Strafford (Browning)/Act V
Scene I[edit]
WHITEHALL.
HOLLIS, CARLISLE.
HOLLIS.
Tell the King, then! Come in with me!
CARLISLE.
Not so!
He must not hear 'till it succeeds!
HOLLIS.
Vain! Vain!
No dream was half so vain—you'll rescue Strafford
And outwit Pym! I cannot tell you . . . girl,
The block pursues me—all the hideous show . .
To-day . . . is it to-day? And all the while
He's sure of the King's pardon . . think, I have
To tell this man he is to die!
The King
May rend his hair, for me! I'll not see Strafford!
CARLISLE.
Only, if I succeed, remember——Charles
Has saved him! He would hardly value life
Unless his gift.
My staunch friends wait! Go in—
You must go in to Charles!
HOLLIS.
And all beside
Left Strafford long ago—the King has signed
The warrant for his death . . the Queen was sick
Of the eternal subject! For the Court,—
The Trial was amusing in its way
Only too much of it . . the Earl withdrew
In time! But you—fragile—alone—so young!
Amid rude mercenaries—you devised
A plan to save him! Even tho' it fails
What shall reward you?
CARLISLE.
I may go, you think,
To France with him? And you reward me, friend!
Who lived with Strafford even from his youth
Before he set his heart on state-affairs
And they bent down that noble brow of his——
I have learned somewhat of his latter life
And all the future I shall know—but, Hollis,
I ought to make his youth my own as well!
Tell me——when he is saved!
HOLLIS.
My gentle girl
He should know all—should love you—but 'tis vain!
CARLISLE.
No—no—too late now! Let him love the King!
'Tis the King's scheme! I have your word—remember!—
We'll keep the old delusion up! But, hush!
Hush! Each of us has work to do, beside!
Go to the King! I hope—Hollis—I hope!
Say nothing of my scheme! Hush, while we speak
Think where He is! Now for my gallant friends! (Exit.)
HOLLIS.
Where He is! Calling wildly upon Charles——
Guessing his fate——pacing the prison-floor . . .
Let the King tell him! I'll not look on Strafford! (Exit.)
Scene II[edit]
THE TOWER.
STRAFFORD sitting with his Children. They sing.
O bell' andare
Per barca in mare,
Verso la sera
Di Primavera!
WILLIAM.
(The boat's in the broad moonlight all this while)
Verso la sera
Di Primavera.
And the boat shoots from underneath the moon
Into the shadowy distance—only still
You hear the dipping oar,
Verso la sera . . .
And faint—and fainter—and then all's quite gone,
Music and light and all, like a lost star.
ANNE.
But you should sleep, father: you were to sleep!
STRAFFORD.
I do sleep, dearest; or if not—you know
There's such a thing as . . .
WILLIAM.
You're too tired to sleep?
STRAFFORD.
It will come by and bye and all day long,
In that old quiet house I told you of:
We'll sleep safe there.
ANNE.
Why not in Ireland?
STRAFFORD.
Ah!
Too many dreams!—That song's for Venice, William:
You know how Venice looks upon the map . . .
Isles that the mainland hardly can let go?
WILLIAM.
You've been to Venice, father?
STRAFFORD.
I was young then.
WILLIAM.
A city with no King; that's why I like
Even a song that comes from Venice!
STRAFFORD.
William!
WILLIAM.
Oh, I know why! Anne, do you love the King?
But I'll see Venice for myself one day.
STRAFFORD.
See many lands, boy—England last of all,—
That way you'll love her best.
WILLIAM.
Why do men say
You sought to ruin her, then!
STRAFFORD.
Ah . . . they say that.
WILLIAM.
Why?
STRAFFORD.
I suppose they must have words to say.
As you to sing.
ANNE.
But they make songs beside:
Last night I heard one, in the street beneath,
That named you . . . Oh, the names!
WILLIAM.
Don't mind her, father!
They soon left off when I called out to them!
STRAFFORD.
We shall so soon be out of it, my boy!
'Tis not worth while: who heeds a foolish song?
WILLIAM.
Why, not the King!
STRAFFORD.
Well: it has been the fate
Of better men, and yet. . . . why not feel sure
That Time, who in the twilight comes to mend
All the fantastic Day's caprice—consign
Unto the ground once more the ignoble Term,
And raise the Genius on his orb again—
That Time will do me right?
ANNE.
(Shall we sing, William?
