turnkey.)
What dost thou want, good friend? out with it, man!
We are not very stern.
Turnkey.
Please you, it has to me long been a priv'lege
To show the curious peasantry and boors,
Who from the country flock o' holy days,
Through his strait prison bars, the famous robber,
That overhead is cell'd; and now a company
Waits here without to see him, but he's sullen
And will not show himself. If it might please you
But for a moment opposite your grate
To stand, without great wrong to any one,
You might pass for him, and do me great kindness.
Or the good father there, if he be willing
To doff his cowl and turn him to the light,
He hath a good thick beard, and a stern eye,
That would be better still.
Ray.
(laughing).
Ha! ha! ha! what say ye to it, father?
[Laughing again more violently than at first.
Mar.
(turning out the turnkey in a passion, and returning sternly to Rayner).
What means this wild and most unnatural mirth;
This lightness of the soul, strange and unsuited
To thy unhappy state? it shocks me much.
Approaching death brings nought to scare the good,
Yet has it wherewithal to awe the boldest:
And there are seasons when the lightest soul
Is call'd on to look inward on itself
In awful seriousness.
Ray.
Thou dost me wrong; indeed thou dost me wrong.
I laugh'd, but, faith! I am not light of soul:
And he who most misfortune's scourge hath felt
Will tell thee laughter is the child of mis'ry.
Ere sin brought wretchedness into the world,
The soberness of undisturbed bliss
Held even empire o'er the minds of men,
Like steady sunshine of a cloudless sky.
But when it came, then came the roaring storm,
Lowering and dark; wild, changeful, and perturb'd;
Whilst through the rent clouds ofttimes shot the gleam
More bright and powerful for the gloom around it.
E'en 'midst the savage strife of warring passions,
Distorted and fantastic, laughter came,
Hasty and keen, like wild-fire in the night;
And wretches learnt to catch the fitful thought
That swells with antic and uneasy mirth
The hollow care-lined cheek. I pray thee pardon!
I am not light of soul.
Death is to me an awful thing; nay, father,
I fear to die. And were it in my power,
By suffering of the keenest racking pains,
To keep upon me still these weeds of nature,
I could such things endure, that thou wouldst marvel,
And cross thyself to see such coward-bravery.
For oh! it goes against the mind of man
To be turn'd out from its warm wonted home,
Ere yet one rent admits the winter's chill.
Mar.
Come to my breast, my son! thou hast subdued me.
[Embracing him.
And now we will lift up our thoughts to Him
Who hath in mercy saved thy hands from blood.
410
Yes, in great mercy, for the which I'd bow
In truer thankfulness, my good Mardonio,
E'en with these fears of nature on my mind,
Than for the blessing of my spared life,
Were it now proffer'd me.
[They retire into the obscurity of the dungeon, at the bottom of the stage, and the scene closes on them.
SCENE II.
A small apartment in a solitary cottage in the country. Enter Count Zaterloo, supported by an attendant, and followed by the Countess in the disguise of a pilgrim; both of them wearing masks. She places a pillow for his head on a couch or sickchair, and he is placed upon it, apparently with pain.Countess
(to attendant).
There, set him gently down; this will support him. (To Count Zaterloo.)
How art thou now? I fear thou'rt very faint
After so long a journey. (To attendant.)
We have no farther need of thine assistance:
Thou wilt retire, but be upon the watch.
[Exit attendant.
Zat.
(unmasking).
Now, charming Mira, lay disguise aside;
Speak thine own natural voice, and be thyself:
There is no eye to look upon us now;
No more excuse for this mysteriousness.
Let me now look upon thy face and bless it!
Thou hast done well by me: thou'rt wondrous gentle.
I knew thee fair and charming, but I knew not
Thou wast of such a soft and kindly nature.
[The countess unmasks and looks at him sorrowfully.
Ha, mother! is it you?
Countess.
Who should it be? where shouldst thou look for kindness?
When we are sick, where can we turn for suecour;
When we are wretched, where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a mother?
The world may scowl, acquaintance may forsake,
Friends may neglect, and lovers know a change,
But when a mother doth forsake her child,
Men lift their hands and cry, “a prodigy!”
Zat.
(taking hold of both her hands and kissing them.)
O mother! I have been a thankless child!
I've given thee hoary hairs before thy time;
And added weight to thy declining years,
Who should have been their stay.
