MORTIMER.
So I pretended, that I must confess;
Such was my anxious wish to serve my queen.
ELIZABETH (to PAULET, who presents papers to her).
What have you there?
PAULET.
'Tis from the Queen of Scots.
'Tis a petition, and to thee addressed.
BURLEIGH (hastily catching at it).
Give me the paper.
PAULET (giving it to the QUEEN).
By your leave, my lord
High-treasurer; the lady ordered me
To bring it to her majesty's own hands.
She says I am her enemy; I am
The enemy of her offences only,
And that which is consistent with my duty
I will, and readily, oblige her in.
[The QUEEN takes the letter: as she reads it MORTIMER
and LEICESTER speak some words in private.
BURLEIGH (to PAULET).
What may the purport of the letter be?
Idle complaints, from which one ought to screen
The queen's too tender heart.
PAULET.
What it contains
She did not hide from me; she asks a boon;
She begs to be admitted to the grace
Of speaking with the queen.
BURLEIGH.
It cannot be.
TALBOT.
Why not? Her supplication's not unjust.
BURLEIGH.
For her, the base encourager of murder;
Her, who hath thirsted for our sovereign's blood,
The privilege to see the royal presence
Is forfeited: a faithful counsellor
Can never give this treacherous advice.
TALBOT.
And if the queen is gracious, sir, are you
The man to hinder pity's soft emotions?
BURLEIGH.
She is condemned to death; her head is laid
Beneath the axe, and it would ill become
The queen to see a death-devoted head.
The sentence cannot have its execution
If the queen's majesty approaches her,
For pardon still attends the royal presence,
As sickness flies the health-dispensing hand.
ELIZABETH (having read the letter, dries her tears).
Oh, what is man! What is the bliss of earth!
To what extremities is she reduced
Who with such proud and splendid hopes began!
Who, called to sit on the most ancient throne
Of Christendom, misled by vain ambition,
Hoped with a triple crown to deck her brows!
How is her language altered, since the time
When she assumed the arms of England's crown,
And by the flatterers of her court was styled
Sole monarch of the two Britannic isles!
Forgive me, lords, my heart is cleft in twain,
Anguish possesses me, and my soul bleeds
To think that earthly goods are so unstable,
And that the dreadful fate which rules mankind
Should threaten mine own house, and scowl so near me.
TALBOT.
Oh, queen! the God of mercy hath informed
Your heart; Oh! hearken to this heavenly guidance.
Most grievously, indeed, hath she atoned.
Her grievous crime, and it is time that now,
At last, her heavy penance have an end.
Stretch forth your hand to raise this abject queen,
And, like the luminous vision of an angel,
Descend into her gaol's sepulchral night.
BURLEIGH.
Be steadfast, mighty queen; let no emotion
Of seeming laudable humanity
Mislead thee; take not from thyself the power
Of acting as necessity commands.
Thou canst not pardon her, thou canst not save her:
Then heap not on thyself the odious blame,
That thou, with cruel and contemptuous triumph,
Didst glut thyself with gazing on thy victim.
LEICESTER.
Let us, my lords, remain within our bounds;
The queen is wise, and doth not need our counsels
To lead her to the most becoming choice.
This meeting of the queens hath naught in common
With the proceedings of the court of justice.
The law of England, not the monarch's will,
Condemns the Queen of Scotland, and 'twere worthy
Of the great soul of Queen Elizabeth,
To follow the soft dictates of her heart,
Though justice swerves not from its rigid path.
ELIZABETH.
Retire, my lords. We shall, perhaps, find means
To reconcile the tender claims of pity
With what necessity imposes on us.
And now retire.
[The LORDS retire; she calls SIR EDWARD MORTIMER back.
Sir Edward Mortimer!
SCENE V.
ELIZABETH, MORTIMER.
ELIZABETH (having measured him for some time with her eyes in silence).
You've shown a spirit of adventurous courage
And self-possession, far beyond your years.
He who has timely learnt to play so well
The difficult dissembler's needful task
Becomes a perfect man before his time,
And shortens his probationary years.
Fate calls you to a lofty scene of action;
I prophesy it, and can, happily
For you, fulfil, myself, my own prediction.
MORTIMER.
Illustrious mistress, what I am, and all
I can accomplish, is devoted to you.
ELIZABETH.
You've made acquaintance with the foes of England.
Their hate against me is implacable;
Their fell designs are inexhaustible.
As yet, indeed, Almighty Providence
Hath shielded me; but on my brows the crown
Forever trembles, while she lives who fans
Their bigot-zeal, and animates their hopes.
MORTIMER.
She lives no more, as soon as you command it.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, sir! I thought I saw my labors end,
And I am come no further than at first,
I wished to let the laws of England act,
And keep my own hands pure from blood's defilement.
The sentence is pronounced--what gain I by it?
It must be executed, Mortimer,
And I must authorize the execution.
The blame will ever light on me, I must
Avow it, nor can save appearances.
That is the worst----
MORTIMER.
But can appearances
Disturb your conscience where the cause is just?
ELIZABETH.
You are unpractised in the world, sir knight;
What we appear, is subject to the judgment
Of all mankind, and what we are, of no man.
No one will be convinced that I am right:
I must take care that my connivance in
Her death be wrapped in everlasting doubt.
In deeds of such uncertain double visage
Safety lies only in obscurity.
Those measures are the worst that stand avowed;
What's not abandoned, is not wholly lost.
MORTIMER (seeking to learn her meaning).
Then it perhaps were best----
ELIZABETH (quick).
Ay, surely 'twere
The best; Oh, sir, my better angel speaks
Through you;--go on then, worthy sir, conclude
You are in earnest, you examine deep,
Have quite a different spirit from your uncle.
MORTIMER (surprised).
Have you imparted then your wishes to him?
ELIZABETH.
I am sorry that I have.
MORTIMER.
Excuse his age,
The old man is grown scrupulous; such bold
Adventures ask the enterprising heart
Of youth----
ELIZABETH.
And may I venture then on you----
MORTIMER.
My hand I'll lend thee; save then as thou canst
Thy reputation----
ELIZABETH.
Yes, sir; if you could
But waken me some morning with this news
"Maria Stuart, your bloodthirsty foe,
Breathed yesternight her last"----
MORTIMER.
Depend on me.
ELIZABETH.
When shall my head lie calmly down to sleep?
MORTIMER.
The next new moon will terminate thy fears.
ELIZABETH.
And be the selfsame happy day the dawn
Of your preferment--so God speed you, sir;
And be not hurt, if, chance, my thankfulness
Should wear the mask of darkness. Silence is
The happy suitor's god. The closest bonds,
The dearest, are the works of secrecy.
[Exit.
SCENE VI.
MORTIMER (alone).
Go, false, deceitful queen! As thou deludest
The world, e'en so I cozen thee; 'tis right,
Thus to betray thee; 'tis a worthy deed.
Look I then like a murderer? Hast thou read
Upon my brow such base dexterity?