He does not look thus when we sing.)
STRAFFORD.
For Ireland,—
Something is done . . too little, but enough
To show what might have been:—
WILLIAM.
(I have no heart
To sing now! Anne, how very sad he looks!
Oh I so hate the King for all he says!)
STRAFFORD.
Forsook them! What, the common songs will run
That I forsook the People? Nothing more?
. . . Aye, Fame, the scribe, will pause awhile, no doubt,
Turning a deaf ear to her thousand slaves
Noisy to be enrolled,—will register
All curious glosses, subtle notices,
Ingenious clearings-up one fain would see
Beside that plain inscription of The Name—
The Patriot Pym, or the Apostate Strafford!
(The children resume their song timidly, but break off.)
Enter HOLLIS and an Attendant.
STRAFFORD.
No . . . Hollis? in good time!—Who is he?
HOLLIS.
One
That must be present.
STRAFFORD.
Ah—I understand—
They will not let me see poor Laud alone!
How politic! They'd use me by degrees
To solitude: and just as you came in
I was solicitous what life to lead
When Strafford's "not so much as Constable
In the King's service." Is there any means
To keep one's self awake? What would you do
After this bustle, Hollis, in my place?
HOLLIS.
Strafford . . .
STRAFFORD.
Observe, not but that Pym and you
Will find me news enough—news I shall hear
Under a quince tree by a fish-pond side
At Wentworth. Or, a better project now—
What if when all is over, and the Saints
Reign, and the Senate goes on swimmingly,—
What if I venture up, some day, unseen—
To saunter through the Town—notice how Pym,
The Tribune, likes Whitehall—drop quietly
Into a tavern—hear a point discussed—
As, whether Strafford's name were John or Richard—
And be myself appealed to . . . I, who shall
Myself have near forgotten!
HOLLIS.
I would speak . . .
STRAFFORD.
Then you shall speak,—not now: I want, just now,
To hear the sound of my own tongue. This place
Is full of ghosts!
HOLLIS.
Will you not hear me, Strafford?
STRAFFORD.
Oh, readily! . . . Only, one droll thing more,—
The minister! Who will advise the King,
And yet have health—children, for aught I know!
—My patient pair of traitors! Ah . . but, William—
Does not his cheek grow thin?
WILLIAM.
'Tis you look thin,
Father!
STRAFFORD.
A scamper o'er the breezy wolds
Sets all to-rights!
HOLLIS.
You cannot sure forget
A prison-roof is o'er you, Strafford?
STRAFFORD.
No,
Why, no. I would not touch on that, the first.
I left you that. Well, Hollis?
. . . . Say at once
The King could find no time to set me free!
A mask at Theobald's?
HOLLIS.
Hush . . . no such affair
Detains him.
STRAFFORD.
True: what needs so great a matter?
The Queen's lip may be sore!—Well: when he pleases,—
Only, I want the air: it vexes one
To be pent up so long!
HOLLIS.
The King . . . I bear
His message, Strafford . . . pray you, let me speak!
STRAFFORD.
Go, William! Anne, try o'er your song again!
(The children retire.)
They shall be loyal, friend, at all events.
I know your message: you have nothing new
To tell me: from the first I guessed as much.
I know, instead of coming here at once——
Leading me forth before them by the hand,—
I know the King will leave the door ajar
As though I were escaping . . . let me fly
While the mob gapes upon some show prepared
On the other side of the river!
HOLLIS (to his Companion).
Tell him all;
I knew my throat would thicken thus . . Speak, you!
STRAFFORD.
'Tis all one—I forgive him. Let me have
The order of release!
. . . I've heard, as well,
Of certain poor manoeuvrings to avoid
The granting pardon at his proper risk;
First, he must prattle somewhat to the Lords—
Must talk a trifle with the Commons first—
Be grieved I should abuse his confidence,
And far from blaming them, and . . .
. . . Where's the order?
HOLLIS.
Spare me!
STRAFFORD.
Why . . . . he'd not have me steal away?
—With an old doublet and a steeple hat
Like Prynne's? Be smuggled into France, perhaps?
Hollis, 'tis for my children! 'Twas for them
I e'er consented to stand day by day
And give those Puritans the best of words—
Be patient—speak when called upon—observe
Their rules,—and not give all of them the lie!
HOLLIS.