Countess.
Be calm, my son, for I do not upbraid thee.
Zat.
Wretch that I am! I was an only son,
And therefore bound by no divided tie
To be to thee thy hold and thy support.
I was a widow's son, and therefore bound
By every generous and manly tie
To be in filial duty most devoted.
O I have vilely done! I feel it now;
But if I live to be a man again,
I'll prove a better son to thee, dear mother.
Countess.
I know thou wilt, my dearest Zaterloo;
And do not thus upbraid thyself too sharply;
I've been a foolish mother to thy youth,
But thou wilt pardon me.
Zat.
Of this no more—How came you by my letter?
If you did intercept it on its way,
Mira is faithful still.
Countess.
It was from Mira's hand that I received it.
She toss'd it at me with a jeering smile
When I with anxious tears inquired for thee.
Zat.
(rising half from his seat in great passion).
O faithless, faithless woman! she it was,
Who made of me the cursed thing I am!
I've been a fool indeed and well requited.
Base, avaricious, and ungrateful—oh!
[Putting his hand on his side, as if seized with sudden pain.
Countess.
Such agitation suits not with thy state:
What ails thee now?
Zat.
The pain, the pain! it has return'd again
With increased violence.
Countess.
God send thee ease! why dost thou look so wildly,
And grasp my hand so hard? What is't disturts thee?
Zat.
My time on earth is short.
Countess.
Nay, say not so: thou mayst recorer still.
O why this seeming agony of mind?
'Tis not the pain that racks thee.
Zat.
There's blood upon my head: I am accursed.
Countess.
Good heaven forefend! thou wand'rest? in thy speech.
Thy life I know is forfeit to the law
By some unlawful act, but oh no blood!
Zat.
O for a short respite! but 'twill not be:
I feel my time is near.
Countess.
Thou wand'rest much: there's something on thy mind,
Dark'ning thy fancy.
Zat.
'Twas I that did it—I that murder'd him:
He who must suffer for it did it not.
Countess.
What words are these? my blood rans cold to hear them.
411
(alarmed).
Be still, be still! there's some one at the door:
All round me is exposed and insecure.
[Countess Zaterloo goes to the door and receives something from a servant, shutting the door immediately.
Countess.
It is a servant come to fetch me something.
Zat.
Has he not heard it? he has heard it all!
[In violent alarm and agitation.
Countess.
Be still, be still! it is impossible.
Thou'st waked the pain again; I see thee tremble.
Zat.
(writhing as if in great pain).
Ay, this will master me: 'twill have me now:
What can be done? O for a short reprieve!
Countess.
Alas, my child! what wouldst thou have me do?
Zat.
I would have time turn'd backward in its course,
And what is past ne'er to have been: myself
A thing that no existence ever had.
Canst thou do this for me?
Countess.
Alas! I cannot.
Zat.
Then cursed be thy early mother's cares!
Would thou hadst lifted up my infant form
And dash'd it on the stones! I had not lived—
I had not lived to curse thee for thy pains.
Countess.
And dost thou curse me then?
Zat.
(softened).
O no! I do not!
I did not curse thee, mother: was it so?
Countess.
No, no, thou didst not: yet I have deserved—
I was a mother selfish in my fondness;
And with indulgence, senseless and extreme,
Blasted the goodly promise of thy youth.
Zat.
(rising half up alarmed from his couch).
Hark! there's a noise again! hast thou more servants
Coming with errands to thee?—We're discover'd!
Countess.
Be not so soon alarm'd: it is impossible.
Zat.
Is there an inner chamber? lead me there;
[Pointing to a door.
I cannot rest in this.
[Stopping short eagerly as she is leading him out with great difficulty.
—Thine absence haply
From thine own house, suspicion may create:
Return to it again, and through the day
Live there as thou art wont; by fall of eve
Thou'lt come to me again.—I'm very weak;
I must lean hard upon thee.
[Exit, looking suspiciously behind him as if he heard a noise, and supported with great difficulty by his mother.
SCENE III.
The Countess Zaterloo's house. Enter Countess and a female attendant.Att.
Ah! wherefore, madam, are you thus disturb'd
Pacing from room to room with restless change,
And turning still a keen and anxious ear
To every noise? What can I do for you?
Countess.
Cease, cease! thou canst do nothing, my good girl:
I have a cause, but do not seek to know it.
