 | Babington |  |
SCENE I.
—A Chamber.Agnes
alone.—(She Sings.)
As the fountain is the purest
When first it meets the day;
As the breath of Heaven is balmiest
While yet the morn is grey;
As the gales of Spring are kindlier
Than Summer's noontide heat,
Or the sultry sighs of Autumn—
So first love is most sweet.
When first it meets the day;
As the breath of Heaven is balmiest
While yet the morn is grey;
As the gales of Spring are kindlier
Than Summer's noontide heat,
Or the sultry sighs of Autumn—
So first love is most sweet.
Then woe! and alack! quoth the damosel,
That grief should come so soon;
The dews they fall at eventide,
But I have wept at noon;
The rose that drops at Michaelmas
Hath seen the Summer's sun;
But Winter overcloudeth me
Or ere my Spring be done.
That grief should come so soon;
The dews they fall at eventide,
But I have wept at noon;
The rose that drops at Michaelmas
Hath seen the Summer's sun;
But Winter overcloudeth me
Or ere my Spring be done.
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Do what I will, my fingers only move
As grief would have them, and my notes of joy
Still die into the spirit of a dirge,
As if that Sorrow sat upon the strings
And tuned them to her mood. Do they not say
That Woe can cast her shadow on before
To warn us of her coming; so the air
Feels still and heavy ere the thunder-crash,
As if the restless and the roving wind
Were struck e'en motionless with very dread,
And terrified to silence. I will sing
No more.
And yet that strain was ever dear to me,
For that 'twas Babington's chief favourite;
And I would sing it with a sweeter zest
Than I could chant a thousand gayer songs,
Because he begg'd it of me. Now, alas!
He asks for it no more, nor would I hear it
But for his asking.—Go, ungrateful lute,
Thou e'en art like the rest. I love thee not.
E'en like the meadows, or the mossy groves,
Or the hush'd eve, or tuneful nightingale,
Or all that decks the summer, thou could'st please,
But now—can'st please no more. Go, plaintive songs;
Ye may enrapture when the heart is light;
But, to the sad, your melancholy is
Too near akin to tears.
As grief would have them, and my notes of joy
Still die into the spirit of a dirge,
As if that Sorrow sat upon the strings
And tuned them to her mood. Do they not say
That Woe can cast her shadow on before
To warn us of her coming; so the air
Feels still and heavy ere the thunder-crash,
As if the restless and the roving wind
Were struck e'en motionless with very dread,
And terrified to silence. I will sing
No more.
And yet that strain was ever dear to me,
For that 'twas Babington's chief favourite;
And I would sing it with a sweeter zest
Than I could chant a thousand gayer songs,
Because he begg'd it of me. Now, alas!
He asks for it no more, nor would I hear it
But for his asking.—Go, ungrateful lute,
Thou e'en art like the rest. I love thee not.
E'en like the meadows, or the mossy groves,
Or the hush'd eve, or tuneful nightingale,
Or all that decks the summer, thou could'st please,
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Ye may enrapture when the heart is light;
But, to the sad, your melancholy is
Too near akin to tears.
Enter Ballard, (Aside.)
She sings—not yet—how beautiful she stands,
As if some seraph had come down to see
How heavenly songs become a mortal lute,
And try if that a wire of earthly mould,
Waked by the touch of a celestial hand,
May make the angels listen—at her voice
My nature is transmuted, as the breath
Driven sweetly through the wreath'd barbaric shell
Doth charm the horned snake. I'll speak to her,
And bask in those meek eyes.—Now, oh! my bosom
Teem with deceits rife as the sleepy flowers,
In the dank ooze of Lethe; glide, my words,
Into her ears, like asps, that poison ere
We know that they are there.—
(Aloud.)
Heaven bless thee, lady.
AGNES.
Good even, sir—or rather, Father, now
The place permits me say it.
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No—not Father;
That is a title here that fits me not;
And, haply, never shall.
AGNES.
Now, Heaven forefend!
Father, you seem disturb'd.
BALLARD.
I do, dear lady—
Throughout the whole dark volume of my days,
I have been practised as an intercessor
For other men—or at the Throne of Mercy,
Or at those seats where saints above are seated,
Or at some temporal footstool—Never yet
Stood there a true and zealous advocate
So shorn of eloquence, so dumb, so tongue-tied,
As I do now.
AGNES.
This is a marvel; who
Can need your intercession, and with me?
BALLARD.
Who that durst plead as he would wish, dear lady,
But would need intercession.