No—Strafford . . no escape . . no . . dearest Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
What's in that boy of mine that he should be
Son to a prison-breaker? I shall stay
And he'll stay with me. Charles should know as much—
He too has children!
(Turning to HOLLIS'S companion.) Ah, you feel for me!
No need to hide that face! Though it have looked
Upon me from the judgment-seat . . . I know
Strangely, that somewhere it has looked on me . . .
Still there is One who does not come—there's One
That shut out Heaven from me . . .
HOLLIS.
Think on it then!
On Heaven . . and calmly . . as one . . as one to die!
STRAFFORD.
Die? True, friend, all must die, and all must need
Forgiveness: I forgive him from my soul.
HOLLIS.
Be constant, now . . . be grand and brave . . be now
Just as when . . . Oh, I cannot stay for words . . .
'Tis a world's wonder . . but . . but . . you must die!
STRAFFORD.
Sir, if your errand is to set me free
This heartless jest will . .
Hollis—you turn white,
And your lip shivers!—What if . . .
Oh, we'll end,
We'll end this! See this paper—warm . . feel . . warm
With lying next my heart! Whose hand is there?
Whose promise? Read! Read loud! For God to hear!
"Strafford shall take no hurt" . . read it, I say!
"In person, honour, nor estate" . . . .
HOLLIS.
The King . . .
STRAFFORD.
I could unking him by a breath! You sit
Where Loudon sate . . Loudon, who came to tell
The certain end, and offer me Pym's pardon
If I'd forsake the King—and I stood firm
On my King's faith! The King who lived . . .
HOLLIS.
To sign
The warrant for your death.
STRAFFORD.
"Put not your trust
In Princes, neither in the sons of men,
In whom is no salvation!" On that King——
Upon his head . . .
CHARLES.
O Hollis, he will curse me!
HOLLIS.
The scaffold is prepared—they wait for you—
He has consented . . .
CHARLES.
No, no—stay first—Strafford!
You would not see me perish at your foot . . .
It was wrung from me! Only curse me not!
The Queen had cruel eyes! And Vane declared . .
And I believed I could have rescued you . .
Strafford—they threaten me! and . . well, speak now,
And let me die!—
HOLLIS.
(To STRAFFORD.) As you hope grace from God,
Be merciful to this most wretched man!
VOICES FROM WITHIN.
Verso la sera
Di Primavera.
STRAFFORD (after a pause).
You'll be good to those children, Sire? I know
You'll not believe her even should the Queen
Think they take after one they never saw!
I had intended that my son should live
A stranger to these matters . . . but you are
So utterly deprived of friends! He too
Must serve you—will you not be good to him?
Stay—Sire—stay—do not promise—do not swear!
And, Hollis—do the best you can for me!
I've not a soul to trust to: Wandesford's dead—
And you've got Radcliffe safe—and Laud is here . .
I've had small time of late for my affairs—
But I'll trust any of you . . . Pym himself—
No one could hurt them: there's an infant, too—
. . . These tedious cares! Your Majesty could spare them—
But 'tis so awkward—dying in a hurry!
. . . Nay—Pardon me, my King! I had forgotten
Your education, trials, and temptations
And weakness . . I have said a peevish word—
But, mind I bless you at the last! You know
'Tis between you and me . . . what has the world
To do with it? Farewell!
CHARLES (at the door).
Balfour! Balfour!
. . . What, die? Strafford to die? This Strafford here?
Balfour! . . Nay Strafford, do not speak . . Balfour!
Enter BALFOUR.
The Parliament . . . go to them—I grant all
Demands! Their sittings shall be permanent—
Tell them to keep their money if they will . . .
I'll come to them for every coat I wear
And every crust I eat, only I choose
To pardon Strafford—Strafford—my brave friend!
BALFOUR (aside).
Is he mad, Hollis?
CHARLES.
Strafford, now, to die!
. . But the Queen . . . ah, the Queen!—make haste, Balfour!
—You never heard the people howl for blood,
Beside!
BALFOUR.
Your Majesty may hear them now:
The walls can hardly keep their murmurs out:
Please you retire!
CHARLES.
Take all the troops, Balfour!
BALFOUR.
There are some hundred thousand of the crowd.
CHARLES.
Come with me, Strafford! You'll not fear them friend!
STRAFFORD.
Balfour, say nothing to the world of this!
I charge you, as a dying man, forget
You gazed upon this agony of one . . .
