 | Monmouth A Tragedy |  |
20
Act The Second.
Michael Lambourne.
I.
(The garret of a house on the outskirts of London: a boxbed in one corner. A table, heaped with papers, is drawn near the fire. Night.)Michael Lambourne.
All the hot fancies of a fervid brain,
All the great efforts of a youthful hope,
All that I thought to render to the world,
All that I hoped would blazon forth my name
And make me one for all posterity—
Let it all go!—I have no further hope.
I give my life to buy the further shame,
To render sure the further sin of one,
The only one I love. What need of these?
Why leave a turgid, undigested mass
Of crude materials and half-grown thoughts?
How could they add a lustre to my name?
They could not: had I lived another year,
I might have done what would have made me great;
But now I go to die. Into the flame,
Into the flame with all my boyish hopes!
(A pause.)All the great efforts of a youthful hope,
All that I thought to render to the world,
All that I hoped would blazon forth my name
And make me one for all posterity—
Let it all go!—I have no further hope.
I give my life to buy the further shame,
To render sure the further sin of one,
The only one I love. What need of these?
Why leave a turgid, undigested mass
Of crude materials and half-grown thoughts?
How could they add a lustre to my name?
They could not: had I lived another year,
I might have done what would have made me great;
21
Into the flame with all my boyish hopes!
Did Jephtha's daughter, on the Gilead hills,
Think, as with ring of feet and full voiced chant
She and her maidens spent the waiting month,
How lowland reapers in their toil would pause
And hear her voice and marvel at her strength?
Or how the maiden in love with upland farm,
Hearing the death-song cleave the spectral night,
Would creep to open lattice and behold,
With love and stealing of her youthful heart,
The long white garments flashing in the moon
Across the bold and rugged Gilead heights?
Did Curtius, ere he took the misty leap,
Glow in his heart, with sudden rush of blood,
To think how Rome looked on him wondering,
To recollect that one, white-armèd girl,
Breathless and panting, watched him from the crowd,
Her whole soul bound in his? The martyrs, too,
Beside keen flickers of destroying fire,
Or looking on the wan, worn axe, perhaps
Thought just a little how posterity
Would love and honour and embalm their names.
Think, as with ring of feet and full voiced chant
She and her maidens spent the waiting month,
How lowland reapers in their toil would pause
And hear her voice and marvel at her strength?
Or how the maiden in love with upland farm,
Hearing the death-song cleave the spectral night,
Would creep to open lattice and behold,
With love and stealing of her youthful heart,
The long white garments flashing in the moon
Across the bold and rugged Gilead heights?
Did Curtius, ere he took the misty leap,
Glow in his heart, with sudden rush of blood,
To think how Rome looked on him wondering,
To recollect that one, white-armèd girl,
Breathless and panting, watched him from the crowd,
Her whole soul bound in his? The martyrs, too,
Beside keen flickers of destroying fire,
Or looking on the wan, worn axe, perhaps
Thought just a little how posterity
22
I feel it so, at least: I could not die,
If Henrietta did not know of it
And thank me even with a single tear.
O! I shall make her think of me at last
And know I loved and gave a life for her!
And yet 'twere nobler—aye, an hundredfold—
To die in silence, to defy two deaths:
Death of the body, death of earthly fame.
Why should I mar the pureness of my gift
By culling roses ready for my crown?
Why should I let her know at what expense
Her love was bought for her? Ah! she would weep!
And yet if I am giving up my life,
Why should I get no recompense of hope?
What less do I deserve to gild my death
Than certain hope that she will hear my deed?
I could not die unheard: I could not die,
Her thinking me a lackey over-rude;
For sure she must have noticed how I spoke
And dared not leave her presence, take my eyes
For the last time, from off her glorious face;
And then the glove—she must have missed the glove.
If Henrietta did not know of it
And thank me even with a single tear.
O! I shall make her think of me at last
And know I loved and gave a life for her!
And yet 'twere nobler—aye, an hundredfold—
To die in silence, to defy two deaths:
Death of the body, death of earthly fame.
Why should I mar the pureness of my gift
By culling roses ready for my crown?
Why should I let her know at what expense
Her love was bought for her? Ah! she would weep!
And yet if I am giving up my life,
Why should I get no recompense of hope?
What less do I deserve to gild my death
Than certain hope that she will hear my deed?
