 | Monmouth A Tragedy |  |
42
Act The Third.
Monmouth.
I.
(Lambourne's garret in scene one, Act Second.)Monmouth, Jerome.
Monmouth
(after a long silence.)
How long d'you think? Quick! answer me you fool!
Jerome.
It must be close upon the hour by now
Monmouth.
Should we have time to go there yet d'you think?
Jerome.
For what on earth, Lord Duke, do you inquire?
Monmouth.
I do not know—I cannot—O my God,
I wish that I had never taen this scheme!
O would I were the doomed one still!
(Rushes to the door.
Jerome.
My Lord!
My Lord! what sudden idiotcy is this?
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Monmouth.
Unhand me! What, is he to die for me?
Will you be partner in this murder, too?
O Lambourne, I will save you yet my friend!
One cry from all the seething flood of heads,
And from the blank, white blaze of upturned eyes
A sudden stream of hope. Come let me go.
(As they wrestle, a gun is heard in the distance.)
Jerome.
The signal gun!
Monmouth.
Too late! too late! too late!
O Jerome you have served me wrongly here!
Jerome.
I saved you from yourself, Lord Duke: that wrong?
Monmouth.
O Lambourne, Lambourne, truest, greatest friend,
The earth is grim without you! And for me—
To think of it!—it was for me indeed.
And it is you, accursèd menial hound,
That held me back or argued me aside
As ev'ry nobler impulse moved my heart;
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I had been honest once again—in death!
Jerome.
Nay, is this fair? You will not beat me, sir?
Come, come, this is a deal too bad, you know.
I risk my life to serve you, ev'ry hour;
And when forsooth your twisting fancies change—
Forsooth I must be beaten!
(Enter Mrs. Lambourne by a middle door.)Come, come, this is a deal too bad, you know.
I risk my life to serve you, ev'ry hour;
And when forsooth your twisting fancies change—
Forsooth I must be beaten!
Here she comes!
Mrs. Lambourne.
What, Michael—back? But no: it is not he!
I heard the gun this minute—who is this?
Come Jerome, tell me quickly who is this,
That is so like my son, so like as well—
Jerome
(cutting in.)
This, Mrs. Lambourne, is a worthy Lord,
And one who loves and much affects your son,
Who has come here to see you—By the way,
How is my Michael?
Mrs. Lambourne.
He is dead, good sir.
He left the house unnoticed yestermorn,
And as I searched, I found a note for me
Saying that he was dying, telling me
That one should come with money, which, he said,
Was his fair earning and no alms. But now,
I see the meaning, piece by piece I grasp
The cloudy links of all the dismal chain.
He was so like you—cruel, cruel lord!
This money that you bring me Duke—for such
Your title is and such your business here—
This money is the price of his dear blood.
You know the parable that Nathan told
To erring David, whil'st the people died?
You had your lands, your armies, light o'loves:
Then wherefore rob me of my only lamb?
What! touch your money! Can you pay with gold
The priceless life that you have robbed me of?
Forth! or stay here! the house is yours my Lord!
For he, my murdered darling loved your cause.
But keep your face, your cruel, handsome face—
I—
He left the house unnoticed yestermorn,
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Saying that he was dying, telling me
That one should come with money, which, he said,
Was his fair earning and no alms. But now,
I see the meaning, piece by piece I grasp
The cloudy links of all the dismal chain.
He was so like you—cruel, cruel lord!
This money that you bring me Duke—for such
Your title is and such your business here—
This money is the price of his dear blood.
You know the parable that Nathan told
To erring David, whil'st the people died?
You had your lands, your armies, light o'loves:
Then wherefore rob me of my only lamb?
What! touch your money! Can you pay with gold
The priceless life that you have robbed me of?
Forth! or stay here! the house is yours my Lord!
For he, my murdered darling loved your cause.
But keep your face, your cruel, handsome face—
I—
O my son! my son!
(Exit.
Jerome.
With what a woeful cry her heart broke forth!
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The woman's mad—a curse upon her tongue!
Jerome.
She was not mad before this mornings work
Monmouth.
Enough! I'll hear no more. I feel enough
Without the acrid poison of your words
To burn the suffering in upon my heart!
D'you wish to kill me fellow?
