 | Monmouth A Tragedy |  |
61
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
62
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?
63
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
64
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,
65
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
66
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—
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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—
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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.
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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—
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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!
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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;
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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!
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