Trust only to my arm, and keep thine own
Concealed--assume the pious outward show
Of mercy 'fore the world, while reckoning
In secret on my murderous aid; and thus
By gaining time we shall insure her rescue.
Thou wilt exalt me!--show'st me from afar
The costly recompense: but even were
Thyself the prize, and all thy woman's favor,
What art thou, poor one, and what canst thou proffer?
I scorn ambition's avaricious strife,
With her alone is all the charm of life,
O'er her, in rounds of endless glory, hover
Spirits with grace, and youth eternal blessed,
Celestial joy is throned upon her breast.
Thou hast but earthly, mortal goods to offer--
That sovereign good, for which all else be slighted,
When heart in heart, delighting and delighted;
Together flow in sweet forgetfulness;--
Ne'er didst thou woman's fairest crown possess,
Ne'er hast thou with thy hand a lover's heart requited.
I must attend Lord Leicester, and deliver
Her letter to him--'tis a hateful charge--
I have no confidence in this court puppet--
I can effect her rescue, I alone;
Be danger, honor, and the prize my own.
[As he is going, PAULET meets him.
SCENE VII.
MORTIMER, PAULET.
PAULET.
What said the queen to you?
MORTIMER.
'Twas nothing, sir;
Nothing of consequence----
PAULET (looking at him earnestly).
Hear, Mortimer!
It is a false and slippery ground on which
You tread. The grace of princes is alluring,
Youth loves ambition--let not yours betray you.
MORTIMER.
Was it not yourself that brought me to the court?
PAULET.
Oh, would to God I had not done as much!
The honor of our house was never reaped
In courts--stand fast, my nephew--purchase not
Too dear, nor stain your conscience with a crime.
MORTIMER.
What are these fears? What are you dreaming of?
PAULET.
How high soever the queen may pledge herself
To raise you, trust not her alluring words.
[The spirit of the world's a lying spirit,
And vice is a deceitful, treacherous friend.]
She will deny you, if you listen to her;
And, to preserve her own good name, will punish
The bloody deed, which she herself enjoined.
MORTIMER.
The bloody deed!----
PAULET.
Away, dissimulation!--
I know the deed the queen proposed to you.
She hopes that your ambitious youth will prove
More docile than my rigid age. But say,
Have you then pledged your promise, have you?
MORTIMER.
Uncle!
PAULET.
If you have done so, I abandon you,
And lay my curse upon you----
LEICESTER (entering).
Worthy sir!
I with your nephew wish a word. The queen
Is graciously inclined to him; she wills
That to his custody the Scottish queen
Be with full powers intrusted. She relies
On his fidelity.
PAULET.
Relies!--'tis well----
LEICESTER.
What say you, sir?
PAULET.
Her majesty relies
On him; and I, my noble lord, rely
Upon myself, and my two open eyes.
[Exit.
SCENE VIII.
LEICESTER, MORTIMER.
LEICESTER (surprised).
What ailed the knight?
MORTIMER.
My lord, I cannot tell
What angers him: the confidence, perhaps,
The queen so suddenly confers on me.
LEICESTER.
Are you deserving then of confidence?
MORTIMER.
This would I ask of you, my Lord of Leicester.
LEICESTER.
You said you wished to speak with me in private.
MORTIMER.
Assure me first that I may safely venture.
LEICESTER.
Who gives me an assurance on your side?
Let not my want of confidence offend you;
I see you, sir, exhibit at this court
Two different aspects; one of them must be
A borrowed one; but which of them is real?
MORTIMER.
The selfsame doubts I have concerning you.
LEICESTER.
Which, then, shall pave the way to confidence?
MORTIMER.
He, who by doing it, is least in danger.
LEICESTER.
Well, that are you----
MORTIMER.
No, you; the evidence
Of such a weighty, powerful peer as you
Can overwhelm my voice. My accusation
Is weak against your rank and influence.
LEICESTER.
Sir, you mistake. In everything but this
I'm powerful here; but in this tender point
Which I am called upon to trust you with,
I am the weakest man of all the court,
The poorest testimony can undo me.
MORTIMER.
If the all-powerful Earl of Leicester deign
To stoop so low to meet me, and to make
Such a confession to me, I may venture
To think a little better of myself,
And lead the way in magnanimity.
LEICESTER.
Lead you the way of confidence, I'll follow.
MORTIMER (producing suddenly the letter).
Here is a letter from the Queen of Scotland.
LEICESTER (alarmed, catches hastily at the letter).
Speak softly, sir! what see I? Oh, it is
Her picture!
[Kisses and examines it with speechless joy--a pause.
MORTIMER (who has watched him closely the whole tine).
Now, my lord, I can believe you.
LEICESTER (having hastily run through the letter).
You know the purport of this letter, sir.
MORTIMER.
Not I.
LEICESTER.
Indeed! She surely hath informed you.
MORTIMER.
Nothing hath she informed me of. She said
You would explain this riddle to me--'tis
To me a riddle, that the Earl of Leicester,
The far-famed favorite of Elizabeth,
The open, bitter enemy of Mary,
And one of those who spoke her mortal sentence,
Should be the man from whom the queen expects
Deliverance from her woes; and yet it must be;
Your eyes express too plainly what your heart
Feels for the hapless lady.
LEICESTER.
Tell me, Sir,
First, how it comes that you should take so warm
An interest in her fate; and what it was
Gained you her confidence?
MORTIMER.
My lord, I can,
And in few words, explain this mystery.
I lately have at Rome abjured my creed,
And stand in correspondence with the Guises.
A letter from the cardinal archbishop
Was my credential with the Queen of Scots.
LEICESTER.
I am acquainted, sir, with your conversion;
'Twas that which waked my confidence towards you.
[Each remnant of distrust be henceforth banished;]
Your hand, sir, pardon me these idle doubts,
I cannot use too much precaution here.
Knowing how Walsingham and Burleigh hate me,
And, watching me, in secret spread their snares;
You might have been their instrument, their creature
To lure me to their toils.
MORTIMER.
How poor a part
So great a nobleman is forced to play
At court! My lord, I pity you.
LEICESTER.
With joy
I rest upon the faithful breast of friendship,
Where I can ease me of this long constraint.
You seem surprised, sir, that my heart is turned
So suddenly towards the captive queen.
In truth, I never hated her; the times
Have forced me to be her enemy.
She was, as you well know, my destined bride,
Long since, ere she bestowed her hand on Darnley,
While yet the beams of glory round her smiled,
Coldly I then refused the proffered boon.
Now in confinement, at the gates of death,
I claim her at the hazard of my life.
MORTIMER.
True magnanimity, my lord.
LEICESTER.
The state
Of circumstances since that time is changed.
Ambition made me all insensible
To youth and beauty. Mary's hand I held
Too insignificant for me; I hoped
To be the husband of the Queen of England.
MORTIMER.
It is well known she gave you preference
Before all others.
LEICESTER.
So, indeed, it seemed.
Now, after ten lost years of tedious courtship
And hateful self-constraint--oh, sir, my heart
Must ease itself of this long agony.