Without the acrid poison of your words
To burn the suffering in upon my heart!
D'you wish to kill me fellow?
—“Drove her mad!”
Thats what the man would say: “I drove her mad!”
(He walks up and down the room.)
When will they bring us tidings?
Thats what the man would say: “I drove her mad!”
(He walks up and down the room.)
When will they bring us tidings?
Jerome.
Shortly now.
Monmouth.
Stay! what is this? His writing paper—see?
I have the right to read in't have I not?
He died for me, and I, I live for him.
But yet I know not. I may find in here
The touching records of some innocent love
Whose blossomed blushes I have blighted here.
I scarcely dare to open it and see.
(Opens the port-folio.
Some crabbed law paper he was copying—
The sketch of characters and scenes and plot
For some tremendous, thundering Tragedy—
Ha! what is this? Some jottings on a sheet—
Nay, Jerome—listen here—
“I might have had a life-time for repentance:
I gave the lifetime to another man:
God will not judge me hardly.”
I have the right to read in't have I not?
He died for me, and I, I live for him.
But yet I know not. I may find in here
The touching records of some innocent love
Whose blossomed blushes I have blighted here.
I scarcely dare to open it and see.
(Opens the port-folio.
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The sketch of characters and scenes and plot
For some tremendous, thundering Tragedy—
Ha! what is this? Some jottings on a sheet—
Nay, Jerome—listen here—
“I might have had a life-time for repentance:
I gave the lifetime to another man:
God will not judge me hardly.”
There it ends.
Ah Lambourne! thou wert right! My God, my God!
Death is but rest—a sudden, palsying stroke
That sheds our ripening husks about the root
To spring again in pleasant, mossy nooks
Below the blustering gallantries of storm.
Ah yes! all night the storm's among my hair,
But he—the night is over now for him.
Eternal dawn is springing. Easy death!
Would I had died it for him! Over now
The narrow instant that divides our day
From God's eternal majesty of life.
Gone would be all my troubles, all my sins,
And I, upfloating through the morning air,
Already past the narrow husk of light
That girds our globe, should hear her weeping me,
And see her tears rise past me through the dark,
Each one a point of light to lead me up.
To die is so much easier than to live!
All that I think perchance had staggered me,
Was that white vacant blaze of eyes, I said.
In every head, a pair of eyes, each eye
Pinned steadily to my visage through the hour.
But ev'n with that I could have died it well,
Put careless hand on jaunty hip the while,
And out-stared death, the hoary, leprous ghost.
—And now I've lost my chance to die so well,
Now, rolled in feverous sheets, ignobly pained,
I yield through fierce and bitter hours my soul,
Death looking at me for a year, perhaps,
Before he stops the torment.
Ah Lambourne! thou wert right! My God, my God!
Death is but rest—a sudden, palsying stroke
That sheds our ripening husks about the root
To spring again in pleasant, mossy nooks
Below the blustering gallantries of storm.
Ah yes! all night the storm's among my hair,
But he—the night is over now for him.
Eternal dawn is springing. Easy death!
Would I had died it for him! Over now
The narrow instant that divides our day
From God's eternal majesty of life.
Gone would be all my troubles, all my sins,
And I, upfloating through the morning air,
Already past the narrow husk of light
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And see her tears rise past me through the dark,
Each one a point of light to lead me up.
To die is so much easier than to live!
All that I think perchance had staggered me,
Was that white vacant blaze of eyes, I said.
In every head, a pair of eyes, each eye
Pinned steadily to my visage through the hour.
But ev'n with that I could have died it well,
Put careless hand on jaunty hip the while,
And out-stared death, the hoary, leprous ghost.
—And now I've lost my chance to die so well,
Now, rolled in feverous sheets, ignobly pained,
I yield through fierce and bitter hours my soul,
Death looking at me for a year, perhaps,
Before he stops the torment.
Lambourne yes!
Yours was the happier, easier part to bear.
Sin, life, pain, grief are over now with you.
He was a noble fellow, was he not?
Yours was the happier, easier part to bear.
Sin, life, pain, grief are over now with you.
He was a noble fellow, was he not?
Jerome.
He was—my Lord, your words are surely mad,
Or you, at worst: what nonsense might this be?