I could not die unheard: I could not die,
Her thinking me a lackey over-rude;
For sure she must have noticed how I spoke
And dared not leave her presence, take my eyes
For the last time, from off her glorious face;
And then the glove—she must have missed the glove.
23
Argue no more: I cannot die unheard.
I must write something to my lady once
That she may think of me when I am gone.
I'll tell her how I loved her, how I longed,
The last time I should see her living face,
To bare my burning breastful to her heart
And own my love that she might pardon it.
I'll tell her that I die for her, not him:
That I consider me the better man
And one more fitted to bring on the birth
Of what there may be—if aught worth there is—
Still hidden in the stormy womb of time.
I'll ask her too to pardon me the lie
With which I cheated her to write to him,
And pray her solemnly to see that nought
Be wanting to my mother's waning age.
(A pause: he writes.)I must write something to my lady once
That she may think of me when I am gone.
I'll tell her how I loved her, how I longed,
The last time I should see her living face,
To bare my burning breastful to her heart
And own my love that she might pardon it.
I'll tell her that I die for her, not him:
That I consider me the better man
And one more fitted to bring on the birth
Of what there may be—if aught worth there is—
Still hidden in the stormy womb of time.
I'll ask her too to pardon me the lie
With which I cheated her to write to him,
And pray her solemnly to see that nought
Be wanting to my mother's waning age.
Lo: it is done—my first one and my last—
My earliest love-confession, yet my will.
To think she can not read it ere the end,
Till body and soul are severed and undone
And all the purpled saw-dust oozes through
With what now pulses at my heart and brow.
I am not cheated: it is hard to die.
God welded soul and body into one,
Which, not without some trouble, men divide.
(A pause.)My earliest love-confession, yet my will.
To think she can not read it ere the end,
Till body and soul are severed and undone
And all the purpled saw-dust oozes through
With what now pulses at my heart and brow.
24
God welded soul and body into one,
Which, not without some trouble, men divide.
O God! am I aright in doing this?
Is life one's own that one may fling it down?
And do I not deceive myself to death?
There is a glamour in uncommon deeds,
A spurious halo of heroic buff,
That cheats one into things he would repent.
What claim has she, with all her glorious face,
To take my mother's place in all my thoughts?
Poor mother! Am I right to leave you thus?—
You who have borne me, loved me, love me still,
To leave you lonely in this bitter world
Gnawing the crust of arid beggary,
Because this haughty demozel is fair
And rustled down a darkened corridor,
With greenish glimmers playing here and there
Upon the changeful texture of her dress?
Is life one's own that one may fling it down?
And do I not deceive myself to death?
There is a glamour in uncommon deeds,
A spurious halo of heroic buff,
That cheats one into things he would repent.
What claim has she, with all her glorious face,
To take my mother's place in all my thoughts?
Poor mother! Am I right to leave you thus?—
You who have borne me, loved me, love me still,
To leave you lonely in this bitter world
Gnawing the crust of arid beggary,
Because this haughty demozel is fair
And rustled down a darkened corridor,
With greenish glimmers playing here and there
Upon the changeful texture of her dress?
I wonder, had she worne a diffr'ent silk
And not shone so to me on that first day
Should I have loved—should I be set for death?
And is it thus, O mother, I depart?
Because the painted dame donned lucent silks,
That glimmered still from oriental suns
And still breathed foreign perfumes, wierd and strange—
Is it for this I leave you, mother dear?
Can this be right? and yet can this be wrong?
Is it not strange? Now Justice tells one: ‘live’;
And it is interest bids me answer: ‘die’.
Is it the case I die to please myself,
To throw a larger shadow on her mind.
As further objects do, between the light;
And do not offer up my life and heart
And all I wish for, all I hoped to be,
Upon the thorny altar of my love?
If we could but believe our hearts!
(A pause.)And not shone so to me on that first day
Should I have loved—should I be set for death?
25
Because the painted dame donned lucent silks,
That glimmered still from oriental suns
And still breathed foreign perfumes, wierd and strange—
Is it for this I leave you, mother dear?
Can this be right? and yet can this be wrong?
Is it not strange? Now Justice tells one: ‘live’;
And it is interest bids me answer: ‘die’.
Is it the case I die to please myself,
To throw a larger shadow on her mind.
As further objects do, between the light;
And do not offer up my life and heart
And all I wish for, all I hoped to be,
Upon the thorny altar of my love?