They call me happy! Did they only know
What the chains are, for which they envy me!
When I had sacrificed ten bitter years
To the proud idol of her vanity;
Submitted with a slave's humility
To every change of her despotic fancies
The plaything of each little wayward whim.
At times by seeming tenderness caressed,
As oft repulsed with proud and cold disdain;
Alike tormented by her grace and rigor:
Watched like a prisoner by the Argus eyes
Of jealousy; examined like a schoolboy,
And railed at like a servant. Oh, no tongue
Can paint this hell.
MORTIMER.
My lord, I feel for you.
LEICESTER.
To lose, and at the very goal, the prize
Another comes to rob me of the fruits
Of my so anxious wooing. I must lose
To her young blooming husband all those rights
Of which I was so long in full possession;
And I must from the stage descend, where I
So long have played the most distinguished part.
'Tis not her hand alone this envious stranger
Threatens, he'd rob me of her favor too;
She is a woman, and he formed to please.
MORTIMER.
He is the son of Catherine. He has learnt
In a good school the arts of flattery.
LEICESTER.
Thus fall my hopes; I strove to seize a plank
To bear me in this shipwreck of my fortunes,
And my eye turned itself towards the hope
Of former days once more; then Mary's image
Within me was renewed, and youth and beauty
Once more asserted all their former rights.
No more 'twas cold ambition; 'twas my heart
Which now compared, and with regret I felt
The value of the jewel I had lost.
With horror I beheld her in the depths.
Of misery, cast down by my transgression;
Then waked the hope in me that I might still
Deliver and possess her; I contrived
To send her, through a faithful hand, the news
Of my conversion to her interests;
And in this letter which you brought me, she
Assures me that she pardons me, and offers
Herself as guerdon if I rescue her.
MORTIMER.
But you attempted nothing for her rescue.
You let her be condemned without a word:
You gave, yourself, your verdict for her death;
A miracle must happen, and the light
Of truth must move me, me, her keeper's nephew,
And heaven must in the Vatican at Rome
Prepare for her an unexpected succour,
Else had she never found the way to you.
LEICESTER.
Oh, sir, it has tormented me enough!
About this time it was that they removed her
From Talbot's castle, and delivered her
Up to your uncle's stricter custody.
Each way to her was shut. I was obliged
Before the world to persecute her still;
But do not think that I would patiently
Have seen her led to death. No, Sir; I hoped,
And still I hope, to ward off all extremes,
Till I can find some certain means to save her.
MORTIMER.
These are already found: my Lord of Leicester;
Your generous confidence in me deserves
A like return. I will deliver her.
That is my object here; my dispositions
Are made already, and your powerful aid
Assures us of success in our attempt.
LEICESTER.
What say you? You alarm me! How? You would----
MORTIMER.
I'll open forcibly her prison-gates;
I have confederates, and all is ready.
LEICESTER.
You have confederates, accomplices?
Alas! In what rash enterprise would you
Engage me? And these friends, know they my secret?
MORTIMER.
Fear not; our plan was laid without your help,
Without your help it would have been accomplished,
Had she not signified her resolution
To owe her liberty to you alone.
LEICESTER.
And can you, then, with certainty assure me
That in your plot my name has not been mentioned?
MORTIMER.
You may depend upon it. How, my lord,
So scrupulous when help is offered you?
You wish to rescue Mary, and possess her;
You find confederates; sudden, unexpected,
The readiest means fall, as it were from Heaven,
Yet you show more perplexity than joy.
LEICESTER.
We must avoid all violence; it is
Too dangerous an enterprise.
MORTIMER.
Delay
Is also dangerous.
LEICESTER.
I tell you, Sir,
'Tis not to be attempted----
MORTIMER.
My lord,
Too hazardous for you, who would possess her;
But we, who only wish to rescue her,
We are more bold.
LEICESTER.
Young man, you are too hasty
In such a thorny, dangerous attempt.
MORTIMER.
And you too scrupulous in honor's cause.
LEICESTER.
I see the trammels that are spread around us.
MORTIMER.
And I feel courage to break through them all.
LEICESTER.
Foolhardiness and madness, is this courage?
MORTIMER.
This prudence is not bravery, my lord.
LEICESTER.
You surely wish to end like Babington.
MORTIMER.
You not to imitate great Norfolk's virtue.
LEICESTER.
Norfolk ne'er won the bride he wooed so fondly.
MORTIMER.
But yet he proved how truly he deserved her.
LEICESTER.
If we are ruined, she must fall with us.
MORTIMER.
If we risk nothing, she will ne'er be rescued.
LEICESTER.
You will not weigh the matter, will not hear;
With blind and hasty rashness you destroy
The plans which I so happily had framed.
MORTIMER.
And what were then the plans which you had framed?
What have you done then to deliver her?
And how, if I were miscreant enough
To murder her, as was proposed to me
This moment by Elizabeth, and which
She looks upon as certain; only name
The measures you have taken to protect her?
LEICESTER.
Did the queen give you, then, this bloody order?
MORTIMER.
She was deceived in me, as Mary is in you.
LEICESTER.
And have you promised it? Say, have you?
MORTIMER.
That she might not engage another's hand,
I offered mine.
LEICESTER.
Well done, sir; that was right;
This gives us leisure, for she rests secure
Upon your bloody service, and the sentence
Is unfulfilled the while, and we gain time.
MORTIMER (angrily).
No, we are losing time.
LEICESTER.
The queen depends
On you, and will the readier make a show
Of mercy; and I may prevail on her
To give an audience to her adversary;
And by this stratagem we tie her hands
Yes! I will make the attempt, strain every nerve.
MORTIMER.
And what is gained by this? When she discovers
That I am cheating her, that Mary lives;
Are we not where we were? She never will
Be free; the mildest doom which can await her
At best is but perpetual confinement.
A daring deed must one day end the matter;
Why will you not with such a deed begin?
The power is in your hands, would you but rouse
The might of your dependents round about
Your many castles, 'twere an host; and still
Has Mary many secret friends. The Howards
And Percies' noble houses, though their chiefs
Be fallen, are rich in heroes; they but wait
For the example of some potent lord.
Away with feigning--act an open part,
And, like a loyal knight, protect your fair;
Fight a good fight for her! You know you are
Lord of the person of the Queen of England,
Whene'er you will: invite her to your castle,
Oft hath she thither followed you--then show
That you're a man; then speak as master; keep her
Confined till she release the Queen of Scots.
LEICESTER.
I am astonished--I am terrified!
Where would your giddy madness hurry you?
Are you acquainted with this country? Know you
The deeps and shallows of this court? With what
A potent spell this female sceptre binds
And rules men's spirits round her? 'Tis in vain
You seek the heroic energy which once
Was active in this land! it is subdued,
A woman holds it under lock and key,
And every spring of courage is relaxed.
Follow my counsel--venture nothing rashly.
Some one approaches-go----
MORTIMER.
And Mary hopes--
Shall I return to her with empty comfort?
LEICESTER.
Bear her my vows of everlasting love.