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Full little thanks, to Lambourne that, methinks.
Monmouth.
Well Jerome, I can give his own, old words
To prove he thought the same in this as I.
'Twas in old happy days—Ah God, how old!
Gone never to return!—when first I saw
Her whom I see in fancy at this hour.
This Lambourne loved her too—a country lout—
Aye, Jerome, lifted up his thoughts to her.
He told me then (for I approved the boy,
And was as kind as one so high could be)
That when he studied far into the night,
His window open for the summer wind
That threshed the moonlight, through the foliaged oak,
Into a shower of vague and spectral gems—
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The moths came round his candle, he would oft
Extinguish what to them was joy and death.
“I wonder now if I were right in that
And did as kindly as I meant,” said he.
“Perhaps 'tis best for men and moths as well
To burn their lives out round the thing they love—
Not, thwarted and repressed, to turn their cares
To safer paths with meaner goals before!”
Jerome.
Aye! did he say so? weaker than I thought!
Ask if the moths, you speak of, “buzzed out life”
Without a fiery agony of death.
Ask Lambourne now—
Monmouth.
Enough!
Jerome.
Stay! Hearken now!
There comes the answer. Hark! his mother weeps.
Monmouth.
She weeps? O God! This place is stifling me!
I will go in and try to calm her—no!
Lost, useless, branded with the curse of blood,
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Jerome.
My Lord!
What sudden paroxysm is this, my Lord?
Your life, now purchased for anothers, bears
A double weight of duties.
Monmouth.
Duties? I?
Man, I am cursed? My clothes are wet with blood:
There is a dead man's hand upon my breast.
The only thing that I have left to do
To die, die quickly, surely, gladly die!
Give up my life as sacrifice for his,
Since his was giv'n as hostage's for mine.
Pistol or knife?
Jerome.
My Lord, my Lord, I pray.
I do beseech thee: think of us, of her!
I pray thee think.
Monmouth.
It will not do: he died,
And I die also—Ah but hear who sings!
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(singing without.)
The old grange-moat is muddy and the lily cups are few:
The Ferny Copse is blurred with rain that gems the grass like dew
About the soddenned garden, where the trees are pinched with cold,
And the fallen rose-leaves wither on the rain-bedabbled mould—
About the misty garden, as the evening closes in,
I walk in darkling sorrow, punished for another's sin.
The Ferny Copse is blurred with rain that gems the grass like dew
About the soddenned garden, where the trees are pinched with cold,
And the fallen rose-leaves wither on the rain-bedabbled mould—
About the misty garden, as the evening closes in,
I walk in darkling sorrow, punished for another's sin.
Henrietta, name and honour, heart and body, soul and fame,
All were taken, riven from you, when the blust'ring noble came
And I cannot even please me, as the darkness grows above
Joying that I loved so nobly, priding me upon my love.
Even that is taken from me: blighted is your very name,
All the world is pointing at you, and my love is but a shame.
All were taken, riven from you, when the blust'ring noble came
And I cannot even please me, as the darkness grows above
Joying that I loved so nobly, priding me upon my love.
Even that is taken from me: blighted is your very name,
All the world is pointing at you, and my love is but a shame.
Monmouth.
O Jerome, do you hear it? it is his.
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The little child ascends. Ah! comes she here?
(Enter Milly.)
Milly.
What! Michael are you come again to us!
Your mother said you'd gone away for good;
But I did not believe her. How you stare!
What is the matter with you Michael—O!
You do not thank me for the song I sang,
The song you made and loved so much to hear.
What is the matter, Mike? You look so strange.
You are not ill? Tell Milly how you are.
You will not speak to Milly? Are you dead?
They told me you were dead last morning, Mike;
But I was up so early, in the grey,
To light the fire before my mother woke
And make her laugh and praise me when she saw,
And so I saw you going down the stair,
Against the morning, tears upon your cheeks;
And when they told me you were dead, I cried,
Said “Who'll be kind to little Milly now?
And teach her songs and help her for the school?”
But scarce believed it; and so here you are.
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Monmouth.
My little girl, I am not he you think.
I—O! I am the worst, the worst of men!
Your friend, my friend, the noblest, truest man
Is really dead; nor will you see him more.