Enter a Servant.
Serv.
There is a stranger—
Countess
(starting with alarm).
Ha! what dost thou say?
A stranger! what appearance does he wear?
Is there but one? Looks he suspiciously?
Serv.
Be not alarmed, madam; 'tis a woman.
Countess
(feigning composure).
Thou art a fool to think I am alarm'd:
Or man or woman, whosoe'er it be,
I am unwell, and must not be disturb'd.
Serv.
It is a lady of distinguish'd mien,
Though much in grief, and she so earnestly
Pleads for admittance that I am compell'd—
Pardon me, madam; but to look upon her
Would move your heart to pity.
Countess.
Let her enter.
[Exit servant.
Who may this be? why do I tremble thus?
In grief!—the wretched surely will not come
In guileful seeming to betray the wretched. (To attendant.)
Knowst thou who this may be?
Att.
Indeed I do not.
Countess.
Retire then to a distance: here she comes:
But do not leave the chamber.
[Attendant retires to the bottom of the stage, and enter Elizabeth with her hair and dress disordered, like one distracted with grief.
Eliz.
Madam, I come a stranger to your presence,
By misery embolden'd, and urged on
By desperation. In your pity only
Lives all the hope of my most wretched state:
O kill it not! push me not to the brink
Of misery so deep and terrible!
Have pity! O have pity on my woe!
Thou art a woman, and a woman's heart
Will not be shut against a wretched woman.
Countess.
What wouldst thou ask? thou dost with too much grief
Conceal the point and object of thy suit.
Eliz.
There is in prison bound, condemn'd to die,
And for a crime by other hands committed,
A noble youth, and my betrothed love:
Your son—O shrink not back, nor look so sternly!
Your son, as secret rumour hath inform'd me,
Mortally wounded and with little hope
Of life, can ample testimony give,
Being himself of those who did the deed,
That Rayner did it not:—O let him then,
In whate'er secret place he lies conceal'd,
In pity let him true confession make;
And we will bless him—Heav'n will pardon him!
Countess.
Despair hath made thee mad! art thou aware
412
They may have pity on thee; but from me
It were an act against the sense of nature.
Eliz.
Nay, say not so! I have for mercy sued
At the proud feet of power, and been rejected:
What injury can reach a dying man?
Can his few hours of breathing poise the scales
'Gainst the whole term of a man's reckon'd life
In youth's best strength?
Countess.
Go, thou hast been deceived with a false tale:
And, were it true, hope ends not but with life;
Heav'n only knows who is a dying man.
Eliz.
For blessed charity close not your pity
Against all other feelings but your own!
[Clasping the countess's knees and kissing her hand.
Sweet lady! gentle lady! dearest lady!
O be not ruthless to a soul bow'd down
In extreme wretchedness!
Countess.
Cease, cease! unlock thy hold: embrace me not!
Has he for whom thou pleadst from out o' thyself
Received his being? press'd with infant lips
Thy yearning bosom? smiled upon thy knees,
And bless'd thine ear with his first voice of words?
Away, away! despair has made thee mad,
That thus thou hangst upon me.
Eliz.
O he for whom I plead is to my soul
Its soul: is to my fancy its bound world,
In which it lives and moves; all else beyond
Darkness, annihilation. O have pity!
For well thou sayst, despair has made me mad.
Countess.
Let go, let go! thou with a tigress strivest,
Defending her bay'd whelp: I have no pity.
Heav'n will have pity on thee! let me go;
Unlock thy desp'rate hold!
[Breaks from her and runs out, and Elizabeth, quite overcome, sinks upon the ground, the attendant rushing forward from the bottom of the stage to support her.
Enter Father Mardonio.
Mar.
(raising her).
My daughter, heaven will send in its good time
The aid that is appointed for thy state.
Contend no more, but to its righteous will
Submit thyself. Let me conduct thee hence.
[Exeunt, Mardonio and attendant supporting her. Re-enter the countess, looking fearfully round her as she enters.
Countess.
She is gone now: thank God that she is gone!
There is a horrid conflict in my mind.
What shall I do? I strongly am beset.
I will go quickly to some holy man,
And ghostly counsel ask.
[Exit, crossing the stage with a quick, irresolute step, sometimes stopping to consider, and then hurrying on again.
| Rayner | |