MORTIMER.
Bear them yourself! I offered my assistance
As her deliverer, not your messenger.
[Exit.
SCENE IX.
ELIZABETH, LEICESTER.
ELIZABETH.
Say, who was here? I heard the sound of voices.
LEICESTER (turning quickly and perplexed round on hearing the QUEEN).
It was young Mortimer----
ELIZABETH.
How now, my lord:
Why so confused?
LEICESTER (collecting himself).
Your presence is the cause.
Ne'er did I see thy beauty so resplendent,
My sight is dazzled by thy heavenly charms.
Oh!
ELIZABETH.
Whence this sigh?
LEICESTER.
Have I no reason, then,
To sigh? When I behold you in your glory,
I feel anew, with pain unspeakable,
The loss which threatens me.
ELIZABETH.
What loss, my lord?
LEICESTER.
Your heart; your own inestimable self
Soon will you feel yourself within the arms
Of your young ardent husband, highly blessed;
He will possess your heart without a rival.
He is of royal blood, that am not I.
Yet, spite of all the world can say, there lives not
One on this globe who with such fervent zeal
Adores you as the man who loses you.
Anjou hath never seen you, can but love
Your glory and the splendor of your reign;
But I love you, and were you born of all
The peasant maids the poorest, I the first
Of kings, I would descend to your condition,
And lay my crown and sceptre at your feet!
ELIZABETH.
Oh, pity me, my Dudley; do not blame me;
I cannot ask my heart. Oh, that had chosen
Far otherwise! Ah, how I envy others
Who can exalt the object of their love!
But I am not so blest: 'tis not my fortune
To place upon the brows of him, the dearest
Of men to me, the royal crown of England.
The Queen of Scotland was allowed to make
Her hand the token of her inclination;
She hath had every freedom, and hath drunk,
Even to the very dregs, the cup of joy.
LEICESTER.
And now she drinks the bitter cup of sorrow.
ELIZABETH.
She never did respect the world's opinion;
Life was to her a sport; she never courted
The yoke to which I bowed my willing neck.
And yet, methinks, I had as just a claim
As she to please myself and taste the joys
Of life: but I preferred the rigid duties
Which royalty imposed on me; yet she,
She was the favorite of all the men
Because she only strove to be a woman;
And youth and age became alike her suitors.
Thus are the men voluptuaries all!
The willing slaves of levity and pleasure;
Value that least which claims their reverence.
And did not even Talbot, though gray-headed,
Grow young again when speaking of her charms?
LEICESTER.
Forgive him, for he was her keeper once,
And she has fooled him with her cunning wiles.
ELIZABETH.
And is it really true that she's so fair?
So often have I been obliged to hear
The praises of this wonder--it were well
If I could learn on what I might depend:
Pictures are flattering, and description lies;
I will trust nothing but my own conviction.
Why gaze you at me thus?
LEICESTER.
I placed in thought
You and Maria Stuart side by side.
Yes! I confess I oft have felt a wish,
If it could be but secretly contrived,
To see you placed beside the Scottish queen,
Then would you feel, and not till then, the full
Enjoyment of your triumph: she deserves
To be thus humbled; she deserves to see,
With her own eyes, and envy's glance is keen,
Herself surpassed, to feel herself o'ermatched,
As much by thee in form and princely grace
As in each virtue that adorns the sex.
ELIZABETH.
In years she has the advantage----
LEICESTER.
Has she so?
I never should have thought it. But her griefs,
Her sufferings, indeed! 'tis possible
Have brought down age upon her ere her time.
Yes, and 'twould mortify her more to see thee
As bride--she hath already turned her back
On each fair hope of life, and she would see thee
Advancing towards the open arms of joy.
See thee as bride of France's royal son,
She who hath always plumed herself so high
On her connection with the house of France,
And still depends upon its mighty aid.
ELIZABETH (with a careless air).
I'm teazed to grant this interview.
LEICESTER.
She asks it
As a favor; grant it as a punishment.
For though you should conduct her to the block,
Yet would it less torment her than to see
Herself extinguished by your beauty's splendor.
Thus can you murder her as she hath wished
To murder you. When she beholds your beauty,
Guarded by modesty, and beaming bright,
In the clear glory of unspotted fame
(Which she with thoughtless levity discarded),
Exalted by the splendor of the crown,
And blooming now with tender bridal graces--
Then is the hour of her destruction come.
Yes--when I now behold you--you were never,
No, never were you so prepared to seal
The triumph of your beauty. As but now
You entered the apartment, I was dazzled
As by a glorious vision from on high.
Could you but now, now as you are, appear
Before her, you could find no better moment.
ELIZABETH.
Now? no, not now; no, Leicester; this must be
Maturely weighed--I must with Burleigh----
LEICESTER.
Burleigh!
To him you are but sovereign, and as such
Alone he seeks your welfare; but your rights,
Derived from womanhood, this tender point
Must be decided by your own tribunal,
Not by the statesman; yet e'en policy
Demands that you should see her, and allure
By such a generous deed the public voice.
You can hereafter act as it may please you,
To rid you of the hateful enemy.
ELIZABETH.
But would it then become me to behold
My kinswoman in infamy and want?
They say she is not royally attended;
Would not the sight of her distress reproach me?
LEICESTER.
You need not cross her threshold; hear my counsel.
A fortunate conjuncture favors it.
The hunt you mean to honor with your presence
Is in the neighborhood of Fotheringay;
Permission may be given to Lady Stuart
To take the air; you meet her in the park,
As if by accident; it must not seem
To have been planned, and should you not incline,
You need not speak to her.
ELIZABETH.
If I am foolish,
Be yours the fault, not mine. I would not care
To-day to cross your wishes; for to-day
I've grieved you more than all my other subjects.
[Tenderly.
Let it then be your fancy. Leicester, hence
You see the free obsequiousness of love.
Which suffers that which it cannot approve.
[LEICESTER prostrates himself before her, and the curtain falls.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
In a park. In the foreground trees; in the background
a distant prospect.
MARY advances, running from behind the trees.
HANNAH KENNEDY follows slowly.
KENNEDY.
You hasten on as if endowed with wings;
I cannot follow you so swiftly; wait.
MARY.
Freedom returns! Oh let me enjoy it.
Let me be childish; be thou childish with me.
Freedom invites me! Oh, let me employ it
Skimming with winged step light o'er the lea;
Have I escaped from this mansion of mourning?
Holds me no more the sad dungeon of care?
Let me, with joy and with eagerness burning,
Drink in the free, the celestial air.
KENNEDY.
Oh, my dear lady! but a very little
Is your sad gaol extended; you behold not
The wall that shuts us in; these plaited tufts
Of trees hide from your sight the hated object.
MARY.
Thanks to these friendly trees, that hide from me
My prison walls, and flatter my illusion!
Happy I now may deem myself, and free;
Why wake me from my dream's so sweet confusion?
The extended vault of heaven around me lies,
Free and unfettered range my wandering eyes
O'er space's vast, immeasurable sea!