If we could but believe our hearts!
In vain!
I write the letter telling her of this.
(A pause: he writes.)I write the letter telling her of this.
The weary night is surely over now.
(Draws aside the blind.
Yes, in the east the faint new day is born
And broadens on the sky. Already, see,
The light must be approaching our old house
Upon the purple hill, above the firth;
And he, that lives in't now, will see
The new day walking on the morning waves,
With wandering squalls and tags of rugged mist
And streaks of wind-blown rain beside the west,
Chased back before the white-heat line of dawn.
To wake my mother or to let her sleep?
One thing is sure: I must be going soon,
Lest people mark my bearing on the street.
Ha! see how we impute our thoughts to all!
Since all the world seems changed to me, I think
I must seem changed to all the world in turn.
Am I not taller? Yesternight I stooped,
And now I belly forth a martial chest,
And look the liker him I have to act.
O! O! my mother! must I leave you thus?
My darling mother—thus—without a word?
Ah Henrietta, know you what you do?
My God, my God I fear my strength will fail!
What? weeping? Ah I must begone at once.
Adieu my mother! God preserve you, dear,
Since I am base enough to fail my trust!
—Stay! I would look upon her once again—
Or hear her breathing even!
(Draws aside the blind.
Yes, in the east the faint new day is born
And broadens on the sky. Already, see,
26
Upon the purple hill, above the firth;
And he, that lives in't now, will see
The new day walking on the morning waves,
With wandering squalls and tags of rugged mist
And streaks of wind-blown rain beside the west,
Chased back before the white-heat line of dawn.
To wake my mother or to let her sleep?
One thing is sure: I must be going soon,
Lest people mark my bearing on the street.
Ha! see how we impute our thoughts to all!
Since all the world seems changed to me, I think
I must seem changed to all the world in turn.
Am I not taller? Yesternight I stooped,
And now I belly forth a martial chest,
And look the liker him I have to act.
O! O! my mother! must I leave you thus?
My darling mother—thus—without a word?
Ah Henrietta, know you what you do?
My God, my God I fear my strength will fail!
What? weeping? Ah I must begone at once.
Adieu my mother! God preserve you, dear,
Since I am base enough to fail my trust!
27
Or hear her breathing even!
Hark! she stirs.
God bless you mother, and forgive your son.
God bless you mother, and forgive your son.
28
II.
(A Room in the Tower of London.)Monmouth, Lambourne.
Monmouth.
I thank you kindly for this visit, friend:
I thank you kindly. Wherefore do you wear
A false red beard, a patch upon your eye
And a grey wig above an youthful face?
Lambourne.
Of that anon, Lord Duke. At present tell
How all things fare with you.
Monmouth.
Things fare with me?
How should they fare with one condemned to death?
All night, I cling at the rough bars and wake:
Alternate, comes a burst of pallid moon
And a long lash of bitter, blinding rain
That beats upon me through the glassless space.
All day the same—four walls, four walls, four walls,
A grated window and a bolted door,
A flag-lined pavement where the eddying dust
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And death before! I hear the steady tramp
Of yon black loon that watches there without:
I hear the breathless whirring of time's wings
From the great clock beside the turret-peak:
I hear the rain drip steadily in the court:
I hear a thousand echoes howling death.
O Lambourne! tis a frightful, ghastly thought!
Waiting for death, living for death! No end,
No issue but the tomb. Indeed my God,
Indeed I cannot bear it!
Lambourne.
What my Lord?
Had it been I, thin blooded scrivener,
That said such words, the marvel had been none,
But you—you who in both your fights have fought
As valliantly as men could ask of you,
As valliantly as Stuart blood required?
30
In fight? Ah yes! who would not die in fight?
Long squadrons circle, closing on the foot:
Through sulphurous smoke the gleaming sabre cleaves:
And all the battle rings and flashes out,
A merry cadence, full of steely daring
And long, loud, warlike trumpet-blares:
An instrument, a fighting artifice,
No more a living, thinking man, you charge
And lash the whistling air with gleaming cuts.
31
In battle, no man thinks he will be killed:
A on his right, B on his left may fall;
But he, he feels, will sweep athwart the fight,
As woundless as Achilles. Whereas, here,
I am so certain that I am to die
That I can name to you the very hours,
Minutes and seconds that I have to live.
