 | Monmouth A Tragedy |  |
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!
| Monmouth A Tragedy | |