From where yon misty mountains rise on high
I can my empire's boundaries explore;
And those light clouds which, steering southwards, fly,
Seek the mild clime of France's genial shore.
Fast fleeting clouds! ye meteors that fly;
Could I but with you sail through the sky!
Tenderly greet the dear land of my youth!
Here I am captive! oppressed by my foes,
No other than you may carry my woes.
Free through the ether your pathway is seen,
Ye own not the power of this tyrant queen.
KENNEDY.
Alas! dear lady! You're beside yourself,
This long-lost, long-sought freedom makes you rave.
MARY.
Yonder's a fisher returning to his home;
Poor though it be, would he lend me his wherry,
Quick to congenial shores would I ferry.
Spare is his trade, and labor's his doom;
Rich would I freight his vessel with treasure;
Such a draught should be his as he never had seen;
Wealth should he find in his nets without measure,
Would he but rescue a poor captive queen.
KENNEDY.
Fond, fruitless wishes! See you not from far
How we are followed by observing spies?
A dismal, barbarous prohibition scares
Each sympathetic being from our path.
MARY.
No, gentle Hannah! Trust me, not in vain
My prison gates are opened. This small grace
Is harbinger of greater happiness.
No! I mistake not; 'tis the active hand
Of love to which I owe this kind indulgence.
I recognize in this the mighty arm
Of Leicester. They will by degrees expand
My prison; will accustom me, through small,
To greater liberty, until at last
I shall behold the face of him whose hand
Will dash my fetters off, and that forever.
KENNEDY.
Oh, my dear queen! I cannot reconcile
These contradictions. 'Twas but yesterday
That they announced your death, and all at once,
To-day, you have such liberty. Their chains
Are also loosed, as I have oft been told,
Whom everlasting liberty awaits.
[Hunting horns at a distance.
MARY.
Hear'st then the bugle, so blithely resounding?
Hear'st thou its echoes through wood and through plain?
Oh, might I now, on my nimble steed bounding,
Join with the jocund, the frolicsome train.
[Hunting horns again heard.
Again! Oh, this sad and this pleasing remembrance!
These are the sounds which, so sprightly and clear,
Oft, when with music the hounds and the horn
So cheerfully welcomed the break of the morn,
On the heaths of the Highlands delighted my ear.
SCENE II.
Enter PAULET.
PAULET.
Well, have I acted right at last, my lady?
Do I for once, at least, deserve your thanks?
MARY.
How! Do I owe this favor, sir, to you?
PAULET.
Why not to me? I visited the court,
And gave the queen your letter.
MARY.
Did you give it?
In very truth did you deliver it?
And is this freedom which I now enjoy
The happy consequence?
PAULET (significantly).
Nor that alone;
Prepare yourself to see a greater still.
MARY.
A greater still! What do you mean by that?
PAULET.
You heard the bugle-horns?
MARY (starting back with foreboding apprehension).
You frighten me.
PAULET.
The queen is hunting in the neighborhood----
MARY.
What!
PAULET.
In a few moments she'll appear before you.
KENNEDY (hastening towards MARY, and about to fall).
How fare you, dearest lady? You grow pale.
PAULET.
How? Is't not well? Was it not then your prayer?
'Tis granted now, before it was expected;
You who had ever such a ready speech,
Now summon all your powers of eloquence,
The important time to use them now is come.
MARY.
Oh, why was I not told of this before?
Now I am not prepared for it--not now
What, as the greatest favor, I besought,
Seems to me now most fearful; Hannah, come,
Lead me into the house, till I collect
My spirits.
PAULET.
Stay; you must await her here.
Yes! I believe you may be well alarmed
To stand before your judge.
SCENE III.
Enter the EARL OF SHREWSBURY.
MARY.
'Tis not for that, O God!
Far other thoughts possess me now.
Oh, worthy Shrewsbury! You come as though
You were an angel sent to me from heaven.
I cannot, will not see her. Save me, save me
From the detested sight!
SHREWSBURY.
Your majesty,
Command yourself, and summon all your courage,
'Tis the decisive moment of your fate.
MARY.
For years I've waited, and prepared myself.
For this I've studied, weighed, and written down
Each word within the tablet of my memory
That was to touch and move her to compassion.
Forgotten suddenly, effaced is all,
And nothing lives within me at this moment
But the fierce, burning feeling of my wrongs.
My heart is turned to direst hate against her;
All gentle thoughts, all sweet forgiving words,
Are gone, and round me stand with grisly mien,
The fiends of hell, and shake their snaky locks!
SHREWSBURY.
Command your wild, rebellious blood;--constrain
The bitterness which fills your heart. No good
Ensues when hatred is opposed to hate.
How much soe'er the inward struggle cost
You must submit to stern necessity,
The power is in her hand, be therefore humble.
MARY.
To her? I never can.
SHREWSBURY.
But pray, submit.
Speak with respect, with calmness! Strive to move
Her magnanimity; insist not now
Upon your rights, not now--'tis not the season.
MARY.
Ah! woe is me! I've prayed for my destruction,
And, as a curse to me, my prayer is heard.
We never should have seen each other--never!
Oh, this can never, never come to good.
Rather in love could fire and water meet,
The timid lamb embrace the roaring tiger!
I have been hurt too grievously; she hath
Too grievously oppressed me;--no atonement
Can make us friends!
SHREWSBURY.
First see her, face to face:
Did I not see how she was moved at reading
Your letter? How her eyes were drowned in tears?
No--she is not unfeeling; only place
More confidence in her. It was for this
That I came on before her, to entreat you
To be collected--to admonish you----
MARY (seizing his hand).
Oh, Talbot! you have ever been my friend,
Had I but stayed beneath your kindly care!
They have, indeed, misused me, Shrewsbury.
SHREWSBURY.
Let all be now forgot, and only think
How to receive her with submissiveness.
MARY.
Is Burleigh with her, too, my evil genius?
SHREWSBURY.
No one attends her but the Earl of Leicester.
MARY.
Lord Leicester?
SHREWSBURY.
Fear not him; it is not he
Who wishes your destruction;--'twas his work
That here the queen hath granted you this meeting.
MARY.
Ah! well I knew it.
SHREWSBURY.
What?
PAULET.
The queen approaches.
[They all draw aside; MARY alone remains, leaning on KENNEDY.
SCENE IV.
The same, ELIZABETH, EARL OF LEICESTER, and Retinue.
ELIZABETH (to LEICESTER).
What seat is that, my lord?
LEICESTER.
'Tis Fotheringay.
ELIZABETH (to SHREWSBURY).
My lord, send back our retinue to London;
The people crowd too eager in the roads,
We'll seek a refuge in this quiet park.
[TALBOT sends the train away. She looks steadfastly at MARY,
as she speaks further with PAULET.
My honest people love me overmuch.
These signs of joy are quite idolatrous.
Thus should a God be honored, not a mortal.
MARY (who the whole time had leaned, almost fainting, on KENNEDY, rises
now, and her eyes meet the steady, piercing look of ELIZABETH; she
shudders and throws herself again upon KENNEDY'S bosom).