And I lie here, inactive, waiting death!
O Lambourne! Lambourne! it is agony!
You do not know how nearly mad I am;
Or, how I long to dash my weary life,
With one great blow, against the solid wall!
You talk of bravery: what is bravery here?
What can I do? But give me here a sword,
And I will cut a desperate, bloody way
And burst the fetters of this cattif fear.
But what can courage do in here? To wait,
See, drawing nearer, the grim hour of death,
And perish slowly, healthy all the time.
Bravery is active.
Lambourne.
What of courage, then?
Courage methinks was made to suffer all;
While bravery holds the merry, windy van
Where clarions nerve it for a bright-eyed death.
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While bravery holds the merry, windy van
Where clarions nerve it for a bright-eyed death.
But still there is a great excuse for you:
This gloomy cell would drive a pope to prayers.
Had you been out with me my Lord, and seen
The house where Lady Wentworth is to live—
A rare old house, an excellent old house.
It was so hot too: all the land was rolled
In slumbrous heat: the very air had grown
So lazy with the warmth that it performed
It's tasks but ill and brought the hills to me
All blurred and mazy with it's carelessness.
But down beside the river—
This gloomy cell would drive a pope to prayers.
Had you been out with me my Lord, and seen
The house where Lady Wentworth is to live—
A rare old house, an excellent old house.
It was so hot too: all the land was rolled
In slumbrous heat: the very air had grown
So lazy with the warmth that it performed
It's tasks but ill and brought the hills to me
All blurred and mazy with it's carelessness.
But down beside the river—
Monmouth.
There! enough.
I was not there to see the sight with you,
And never more shall look upon such things:
It pains me sadly but to hear of them.
Lambourne.
And yet, Lord Duke, the Lady Wentworth there
Proposes to make stay; and with her face
To paint and render human all the house,
33
Monmouth.
How often must I ask you, sir, to cease?
Do you not see you lacerate my heart?
Have you no pity for my dreary days,
That you should make them blacker by contrast
With happy houses and long hours of hope?
Why should you thus torment me: never more
Shall fruitful summer don her leaves for me.
Lambourne.
What makes my Lord Duke say such cruel words?
Monmouth.
It needs no prophet, that to prophecy.
Lambourne.
I am a better prophet than my Lord.
My Lord has slopes of happy years to run.
Monmouth.
You mean that James will pardon me? Alas!
If that's my only hope, Despair as soon!
Lambourne.
Nor even that, though that were sure enough.
Hearken to me, Lord Duke: Why should your life,
Your life that's worth so much to all of us,
34
Are there no other men, that for the ring
Of windy words, to make a worthy end,
Your life should go? I—I myself my Lord—
I that now speak to you—what worth is mine?
How would men miss me were mine ending made?
The world would go as easily and well,
If I were dead; but then, my Lord, if you—
Monmouth.
Upon your life, no more! Am I so base,
So sadly fall'n and damaged in your eyes,
That you insult me thus? Am I so vile,
So worthless that I am not fit to die?—
So cowardly that some one else must give
A better life to save my neck awhile
From the short discipline of shearing glaive?
I'll hear no more of this, sir—trust me that!
Do not mistake my meaning: I am glad,
Aye truly glad, to know I have a friend
So noble and devoted as to give
His life for mine; but now, no more of it.
Lambourne.
What means this rhapsody, Lord Duke? King James
35
A life I give to save my monarch's life:
'Tis but my freedom that I pawn awhile,
With a dim chance of death, to let you go
And gather troops and monies to assist
In my escape? Were you, my Lord, to stay
And be immured in some dark prison-vault,
Who has an influence to move the mob,
Who power to charter and to arm enough
To set you free? Whereas if I am left,
A month or two I rot on mouldy straw:
Then comes King Monmouth with another band,
By old misfortune led to new success;
And I shall place the crown upon his head
In token of my services to him,
While trumpets blow and ring aloud to us,
And London is a-tip toe for my Lord.
Monmouth.
No more of it: your scheme, perchance, is good—
It might—it is—I mean it is, at least,
Well thought and worthy of a trial now
Were't not 'twould be a shame to let a man
So gallant, perish for so sad a Duke.
36
I seem more noble to my Lord, perhaps,
Than is the case. What cause have I to love,
What reason to give liberty for you?