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I am like one that venturing in to swim,
Ere he hath reach'd mid-current loseth heart,
And idly chokes i' the waters. There are many
Will think to beg a boon, but at the touch,
Sunk by the weight of their unworthiness,
Wreck their own advocacy. Therefore, lady,
If what I say shall seem importunate,
Arrogant, frontless, or unreasonable,
Let me be held but as the mere attorney
Of other men's appeals; and my commission
Once ended, call myself again your friend.—
It is for Chidiok Tichbourne I would speak.
AGNES.
Why, then, your peroration's thrown away.
It grieves me, Father, thus to break you off;
Ask something, I do pray you, I can grant,
But name not Tichbourne in't, and it shall please me
To run before your wishes.
BALLARD.
Shall't—indeed?
AGNES.
Do not mistake—I can appreciate
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But on this theme, I pray you, name him not.
BALLARD.
Your wishes, lady, are omnipotent.
AGNES.
Nay, not so grave; think me not proud, nor harsh,
Nor one that doth refuse but to be sued,
Nor one that would be sued but to refuse;
But on this theme, beseech you, pardon me.
BALLARD.
Lady, 'tis I need pardon; why, methinks
I want the breath to make up such a word.
Do I not know 'tis even with our minds
As with our palates; and that our mislikings
Will heed no curb of ours? As 'tis with love,
So with its opposite—'Tis masterless.
What remedy?—Tichbourne, no doubt, is clear
In spirit and in honour; gentle; generous;
As quick and sparkling as the summer stream,
That ever moves in music. What of that?
If you can love him not—I am well answer'd.
Though haply there is one to whom his soul
Is as the myrtle to the monarch oak,
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That rolls mid Indian climes, o'er golden sands,
Half the world's cycle. Bear with me, I grow
Somewhat too florid. Even so—one whose pleasure
Is only daring; and whose life is danger;
Whose faith thrives best in perilous extremes;
Whose honour lies in honourable deeds;
Who for a nation's good would risk his own.
—On him, perchance, that bosom, though it be
The quintessence of every gentleness,
The bed where love himself dares scarce repose,
Lest he should never leave a couch so soft;
Slave of his own sweet languor, haply might
Be brought to lean.
AGNES.
Father—I know not this.
There is none such.
BALLARD.
Oh! say not so, blest creature.
And were I gifted with all things beside,
That Avarice could devise, or Prodigality
Confer, may yon blest light find me no more,
But I would give them all to be that man.
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Father!
BALLARD.
Ay, though I roam'd the globe, a naked outcast,
Whom Fate abhorr'd, and Fortune had forsworn,
So I might count, the while, those eyes the stars
That told my destiny.
AGNES.
What mean you, Father?
BALLARD.
He that hath drunk new wine in Paradise,
And banquetted upon immortal fruits,
And lived upon the breath that angels breathe,
And tasted of the sleep where Death is not;
Couch'd 'mid the fadeless amaranthine flowers;
Not having loved, nor been beloved of thee,
Hath known not what bliss is!
AGNES.
What course is this?
Your practice, holy sir, should not be false,
Nor yet your words be true—I am unused
To such a tone—much less from such a tongue.
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Hark thee: I'll tell a tale.—Nay, shrink not from me;
As if or distance had the power to blunt
Th' impressure of thine eyes, or time to heal
The gazer's hurt.—There sometime was a maid,
Named Katharine—ay, De Boria was her name—
Nursed in the German fields, by Wittemberg,
And she did spring the wonder of all eyes,
Till, in her womanhood, her estate of beauty
Might bought the rubied hills of Samarcand,
Ay, or the golden bosom of Peru;
Rifest of sweets, since our first mother, Eve;
Save, haply, one: but she, as thou, was humble;
And all these charms did dedicate to God.
—But not the sanctity of holy walls;
Nor the heaven-melting breath of choral praise;
No; nor the awful shadow of the Cross,
Could drown her accents in one eager ear,
Nor blind the gaze of an unhallow'd eye.
Ay; for the sake of those rare lineaments,
The sight of which had palsied Phidias' hand,
And hue, at which the roses might outblush
Themselves for envy, God's eternal Faith,
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In one unbroken bond of joy and love;
Even as the silken cincture round that bosom;
Was torn and trampled on, and made the pandar
Of the fierce passion of that aweless monk,
Who drank his phrenzy from her eyes—his name?
What was't?—come tell thou me.
AGNES.
I know not, Father.
What mean you?
BALLARD.