O God! from out these features speaks no heart.
ELIZABETH.
What lady's that?
[A general, embarrassed silence.
LEICESTER.
You are at Fotheringay,
My liege!
ELIZABETH (as if surprised, casting an angry look at LEICESTER).
Who hath done this, my Lord of Leicester?
LEICESTER.
'Tis past, my queen;--and now that heaven hath led
Your footsteps hither, be magnanimous;
And let sweet pity be triumphant now.
SHREWSBURY.
Oh, royal mistress! yield to our entreaties;
Oh, cast your eyes on this unhappy one
Who stands dissolved in anguish.
[MARY collects herself, and begins to advance towards
ELIZABETH, stops shuddering at half way: her action
expresses the most violent internal struggle.
ELIZABETH.
How, my lords!
Which of you then announced to me a prisoner
Bowed down by woe? I see a haughty one
By no means humbled by calamity.
MARY.
Well, be it so:--to this will I submit.
Farewell high thought, and pride of noble mind!
I will forget my dignity, and all
My sufferings; I will fall before her feet
Who hath reduced me to this wretchedness.
[She turns towards the QUEEN.
The voice of heaven decides for you, my sister.
Your happy brows are now with triumph crowned,
I bless the Power Divine which thus hath raised you.
But in your turn be merciful, my sister;
[She kneels.
Let me not lie before you thus disgraced;
Stretch forth your hand, your royal hand, to raise
Your sister from the depths of her distress.
ELIZABETH (stepping back).
You are where it becomes you, Lady Stuart;
And thankfully I prize my God's protection,
Who hath not suffered me to kneel a suppliant
Thus at your feet, as you now kneel at mine.
MARY (with increasing energy of feeling).
Think on all earthly things, vicissitudes.
Oh! there are gods who punish haughty pride:
Respect them, honor them, the dreadful ones
Who thus before thy feet have humbled me!
Before these strangers' eyes dishonor not
Yourself in me: profane not, nor disgrace
The royal blood of Tudor. In my veins
It flows as pure a stream as in your own.
Oh, for God's pity, stand not so estranged
And inaccessible, like some tall cliff,
Which the poor shipwrecked mariner in vain
Struggles to seize, and labors to embrace.
My all, my life, my fortune now depends
Upon the influence of my words and tears;
That I may touch your heart, oh, set mine free.
If you regard me with those icy looks
My shuddering heart contracts itself, the stream
Of tears is dried, and frigid horror chains
The words of supplication in my bosom!
ELIZABETH (cold and severe).
What would you say to me, my Lady Stuart?
You wished to speak with me; and I, forgetting
The queen, and all the wrongs I have sustained,
Fulfil the pious duty of the sister,
And grant the boon you wished for of my presence.
Yet I, in yielding to the generous feelings
Of magnanimity, expose myself
To rightful censure, that I stoop so low.
For well you know you would have had me murdered.
MARY.
Oh! how shall I begin? Oh, how shall I
So artfully arrange my cautious words
That they may touch, yet not offend your heart?
Strengthen my words, O Heaven! and take from them
Whate'er might wound. Alas! I cannot speak
In my own cause without impeaching you,
And that most heavily, I wish not so;
You have not as you ought behaved to me:
I am a queen, like you: yet you have held me
Confined in prison. As a suppliant
I came to you, yet you in me insulted
The pious use of hospitality;
Slighting in me the holy law of nations,
Immured me in a dungeon--tore from me
My friends and servants; to unseemly want
I was exposed, and hurried to the bar
Of a disgraceful, insolent tribunal.
No more of this;--in everlasting silence
Be buried all the cruelties I suffered!
See--I will throw the blame of all on fate,
'Twere not your fault, no more than it was mine.
An evil spirit rose from the abyss,
To kindle in our hearts the flame of hate,
By which our tender youth had been divided.
It grew with us, and bad, designing men
Fanned with their ready breath the fatal fire:
Frantics, enthusiasts, with sword and dagger
Armed the uncalled-for hand! This is the curse
Of kings, that they, divided, tear the world
In pieces with their hatred, and let loose
The raging furies of all hellish strife!
No foreign tongue is now between us, sister,
[Approaching her confidently, and with a flattering tone.
Now stand we face to face; now, sister, speak:
Name but my crime, I'll fully satisfy you,--
Alas! had you vouchsafed to hear me then,
When I so earnest sought to meet your eye,
It never would have come to this, nor would,
Here in this mournful place, have happened now
This so distressful, this so mournful meeting.
ELIZABETH.
My better stars preserved me. I was warned,
And laid not to my breast the poisonous adder!
Accuse not fate! your own deceitful heart
It was, the wild ambition of your house
As yet no enmities had passed between us,
When your imperious uncle, the proud priest,
Whose shameless hand grasps at all crowns, attacked me
With unprovoked hostility, and taught
You, but too docile, to assume my arms,
To vest yourself with my imperial title,
And meet me in the lists in mortal strife:
What arms employed he not to storm my throne?
The curses of the priests, the people's sword,
The dreadful weapons of religious frenzy;--
Even here in my own kingdom's peaceful haunts
He fanned the flames of civil insurrection;
But God is with me, and the haughty priest
Has not maintained the field. The blow was aimed
Full at my head, but yours it is which falls!
MARY.
I'm in the hand of heaven. You never will
Exert so cruelly the power it gives you.
ELIZABETH.
Who shall prevent me? Say, did not your uncle
Set all the kings of Europe the example,
How to conclude a peace with those they hate.
Be mine the school of Saint Bartholomew;
What's kindred then to me, or nation's laws?
The church can break the bands of every duty;
It consecrates the regicide, the traitor;
I only practise what your priests have taught!
Say then, what surety can be offered me,
Should I magnanimously loose your bonds?
Say, with what lock can I secure your faith,
Which by Saint Peter's keys cannot be opened?
Force is my only surety; no alliance
Can be concluded with a race of vipers.
MARY.
Oh! this is but your wretched, dark suspicion!
For you have constantly regarded me
But as a stranger, and an enemy.
Had you declared me heir to your dominions,
As is my right, then gratitude and love
In me had fixed, for you, a faithful friend
And kinswoman.
ELIZABETH.
Your friendship is abroad,
Your house is papacy, the monk your brother.
Name you my successor! The treacherous snare!
That in my life you might seduce my people;
And, like a sly Armida, in your net
Entangle all our noble English youth;
That all might turn to the new rising sun,
And I----
MARY.
O sister, rule your realm in peace;
I give up every claim to these domains--
Alas! the pinions of my soul are lamed;
Greatness entices me no more: your point
Is gained; I am but Mary's shadow now--
My noble spirit is at last broke down
By long captivity:--you've done your worst
On me; you have destroyed me in my bloom!
Now, end your work, my sister;--speak at length
The word, which to pronounce has brought you hither;
For I will ne'er believe that you are come,
To mock unfeelingly your hapless victim.
Pronounce this word;--say, "Mary, you are free:
You have already felt my power,--learn now
To honor too my generosity."