Of one . . or if . . why you may say, Balfour,
The King was sorry—very—'tis no shame!
Yes, you may say he even wept, Balfour,—
And that I walked the lighter to the block
Because of it. I shall walk lightly, Sire!
—For I shall save you . . save you at the last!
Earth fades, Heaven dawns on me . . I shall wake next
Before God's throne: the moment's close at hand
When Man the first, last time, has leave to lay
His whole heart bare before its Maker—leave
To clear up the long error of a life
And choose one happiness for evermore.
With all mortality about me, Charles,
The sudden wreck—the dregs—the violent death . . .
I'll pray for you! Thro' all the Angel-song
Shall penetrate one weak and quivering prayer—
I'll say how good you are . . inwardly good
And pure . . (The KING falls: HOLLIS raises him.)
Be witness, he could not prevent
My death! I'll go—ere he awakes—go now!
All must be ready—did you say, Balfour,
The crowd began to murmur?—They'll be kept
Too late for sermon at St. Antholin's!
Now—but tread softly—children are at play
In the next room—Ah, just my children—Hollis!
——Or . . . no—support the King! (a door is unbarred.)
Hark . . they are here!
Stay Hollis!—Go Balfour! I'll follow . . . . .
CARLISLE (entering with many Attendants).
Me!
Follow me, Strafford, and be saved! . . . The King?
(To the KING.) Well—as you ordered . . They are ranged without . .
The convoy . . (seeing the KING'S state.)
(To STRAFFORD.) You know all then! Why, I thought
It looked so well that Charles should save you—Charles
Alone . . 'tis shame that you should owe it me—
Me . . no, not shame! Strafford, you'll not feel shame
At being saved by me?
HOLLIS.
All true! Oh Strafford,
She saves you! all her deed . . this girl's own deed
—And is the boat in readiness? . . . You, friend,
Are Billingsley, no doubt! Speak to her, Strafford!
See how she trembles . . waiting for your voice!
The world's to learn its bravest story yet!
CARLISLE.
Talk afterward! Long nights in France enough
To sit beneath the vines and talk of home!
STRAFFORD.
You love me, girl! . . . . Ah, Strafford can be loved
As well as Vane! I could escape, then?
CARLISLE.
Haste . .
Advance the torches, Bryan!
STRAFFORD.
I will die!
They call me proud . . but England had no right
When she encountered me—her strength to mine—
To find the chosen foe a craven! Girl,
I fought her to the utterance—I fell—
I am hers now . . and I will die! Beside
The lookers-on! Eliot is all about
This place with his most uncomplaining brow!
CARLISLE.
Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
I think if you could know how much
I love you, you would be repaid, my girl!
CARLISLE.
Then, for my sake!
STRAFFORD.
Even for your sweet sake . .
I stay.
HOLLIS.
For their sake!
STRAFFORD.
I bequeath a stain . . .
Leave me! Girl, humour me and let me die!
HOLLIS.
No way to draw him hence—Carlisle—no way?
CARLISLE (suddenly to CHARLES).
Bid him escape . . wake, King! Bid him escape!
STRAFFORD.
(Looks earnestly at him.) Yes, I will go! Die, and forsake the King?
I'll not draw back from the last service.
CARLISLE.
Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
And, after all, what is disgrace to me?
Let us come, girl! . . . That it should end this way!
Lead then . . . but I feel strangely . . . it was not
To end this way!
CHARLES.
Lean—lean on me!
STRAFFORD.
My King!
Oh, had he trusted me—his Friend of friends—
Had he but trusted me!
CARLISLE.
Leave not the king—
I can support him, Hollis!
STRAFFORD.
(Starting as they approach the door at the back.)
Not this way;
This gate . . . I dreamed of it . . . this very gate!
CARLISLE.
It opens on the river—our good boat
Is moored below—our friends are there!
STRAFFORD.
The same!
Only with something ominous and dark,
Fatal, inevitable . . .
CARLISLE.
Strafford! Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
Not by this gate . . I feel it will be there!
I dreamed of it, I tell you . . touch it not!
CARLISLE.
To save the King,—Strafford, to save the King!
(As STRAFFORD opens the door, PYM is discovered with HAMPDEN,
VANE, &c. STRAFFORD falls back to the front of the stage: PYM follows
slowly and confronts him.)
PYM.