Thou dost know—His name was Luther!
(He pauses.)
What follows upon this? If 'twas permitted—
For evil is permitted, even as good—
If 'twas permitted that one fatal face
Should be the cause why sacrilegious hands
Have broken the communion of the Faith,
And bent the very word of God himself,
Unto the impious glosses of bold men,
Who dare cross-question the Redeemer's self,
And make his laws a peg, whereon to hang
Blasphemous cavils—If 'twas so permitted?
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To heal the wound again? Who would not pledge
Her soul, however priceless, for the hope
Of such a ransom?—Thou do'st answer not—
Deem that the fate of millions may be set
Upon that brow—thine eyes two constellations
That tell of change and herald destiny.—
Oh! but methinks that I could foot the waves,
Or pass unscathed into the furnace jaws;
Yea, live where all created being else
Die ere they can breathe twice—so that this hand
Did point me to the way—Nay, scorn me not,
Nor play the prude with Fate—by Heaven, I'll have't!
—I am not that I seem—
AGNES.
Thou'rt not, indeed!
Unhand me—monstrous and unhallow'd villain—
Methinks the sight of thee e'en doth pollute
The eye that sees.—O! what a film hath lain
Upon our sight—Hence! ere that Babington
Hath found that Treach'ry and Ingratitude
Are nestling at his very hearth, to sting him.
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That mercy I afford thee.
(She is going out.)
BALLARD.
Yea—So high?
Why then, I must let fly another falcon.
In faith 'tis time! I hardly thought that woman
Had been so hard to deal with.
(He seizes her arm, and leads her back.)
Soft you, lady,
A word or two or ere ye go, and in
Another key, since this doth please you not.
—Sit there—nay, sit, I say—I will be plain,
Since Flattery's out of fashion—Do not tremble— (He seats himself at a little distance.)
Now—what d'ye think me, lady?
AGNES.
Insolent,
As well as reckless!—of created things,
But tell me which is worst, and thou art worse
Than that—what means this awless violence?
BALLARD.
Violence!—you wrong me, sweet madam: but he who
rhymes not must prose; who doth not sing must say!—
A word in your ear, ere you leave me. Thou wilt tell
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mine head within the danger of his reproof, if I had him
not in the toil? What dost thou think me? thou answer'st
not; I will replicate for thee—a Jesuit! whether that
be bad, I wot not; but that it is potent—ay, potent, to
the very top of potentiality, I know. Now, mark me.
Whisper one tittle of these passages between thee and me
to human being, and a breath of mine shall make this house
a habitation for foxes; and its master food for kites. They
shall have a quarter of him for the four points o' the
compass. I know the slipperiness of your sex well enough!
Beware! One whisper—and—and a swifter and a sadder
doom falls upon this house, than was rained on the city
Lot pray'd for. I tell thee, there is but a single wag of
thy tongue betwixt Babington's neck and the hangman's
axe. Remember that—and bite thou thy tongue out, rather
than let it ope the door to this secret.—Fare thee well.
(He returns.)
One word more. Look, as thou art wont,
on Babington, on his mother, on me, on all. No sighings,
nor droopings; no brows of insinuation, nor tricks o' th
eyelash. I tell thee, wherever thou hast motion, I have
eyes; wherever thou hast voice, I have ears; whisper me
like Midas' wife but to the reeds, and thou shalt rouse a
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remember,—I say again—remember.
[Ballard goes out.
AGNES
(looking round fearfully.)
Yes; he is gone—Where am I? Is this so;
Or hath some swift distemper seized my brain,
And driven it into phrenzy? I do quiver
Like one just starting from some horrid dream,
Whose fear still deems it real. There are those
They say, in gay but earthquake-shaken climes,
Who in the midst of joy and smilingness
Have seen a sudden gulph yawn at their feet,
Whence darkness seem'd to issue. Such a horror
Is now before me. Merciful powers! what course—
What way of flight—what method of avoidance
Can save me from th' abyss? No stay!—no counsel!—
I am as one upon whose sleep a snake
Hath coil'd itself! I see mine enemy,
But dare not stir to shun him, lest that danger
Be trebled by retreat. What's to be done?
—Oh! Babington, in what most perilous mystery
Hath thy high soul embark'd thee? Let me rally
My scatter'd senses ere I act in this;
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It should be freely render'd. The mean while,
No womanish weakness shall bewray thy secret,
Though, of all griefs, there is no pang comes nigh
The being grieved—and yet forbid to sigh.
[She retires.
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