Say this, and I will take my life, will take
My freedom, as a present from your hands.
One word makes all undone;--I wait for it;--
Oh, let it not be needlessly delayed.
Woe to you if you end not with this word!
For should you not, like some divinity,
Dispensing noble blessings, quit me now,
Then, sister, not for all this island's wealth,
For all the realms encircled by the deep,
Would I exchange my present lot for yours.
ELIZABETH.
And you confess at last that you are conquered:
Are all your schemes run out? No more assassins
Now on the road? Will no adventurer
Attempt again for you the sad achievement?
Yes, madam, it is over:--you'll seduce
No mortal more. The world has other cares;--
None is ambitious of the dangerous honor
Of being your fourth husband--you destroy
Your wooers like your husbands.
MARY (starting angrily).
Sister, sister!--
Grant me forbearance, all ye powers of heaven!
ELIZABETH (regards her long with a look of proud contempt).
Those then, my Lord of Leicester, are the charms
Which no man with impunity can view,
Near which no woman dare to stand?
In sooth, this honor has been cheaply gained;
She who to all is common, may with ease
Become the common object of applause.
MARY.
This is too much!
ELIZABETH (laughing insultingly).
You show us now, indeed,
Your real face; till now 'twas but the mask.
MARY (burning with rage, yet dignified and noble).
My sins were human, and the faults of youth:
Superior force misled me. I have never
Denied or sought to hide it: I despised
All false appearance, as became a queen.
The worst of me is known, and I can say,
That I am better than the fame I bear.
Woe to you! when, in time to come, the world
Shall draw the robe of honor from your deeds,
With which thy arch-hypocrisy has veiled
The raging flames of lawless, secret lust.
Virtue was not your portion from your mother;
Well know we what it was which brought the head
Of Anna Boleyn to the fatal block.
SHREWSBURY (stepping between both QUEENS).
Oh! Heaven! Alas, and must it come to this!
Is this the moderation, the submission,
My lady?----
MARY.
Moderation! I've supported
What human nature can support: farewell,
Lamb-hearted resignation, passive patience,
Fly to thy native heaven; burst at length
Thy bonds, come forward from thy dreary cave,
In all thy fury, long suppressed rancor!
And thou, who to the angered basilisk
Impart'st the murderous glance, oh, arm my tongue
With poisoned darts!
SHREWSBURY.
She is beside herself!
Exasperated, mad! My liege, forgive her.
[ELIZABETH, speechless with anger, casts enraged looks at MARY.
LEICESTER (in the most violent agitation; he seeks to lead ELIZABETH
away).
Attend not to her rage! Away, away,
From this disastrous place!
MARY (raising her voice).
A bastard soils,
Profanes the English throne! The generous Britons
Are cheated by a juggler, [whose whole figure
Is false and painted, heart as well as face!]
If right prevailed, you now would in the dust
Before me lie, for I'm your rightful monarch!
[ELIZABETH hastily quits the stage; the lords follow her
in the greatest consternation.
SCENE V.
MARY, KENNEDY.
KENNEDY.
What have you done? She has gone hence in wrath
All hope is over now!
MARY (still quite beside herself).
Gone hence in wrath!
She carries death within her heart! I know it.
[Falling on KENNEDY'S bosom.
Now I am happy, Hannah! and at last,
After whole years of sorrow and abasement,
One moment of victorious revenge
A weight falls off my heart, a weight of mountains;
I plunged the steel in my oppressor's breast!
KENNEDY.
Unhappy lady! Frenzy overcomes you.
Yes, you have wounded your inveterate foe;
'Tis she who wields the lightning, she is queen,
You have insulted her before her minion.
MARY.
I have abased her before Leicester's eyes;
He saw it, he was witness of my triumph.
How did I hurl her from her haughty height,
He saw it, and his presence strengthened me.
SCENE VI.
Enter MORTIMER.
KENNEDY.
Oh, Sir! What an occurrence!
MORTIMER.
I heard all--
[Gives the nurse a sign to repair to her post,
and draws nearer; his whole appearance expresses
the utmost violence of passion.
Thine is the palm;--thou trod'st her to the dust!--
Thou wast the queen, she was the malefactor;--
I am transported with thy noble courage;--
Yes! I adore thee; like a Deity,
My sense is dazzled by thy heavenly beams.
MARY (with vivacity and expectation).
You spoke with Leicester, gave my letter to him.
My present, too?--oh, speak, sir.
MORTIMER (beholding her with glowing looks).
How thy noble,
Thy royal indignation shone, and cast
A glory round thy beauty; yes, by heavens,
Thou art the fairest woman upon earth!
MARY.
Sir, satisfy, I beg you, my impatience;
What says his lordship? Say, sir, may I hope?
MORTIMER.
Who?--he?--he is a wretch, a very coward,
Hope naught from him; despise him, and forget him!
MARY.
What say you?
MORTIMER.
He deliver, and possess you!
Why let him dare it:--he!--he must with me
In mortal contest first deserve the prize!
MARY.
You gave him not my letter? Then, indeed
My hopes are lost!
MORTIMER.
The coward loves his life.
Whoe'er would rescue you, and call you his,
Must boldly dare affront e'en death itself!
MARY.
Will he do nothing for me?
MORTIMER.
Speak not of him.
What can he do? What need have we of him?
I will release you; I alone.
MARY.
Alas!
What power have you?
MORTIMER.
Deceive yourself no more;
Think not your case is now as formerly;
The moment that the queen thus quitted you,
And that your interview had ta'en this turn,
All hope was lost, each way of mercy shut.
Now deeds must speak, now boldness must decide,
To compass all must all be hazarded;
You must be free before the morning break.
MARY.
What say you, sir--to-night?--impossible!
MORTIMER.
Hear what has been resolved:--I led my friends
Into a private chapel, where a priest
Heard our confession, and, for every sin
We had committed, gave us absolution;
He gave us absolution too, beforehand,
For every crime we might commit in future;
He gave us too the final sacrament,
And we are ready for the final journey.
MARY.
Oh, what an awful, dreadful preparation!
MORTIMER.
We scale, this very night, the castle's walls;
The keys are in my power; the guards we murder!
Then from thy chamber bear thee forcibly.
Each living soul must die beneath our hands,
That none remain who might disclose the deed.
MARY.
And Drury, Paulet, my two keepers, they
Would sooner spill their dearest drop of blood.
MORTIMER.
They fall the very first beneath my steel.
MARY.
What, sir! Your uncle? How! Your second father!
MORTIMER.
Must perish by my hand--I murder him!
MARY.
Oh, bloody outrage!
MORTIMER.
We have been absolved
Beforehand; I may perpetrate the worst;
I can, I will do so!
MARY.
Oh, dreadful, dreadful!
MORTIMER.
And should I be obliged to kill the queen,
I've sworn upon the host, it must be done!
MARY.
No, Mortimer; ere so much blood for me----
MORTIMER.