But I—if you would but consent—I can—
I'll try to teach you reading for your school.
I'll try to be a Michael to you, dear.
Milly.
What are you crying, too? You grown-up men
They cry so often! Michael cried this morn.
Poor Michael, shall I never see him more?
And did you know him? Could he not be saved?
One day, my mother died upon the floor,
But Mrs. Lambourne came and wet her face
And so she came alive again. And you,
How do they call you? You are like to him.
I hope you are as kind.
Monmouth.
But tell me dear,
Who was the Henrietta in your song,
And did he speak about her?
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Her? Ah no!
He only wrote his pretty songs of her.
Say, shall I tell you who I think she was?
I think she was an angel, one in white,
Like her that sits beside good children's beds
And hushes them all night with great, white wings.
Monmouth.
Ah little one, she is no angel—still
If you would like to see her, come with me.
Milly.
I do not know—I think I'd rather not.
You see he said, she had been changed a deal:
A wicked man had smutched her, as the boy,
The horrid little boy next door, once smutched
My new-washed Sunday gown. Ah wicked man!
Monmouth.
But little one, he meant no harm that man.
You should not judge him hardly: he was wrong;
But yet he thought, he only did the right.
Milly.
Poor man! he had not read the bible, then.
O! if you know him give him mine, kind sir,
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(Enter Mrs. Lambourne.)
Mrs. Lambourne.
Milly! come!
Milly.
This gentleman is very kind to me:
I do not want to leave him.
Mrs. Lambourne.
Come at once!
That wicked man is he who murdered Mike!
(Exit with Milly.
Monmouth.
The hag of Satan! had she left me her
I might have ris'n to good!
Jerome.
Excuse her, Lord.
Tis natural she should be flighty now,
When she is newly rest of him she loved:
As for the little girl, her mother may
Be somewhat easier about the gold
And take it, blood and all!
Monmouth.
A happy thought!
Go you at once and give the gold to her.
I will wait here lest we should miss the Lords
That bring me news of how the—business went!
(Exit Jerome.
I'll ope the windows. Did it rain last night?
I had forgotten: I suppose it did.
How sweet the roses smell that drape the house!
Give me a morning after rain.
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I will wait here lest we should miss the Lords
That bring me news of how the—business went!
(Exit Jerome.
I'll ope the windows. Did it rain last night?
I had forgotten: I suppose it did.
How sweet the roses smell that drape the house!
Give me a morning after rain.
Alas!
And he no longer here to breathe the air.
And he no longer here to breathe the air.
(A pause: enter certain Lords.)
Monmouth.
Ah here at last! Quick! speak now you are here!
Did he die easy?
1st Lord.
Easy? I am sick!
Ten—nay, a dozen blows! He moved at last!
2nd Lord.
O God they took a knife. He would not die!
3rd Lord.
For me, I saw blood, blood about it all.
He flung the axe down—Ketch, refused to strike.
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4th Lord.
I dipped my kerchief in his noble blood:
Say, would you have it—'tis your saviour's blood!
Monmouth.
God! what is this? The room—I choke—my God!
1st Lord.
Stand back! See—give him air, my Lords.
2nd Lord.
Hear too;
He kept your character until the last,
Yea pledged his holy soul for your conceits,
He said you had not sinned.
Monmouth.
No more we had!
What dog among you dares to say we had?
My Lords excuse me: I am nearly mad.
O God, how I repent this evil scheme.
Ask Michael Lambourne how I liked the plan!
Ask the dead body how he argued me—
What glamour is there in your cursèd eyes?
1st Lord.
We think, Lord Duke, you were not right in this—
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Who asked you what you thought?
1st Lord.
In vain Lord Duke,
You cannot wash out blood with hasty words:
The stain is made—
Monmouth.
What stain? I'll show you how!
Job's comforters that come to work my grief
And through your words of scorn about my soul.
Clear hence, unworthy traitors! out of this!
Profane no longer by a treach'rous port
This last retreat of a deserted King!
Out! spawn of Satan! out! unworthy mob!
(Exeunt Lords.
Great Heaven! is this to be the end. To hear
Insult on insults, curse on curses heaped,
And all because this duffer, scrivener here
Chose trip upon the scaffold in my place.