You never did me services; and I
Have had no means to learn your inmost heart;
And loyalty, methinks, is nearly done,
A flickering candle, blown by sudden draughts
That soon will cease. But what am I indeed?
I, a poor scrivener, scrivening for my bread,
I play my life, as many a soldier plays,
Against your grattitude in future days,
A full annuity, an idle age,
Perchance a title to bequeath my sons,
And fame to guild my race for many a year.
Monmouth.
You paint yourself too black: no more of this.
Lambourne.
And then, my Lord, what right have you to leave
The Lords and barons and the peasantry
Who fought to set you on your father's throne?
For them, as for yourself, as for her sake—
Her's, who has made your life a joy to you—
37
Monmouth.
I'll hear no more of this. Have done, good sir.
Lambourne.
Aye, for her sake, if there were no one else.
Ah, my dear Lord, your life is not your own:
Your life is hers; for he who is beloved
Has nothing single: thoughts and words and deeds,
Which, in another, would be selfishness,
Are raised in him above the mire of self
And, doubly blessing, are made doubly blest.
How far from me that am but half a man—
A glass that strangely glasses but itself—
Most selfish in the hour of sacrifice!
I say again my Lord, your life's not yours:
There is another that requires your life:
Your death another word for hers, your life
Her real existence. O my Lord, I saw
The face grow pale, the breath stop half-way-drawn,
The tear drops forming in the violet eye—
But let me speak no more: I see how much
My words are hurting you: take this and read.
(Gives Henrietta's letter.
38
What! she entice me to this shameful plan?
Lambourne.
Read on, Lord Duke: you see it is her hand.
Monmouth.
I see. She wishes—longs to have me free.
But I, sir, can I leave you here to die?
Some one more noble than myself to die?
Lambourne.
Die, my Lord? Why what say you now?
The other minute, were we not agreed
That James was sure to spare your life?
Monmouth.
Were we?
I thought—I had forgotten I had used the words.
It might perhaps be well, viewing the thing
In that way, to agree to this. 'Odslife!
If 'twere not for the cowardice, I think—
Lambourne.
The cowardice, Lord Duke? I rede you not.
'Twere cowardice alone if you should stay.
It is your duty to your noble friends,
Your duty to your fathers murdered blood,
39
And raise again your banner. If you stay
Meanly awaiting mean captivity,
For fear that men should think too harsh of thee,
That were the cowardice and nothing else.
Monmouth.
Almost you do persuade me—
Lambourne.
Hearken now,
I tell you plainly, if you do not flee,
There's one will die of it whom you love well:
Already she is paler, thinner, pinched,
Drawn in a little, like a man who waits
Wrapped up in expectation. She will die;
And you will be her murderer my Lord.
Monmouth.
Well—no, I think—Yes, damn the thing, come on.
Tear off your clothes: give me the beard and wig:
There—now the patch: I thank you—it is done.
Lambourne.
Ah! now Lord Duke, now is their something done!
I like that burst of hearty energy.
Take you this letter to your Lady fair,
40
Now Master Lambourne fare you well today:
I am beholden for this visit, sir: Good-b'ye!
To nineteen Irish Street, Duke!
Monmouth.
What have I done?
Take off the clothes again: take back thy wig:
I'll have no more on't. 'Tis a scurvy joke!
Take off the clothes, best friend I ever had,
Be you, once more, the writer, I the duke.
Lambourne.
I am the Duke now. Purchased with my life,
I prize my dignity fair scriv'ner. Go!
The Duke commands.
Monmouth.
Nay, I am not so base:
I know too well James will not pardon me.
Take off the clothes again and let me die.
Lambourne.
The sentry hears you, fidgets on his post.
Another word and you will have him in.
I shall be hanged for aiding your escape,
And you dishonoured in the worlds wide eyes:
41
And brave again the battle; but if not,
If you are caught while in the very act,
They call you coward. And my life, I own,
I will not give for nothing. Get you gone;
Or both of us is lost, instead of one.
Monmouth.
O noblest man that ever trod the Earth!
O kindest friend that ever loved a man!
With force compelling me to save my life
At the expence of thine, by what great act
Can I keep dear the memory of thy love?
Lambourne.
Deliver me my letter: that is all.
Begone, good Master Lambourne I would pray
And God forgive me all my lies today.
(Exit M.
(End of Act The Second.)
| Monmouth A Tragedy | |