Have I done well? Speak, England! Whose great sake
I still have laboured for, with disregard
To my own heart,—for whom my youth was made
Barren, my future dark, to offer up
Her sacrifice—this man, this Wentworth here—
That walked in youth with me—loved me it may be,
And whom, for his forsaking England's cause,
I hunted by all means (trusting that she
Would sanctify all means) even to the grave
That yawns for him. And saying this, I feel
No bitter pang than first I felt, the hour
I swore that Wentworth might leave us,—but I
Would never leave him: I do leave him now!
I render up my charge (be witness, God!)
To England who imposed it! I have done
Her bidding—poorly, wrongly,—it may be
With ill effects—for I am but a man. . . . .
Still, I have done my best, my very best,
Not faltering for a moment! I have done!
(After a pause.)
And that said, I will say . . . yes, I will say
I never loved but this man—David not
More Jonathan! Even thus, I love him now:
And look for my chief portion in that world
Where great hearts led astray are turned again,
(Soon it may be . . and . . yes . . it will be soon:
My mission over, I shall not live long!)—
. . . Aye here I know I talk—and I will talk
Of England—and her great reward—as all
I look for there; but in my inmost heart
Believe I think of stealing quite away
To walk once more with Wentworth—with my friend
Purged from all error, gloriously renewed,
And Eliot shall not blame us! Then indeed . .
(This is no meeting, Wentworth! Tears rise up
Too hot . . A thin mist—is it blood?—enwraps
The face I loved so!) Then, shall the meeting be!
Then—then—then—I may kiss that hand, I know!
STRAFFORD.
(Walks calmly up to PYM and offers his hand.)
I have loved England too; we'll meet then, Pym!
As well to die! Youth is the time—our youth,
To think and to decide on a great course:
Age with its action follows; but 'tis dreary
To have to alter one's whole life in age—
The time past, the strength gone! as well die now.
When we meet, Pym, I'd be set right—not now!
I'd die as I have lived . . too late to change!
Best die. Then if there's any fault, it will
Be smothered up: much best! You'll be too busy
With your hereafter, you will have achieved
Too many triumphs to be always dwelling
Upon my downfall, Pym? Poor little Laud
May dream his dream out of a perfect Church
In some blind corner? And there's no one left . . .
(He glances on the KING.)
I trust the King now wholly to you, Pym!
And yet . . I know not! What if with this weakness . . .
And I shall not be there . . . And he'll betray
His friends—if he has any . . . And he's false . .
And loves the Queen, and . .
Oh, my fate is nothing—
Nothing! But not that awful head . . not that!
Pym, save the King! Pym, save him! Stay—you shall . . .
For you love England! I, that am dying, think
What I must see . . 'tis here . . all here! My God!
Let me but gasp out, in one word of fire,
How Thou wilt plague him, satiating Hell!
What? England that you love—our land—become
A green and putrefying charnel, left
Our children . . . some of us have children, Pym—
Some who, without that, still must ever wear
A darkened brow, an over-serious look,
And never properly be young . . .
No word!
You will not say a word—to me—to Him!
(Turning to CHARLES.)
Speak to him . . . as you spoke to me . . . that day!
Nay, I will let you pray to him, my King—
Pray to him! He will kiss your feet, I know!
What if I curse you? Send a strong Curse forth
Clothed from my heart, lapped round with horror, till
She's fit, with her white face, to walk the world
Scaring kind natures from your cause and you——
Then to sit down with you, at the board-head,
The gathering for prayer. . . .
VANE.
O speak, Pym! Speak!
STRAFFORD.
. . . Creep up, and quietly follow each one home—
You—you—you—be a nestling Care for each
To sleep with, hardly moaning in his dreams . . .
She gnaws so quietly . . . until he starts—
Gets off with half a heart eaten away . . .
Oh you shall 'scape with less, if she's my child!
VANE (to PYM).
We never thought of this . . . surely not dreamed
Of this . . it never can . . . could come to this!
PYM (after a pause).
If England should declare her will to me . . .
STRAFFORD.
No—not for England, now—not for Heaven, now . . .
See, Pym—for me! My sake! I kneel to you!
There . . I will thank you for the death . . . my friend,
This is the meeting . . . you will send me proud
To my chill grave! Dear Pym—I'll love you well!
Save him for me, and let me love you well!
PYM.
England——I am thine own! Dost thou exact
That service? I obey thee to the end!
STRAFFORD (as he totters out).
O God, I shall die first—I shall die first!
CURTAIN FALLS.