I'll see his letter first before 'tis giv'n
Lest Henrietta too be turned to gall.
(Tears open Lambourne's letter will reads.
What!
Job's comforters that come to work my grief
And through your words of scorn about my soul.
Clear hence, unworthy traitors! out of this!
Profane no longer by a treach'rous port
This last retreat of a deserted King!
Out! spawn of Satan! out! unworthy mob!
(Exeunt Lords.
Great Heaven! is this to be the end. To hear
Insult on insults, curse on curses heaped,
And all because this duffer, scrivener here
Chose trip upon the scaffold in my place.
I'll see his letter first before 'tis giv'n
Lest Henrietta too be turned to gall.
(Tears open Lambourne's letter will reads.
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Knows not of it!
Loved her all his life!
Aha, the rest the same: smooth, clerkly phrase:
A heap of “burning words” (he'd call them so):
An incoherent wash of egotism,
With here and there a little stroke at me.
What! could the fellow not disguise contempt,
When he was going to die?
Loved her all his life!
Aha, the rest the same: smooth, clerkly phrase:
A heap of “burning words” (he'd call them so):
An incoherent wash of egotism,
With here and there a little stroke at me.
What! could the fellow not disguise contempt,
When he was going to die?
But worst of all,
She—Henrietta, knew not what it meant,
The letter that she wrote, the scheme he brought—
Nor shall she!
She—Henrietta, knew not what it meant,
The letter that she wrote, the scheme he brought—
Nor shall she!
Stay! the letter!
It can wait!
(Enter Jerome.
Jerome, with me! we go to her, you know:
And, harkye, mum about the note—you see!
It can wait!
(Enter Jerome.
Jerome, with me! we go to her, you know:
And, harkye, mum about the note—you see!
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II.
(The old house on the Thames, as in Act I.)Monmouth, Henrietta.
Henrietta.
I like it? no indeed! How should I dear?
The black, grim, wicked, mouldy, dreary house—
The great black oaken tunneling and the patch
Of leprous garden sloping to the stream!
I like it? Verily, it is not so!
So much, indeed, my dear, that I have prayed
A thousand times to get another house
And—ah! in all our hurry here,
I had forgot to tell you it—my love,
We leave the house this evening.
Monmouth.
Do we, sweet?
I scarcely think so, scarcely so tonight.
Henrietta.
O yes we shall! we must! I'll have it so!
I hate the barren dreary place too much
To let it shadow our first days for us!
Ah! it seems pleasant now! I think so too!
The warm hot day, the wavy struggling rays
That beat athwart the dusty, clouded windows
And hang, a smiling on the oaken roof,—
They, dear, and you have changed the house; but I,
Who can remember all that went before,
I hate it—
I hate the barren dreary place too much
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Ah! it seems pleasant now! I think so too!
The warm hot day, the wavy struggling rays
That beat athwart the dusty, clouded windows
And hang, a smiling on the oaken roof,—
They, dear, and you have changed the house; but I,
Who can remember all that went before,
I hate it—
Then besides, I had forgot
'Twill vex him sore, who got the house for me
If, after all his trouble, I went not: methinks
Twould seem some thankless in me not to go.
He was your rival (fancy!) for my love!
But you'll forgive him that when once you hear
The trouble that he gave, the time he spent
In granting me my weakest, silliest whims!
'Twill vex him sore, who got the house for me
If, after all his trouble, I went not: methinks
Twould seem some thankless in me not to go.
He was your rival (fancy!) for my love!
But you'll forgive him that when once you hear
The trouble that he gave, the time he spent
In granting me my weakest, silliest whims!
Monmouth.
Who is he then? I shall reward him well.
Henrietta.
Forgetting jealousy?
Monmouth.
For jealousy, my love,
Who can be jealous of an angel, eh?
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You think he was an angel, too, like me?
You think he was an angel?
Monmouth.
Nay—but you!
How could I say he was an angel, love:
You've never told me who the angel was.
Henrietta.
Why we both knew him, when we met at first.
He used to follow me about the park—
A great way off, you know! quite modest dear!—
And gather lillies for me off the moat,
And lurk beside the rotten ferry boat
If he supposed that I should want to cross
That he might pull me over—poor, pale lad!
Now Michael Lambourne.
He used to follow me about the park—
A great way off, you know! quite modest dear!—
And gather lillies for me off the moat,
And lurk beside the rotten ferry boat
If he supposed that I should want to cross
That he might pull me over—poor, pale lad!
Now Michael Lambourne.
—Why, my love what now?
You are not jealous, Monmouth?
You are not jealous, Monmouth?
Monmouth.
Nay not I.
Henrietta.
Well, dear, I pray you tell me how he is.
We women love so much to be beloved
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So dear, you see, I wonder much of him.
If you had seen how sad he looked that day—
Now when he took the letter and the rope,—
And told you of the window! had I known
I never should have written it. Ah love!
How did you dare to take the awful leap?
My hero!—ah! you fidget, bend your brows.
True merit allways hates to hear its praise:
I never saw it much in you before:
Ha—ha! you must be getting truer—eh?
But what of Lambourne?
Monmouth.
He is very well!
I know naught of him—he is very well!
Henrietta.
O Wise my Lord! We thank thee for the news!
“You know naught of him!” “He is very well!”
Trustworthy news! I feared it from the first.
You men are all so jealous and so rough!
You will not speak of this good man to me!
Monmouth.
O I am sick of this confounded knave,
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Henrietta.
Confounded knave? I saw no knavery there:
The lad seemed good enough—not handsome: no!
He was a deal too like my Lord for that!—
And did his best to please me.
Monmouth.
Lady sweet,
Sure you can find some other ground for talk.
He is a knave—a low, mean drunken knave,
—An empty pot boy, with a parson's drawl!—
Henrietta.
Your lordship stops? Have you no more fair words?
—Nay Monmouth, where fine pale and drawn?
Monmouth.
No more!
I am not well tonight: I am not strong.
Henrietta.
Not well my love! Forgive my banter then:
We'll say no more of this grave jealousy.
Monmouth.
Not so: I have some more to say of him.
God pardon me that I have been unjust
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Henrietta.
How now? What is there that you have to say?
What marvel have you to unfold?—your words
Come warm and vehement from a throbbing heart:
What is it, dear?
Monmouth.
I—O! I only meant—
That is I meant that he was not so bad—
But foolish: that was all.
Henrietta
(laughing.)
What that is all?
Monmouth.
Well, well my love!
I did it in a jest—he! he!—a trick my love:
I meant to make you laugh and it is done.
Henrietta.
And easily it may be done, my dear!
Laughing or crying (scarce it matters which!)
Alone can ease the fulness of my joy.
Laughing or crying (scarce it matters which!)
Alone can ease the fulness of my joy.
O dear! I never really hoped this hour.
I used to think that you would surely die
And I be left an outcast on the world
With naught but the remembrance of my love.
'Twas Lambourne always told me 'twould go well;
And sure he found a sceptic listener here!
Do you not think 'twas rather good in him,
Considering he loved me, dear, himself,
To work so hard to save his rival's life?
Some people would have let you die, you know,
Or even killed you, thinking: “he and I
Are so alike in face, that he being dead”—
And that, the refference to your likeness dear,
Has put in mind the length his love would go:
I trapped his noble scheme, his mad, great scheme
In some hot words he said to keep me up:
He meant to give his very life for yours—
Had done so, as I verilly believe,
If your bold heart had failed to try the leap,
Of course, when he came here, (as come he would)
To tell his scheme and feast on grattitude
That, like strong wine to the body, nerves the heart
For ev'ry noble deed—when he came here,
Of course I should have told him to desist,
And not insult you with his—
I used to think that you would surely die
And I be left an outcast on the world
67
'Twas Lambourne always told me 'twould go well;
And sure he found a sceptic listener here!
Do you not think 'twas rather good in him,
Considering he loved me, dear, himself,
To work so hard to save his rival's life?
Some people would have let you die, you know,
Or even killed you, thinking: “he and I
Are so alike in face, that he being dead”—
And that, the refference to your likeness dear,
Has put in mind the length his love would go:
I trapped his noble scheme, his mad, great scheme
In some hot words he said to keep me up:
He meant to give his very life for yours—
Had done so, as I verilly believe,
If your bold heart had failed to try the leap,
Of course, when he came here, (as come he would)
To tell his scheme and feast on grattitude
That, like strong wine to the body, nerves the heart
For ev'ry noble deed—when he came here,
Of course I should have told him to desist,
And not insult you with his—
68
There!—enough!
What! can you find no subject but that man?
Is this the talk that I am doomed to hear
On this the evening of my great escape,
And the first night that I have seen your face?
Henrietta.
What Monmouth! Awry once again. Ah dear!
Wait till I kiss your wonted humour back!
You're still the prisoner: in a little while,
Perhaps you'll turn the lover once again.
—Ah, ‘prisoner’! that reminds me. Tell once more
How deep the chasm looked and how the bar
Bent, straining towards the hideous depth with you.
Ah! my brave love, my strong, ripe, nervous man
I think that you deserve a kiss for that!
Monmouth.
For Heaven's sake—I beg your pardon dear,
But I have grown so peevish. Leave these things,
These hated, dreary tales about myself;
And tell me rather all you thought and did,
Pent in the shadows of this dreary house,
That through the figured agonies of your grief,
69
Henrietta.
Ah dear, they are not pleasing to recall,
I saw a crowd of darksome images,
Churned in red blood and wrapped in sickly mist
And prinked with spots of fire from dazzled eyes!—
The pale, white flashing of the whirling axe
Glimmering, a feeble dawn, through years of gloom—
And if I dreamed of waters, spurted blood,
And, if of you, I saw a mouldering corpse—
Sometimes—O God!—the execution—saw
The jerkined murderer strike—again, again!—
But this hurts you as much as me, I mark.
I put it past.
I saw a crowd of darksome images,
Churned in red blood and wrapped in sickly mist
And prinked with spots of fire from dazzled eyes!—
The pale, white flashing of the whirling axe
Glimmering, a feeble dawn, through years of gloom—
And if I dreamed of waters, spurted blood,
And, if of you, I saw a mouldering corpse—
Sometimes—O God!—the execution—saw
The jerkined murderer strike—again, again!—
But this hurts you as much as me, I mark.
I put it past.
Such silly thoughts I had:
Nay, worse than silly—wicked now I think!
I doubted God and feared that we had sinned—
Once even dreamed that I had found a text
That made us wrong: it ran “This wicked and—
This—this—this generation seek a sign,
And shall not get one: something that our Lord
Said of the scribes and pharisees I think.
And I—I laugh to see how weak I was—
Supposed this had been spoken for ourselves:
As if I might not have applied all texts
As well as this one—as for instance this:
“Well done thou good and faithful servant.”
Nay, worse than silly—wicked now I think!
I doubted God and feared that we had sinned—
Once even dreamed that I had found a text
That made us wrong: it ran “This wicked and—
This—this—this generation seek a sign,
And shall not get one: something that our Lord
Said of the scribes and pharisees I think.
And I—I laugh to see how weak I was—
70
As if I might not have applied all texts
As well as this one—as for instance this:
“Well done thou good and faithful servant.”
Still
The foolish thing disturbed me. Then I tried
All sorts of silly, foolish little means
To cheat me into resignation. Here—
Nay where? O yes! just listen now to this:
I'll read you a song I wrote to calm my mind.
'Tis very rough: together you and I
Will polish it some happy idle day:
The foolish thing disturbed me. Then I tried
All sorts of silly, foolish little means
To cheat me into resignation. Here—
Nay where? O yes! just listen now to this:
I'll read you a song I wrote to calm my mind.
'Tis very rough: together you and I
Will polish it some happy idle day:
Can he be gone from the dusking earth,—
Gone with my love and my hope and my life—
Gone with the sweetness and kissing and mirth—
Gone with the glamour and glitter of strife.
Gone with my love and my hope and my life—
Gone with the sweetness and kissing and mirth—
Gone with the glamour and glitter of strife.
Sing me a snatch from the breezy hill
As a balsam and cure to my heart:
Sing me the song that the hasty rill
May lisp to the banks as they part.
As a balsam and cure to my heart:
Sing me the song that the hasty rill
May lisp to the banks as they part.
Gone with my love, but jealousy too—
Gone with my burning blushes and shame—
Gone with the glamour of war, 'tis true,
But gone with it's peril and blame.
Gone with my burning blushes and shame—
71
But gone with it's peril and blame.
Hope I no more, it is true, in the world;
But fear I no longer therein:
With the hope of his goodness down-hurled
I am free from the fear of his sin.
But fear I no longer therein:
With the hope of his goodness down-hurled
I am free from the fear of his sin.
You see it is a silly piece my dear:
The last four lines are clumsy.
The last four lines are clumsy.
Monmouth.
Well! well! well!
'Tis very clever, dear, and neat and nice;
But merely proves my love I should be dead
Instead of joying with me on my life.
It is so easy to seem great, when once
The dusky doors of death are shut behind:
All little peevishnesses, faults are lost:
To mention them were but to insult the dead:
There can be no more sin. But I'm alive.
Henrietta.
Well brood no more upon it love: 'twas you
Made me recall that maddened hateful time
With all its empty comforts and grim cheer.
72
Reach'd even us about your strange escape;
I marvel much we have not heard the mob
Baffled of blood, bemoan their lost delight—
Indeed I even thought I heard the gun—
Monmouth.
I do not know love, do not want to know;
I am so worne and tired with wanting rest
That I would fain you would be silent, dear,
And let me snatch an evening slumber thus.
Henrietta.
Well love, 'tis as you wish it. Put your head
Upon my lap and—so—give me your hand
That I may hold and kiss it as you sleep.
(A pause: he sleeps.)Upon my lap and—so—give me your hand
That I may hold and kiss it as you sleep.
Poor wearied darling! hard-earned sleep perhaps!
But yet, I know not: slumber likes me not.
He never said a word about my song—
At least he did not seem to hear it—Well!
Had Michael Lambourne heard it, he, perhaps—
But yet, I know not: slumber likes me not.
He never said a word about my song—
At least he did not seem to hear it—Well!
Had Michael Lambourne heard it, he, perhaps—
Back wandering tongue that gives the lie to love!
Ah! poor, sad Monmouth—erring, noble heart—
King, landless and bereft of all but me—
I'll let you know that I am worth them all,
And, if you sometimes fail to see my love,
I'll put my bosom close against your breast
And so your heart shall feel the throbs of mine
And know it beats for you and you alone!
Ah! poor, sad Monmouth—erring, noble heart—
King, landless and bereft of all but me—
73
And, if you sometimes fail to see my love,
I'll put my bosom close against your breast
And so your heart shall feel the throbs of mine
And know it beats for you and you alone!
Ha! what? a letter? well: I pluck it forth—
I'll read the letter: 'tis address't to me:
He has forgot to give it.
I'll read the letter: 'tis address't to me:
He has forgot to give it.
(A pause: she reads.)
Monmouth
(awaking.)
I have not slept so long: is aught amiss?
Ah Henrietta, you have dropped my hand
That like a slighted lover, stiff and cold
Trails disregarded on the floor. Whats that?
A letter? 'Fish! I'm jealous! Let me see.
—O!
(Feels in his pocket.
Henrietta.
My Lord has spoken. Why does he now pause?
Is he deserted by his usual words?
Methought he would have found a honied stream
Of soft excuses, till my ear was tired:
But no! My Lord is silent: wondrous chance!
74
O Henrietta hear me but a word,
And sneer not on me so: you drive me mad.
Henrietta.
Hear him indeed! I hearken to his words!
I would not hear his voice again for me!
The poor man prayed thee: 'twas his latest wish
(At least he says so here) to send me this,
The last memorial of his love and life.
Monmouth.
I meant to give it you—I meant indeed:
By all I hope for you'd have had the note.
Henrietta.
And is the poor man dead, a martyr now
To his great love for me: I see it all:
Twas thus he strove to linger by me here
And stole my glove—O Tiger, tiger's heart!
Monmouth.
I pray you hearken—
Henrietta.
Hearken! what? to you?
To you who stole his young unhappy life
And hid the letter in your traitrous breast;
75
But “drunken pot-boy,” “Swilling knave,” what not—
Are you a man, my Lord? My Lord—O stay—
O tell me Monmouth it is all a lie!
| Monmouth A Tragedy | |