What is the life of all compared to thee,
And to my love? The bond which holds the world
Together may be loosed, a second deluge
Come rolling on, and swallow all creation!
Henceforth I value nothing; ere I quit
My hold on thee, may earth and time be ended!
MARY (retiring)
Heavens! Sir, what language, and what looks! They scare,
They frighten me!
MORTIMER (with unsteady looks, expressive of great madness).
Life's but a moment--death
Is but a moment too. Why! let them drag me
To Tyburn, let them tear me limb from limb,
With red-hot pincers----
[Violently approaching her with extended arms.
If I clasp but thee
Within my arms, thou fervently beloved!
MARY.
Madman, avaunt!
MORTIMER.
To rest upon this bosom,
To press upon this passion-breathing mouth----
MARY.
Leave me, for God's sake, sir; let me go in----
MORTIMER.
He is a madman who neglects to clasp
His bliss in folds that never may be loosed,
When Heaven has kindly given it to his arms.
I will deliver you, and though it cost
A thousand lives, I do it; but I swear,
As God's in Heaven I will possess you too!
MARY.
Oh! will no God, no angel shelter me?
Dread destiny! thou throwest me, in thy wrath,
From one tremendous terror to the other!
Was I then born to waken naught but frenzy?
Do hate and love conspire alike to fright me!
MORTIMER.
Yes, glowing as their hatred is my love;
They would behead thee, they would wound this neck,
So dazzling white, with the disgraceful axe!
Oh! offer to the living god of joy
What thou must sacrifice to bloody hate!
Inspire thy happy lover with those charms
Which are no more thine own. Those golden locks
Are forfeit to the dismal powers of death,
Oh! use them to entwine thy slave forever!
MARY.
Alas! alas! what language must I hear!
My woe, my sufferings should be sacred to you,
Although my royal brows are so no more.
MORTIMER.
The crown is fallen from thy brows, thou hast
No more of earthly majesty. Make trial,
Raise thy imperial voice, see if a friend,
If a deliverer will rise to save you.
Thy moving form alone remains, the high,
The godlike influence of thy heavenly beauty;
This bids me venture all, this arms my hand
With might, and drives me tow'rd the headsman's axe.
MARY.
Oh! who will save me from his raging madness?
MORTIMER.
Service that's bold demands a bold reward.
Why shed their blood the daring? Is not life
Life's highest good? And he a madman who
Casts life away? First will I take my rest,
Upon the breast that glows with love's own fire!
[He presses her violently to his bosom.
MARY.
Oh, must I call for help against the man
Who would deliver me!
MORTIMER.
Thou'rt not unfeeling,
The world ne'er censured thee for frigid rigor;
The fervent prayer of love can touch thy heart.
Thou mad'st the minstrel Rizzio blest, and gavest
Thyself a willing prey to Bothwell's arms.
MARY.
Presumptuous man!
MORTIMER.
He was indeed thy tyrant,
Thou trembled'st at his rudeness, whilst thou loved'st him;
Well, then--if only terror can obtain thee--
By the infernal gods!
MARY.
Away--you're mad!
MORTIMER.
I'll teach thee then before me, too, to tremble.
KENNEDY (entering suddenly).
They're coming--they approach--the park is filled
With men in arms.
MORTIMER (starting and catching at his sword).
I will defend you-I----
MARY.
O Hannah! save me, save me from his hands.
Where shall I find, poor sufferer, an asylum?
Oh! to what saint shall I address my prayers?
Here force assails me, and within is murder!
[She flies towards the house, KENNEDY follows her.
SCENE VII.
MORTIMER, PAULET, and DRURY rush in in the greatest
consternation. Attendants hasten over the stage.
PAULET.
Shut all the portals--draw the bridges up.
MORTIMER.
What is the matter, uncle?
PAULET.
Where is the murderess?
Down with her, down into the darkest dungeon!
MORTIMER.
What is the matter? What has passed?
PAULET.
The queen!
Accursed hand! Infernal machination!
MORTIMER.
The queen! What queen?
PAULET.
What queen! The Queen of England;
She has been murdered on the road to London.
[Hastens into the house.
SCENE VIII.
MORTIMER, soon after O'KELLY.
MORTIMER (after a pause).
Am I then mad? Came not one running by
But now, and cried aloud, the queen is murdered!
No, no! I did but dream. A feverish fancy
Paints that upon my mind as true and real,
Which but existed in my frantic thoughts.
Who's there? It is O'Kelly. So dismayed!
O'KELLY (rushing in).
Flee, Mortimer, oh! flee--for all is lost!
MORTIMER.
What then is lost?
O'KELLY.
Stand not on question. Think
On speedy flight.
MORTIMER.
What has occurred?
O'KELLY.
Sauvage,
That madman, struck the blow.
MORTIMER.
It is then true!
O'KELLY.
True, true--oh! save yourself.
MORTIMER (exultingly).
The queen is murdered--
And Mary shall ascend the English throne!
O'KELLY.
Is murdered! Who said that?
MORTIMER.
Yourself.
O'KELLY.
She lives,
And I, and you, and all of us are lost.
MORTIMER.
She lives!
O'KELLY.
The blow was badly aimed, her cloak
Received it. Shrewsbury disarmed the murderer.
MORTIMER.
She lives!
O'KELLY.
She lives to whelm us all in ruin;
Come, they surround the park already; come.
MORTIMER.
Who did this frantic deed?
O'KELLY.
It was the monk
From Toulon, whom you saw immersed in thought,
As in the chapel the pope's bull was read,
Which poured anathemas upon the queen.
He wished to take the nearest, shortest way,
To free, with one bold stroke, the church of God,
And gain the crown of martyrdom: he trusted
His purpose only to the priest, and struck
The fatal blow upon the road to London.
MORTIMER (after a long silence).
Alas! a fierce, destructive fate pursues thee,
Unhappy one! Yes--now thy death is fixed;
Thy very angel has prepared thy fall!
O'KELLY.
Say, whither will you take your flight? I go
To hide me in the forests of the north.
MORTIMER.
Fly thither, and may God attend your flight;
I will remain, and still attempt to save
My love; if not, my bed shall be upon her grave.
[Exeunt at different sides.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.--Antechamber.
COUNT AUBESPINE, the EARLS Of KENT and LEICESTER.
AUBESPINE.
How fares her majesty? My lords, you see me
Still stunned, and quite beside myself for terror!
How happened it? How was it possible
That in the midst of this most loyal people----
LEICESTER.
The deed was not attempted by the people.
The assassin was a subject of your king,
A Frenchman.
AUBESPINE.
Sure a lunatic.
LEICESTER.
A papist,
Count Aubespine!
SCENE II.
Enter BURLEIGH, in conversation with DAVISON.
BURLEIGH.
Sir; let the death-warrant
Be instantly made out, and pass the seal;
Then let it be presented to the queen;
Her majesty must sign it. Hasten, sir,
We have no time to lose.
DAVISON.
It shall be done.
[Exit.
AUBESPINE.
My lord high-treasurer, my faithful heart
Shares in the just rejoicings of the realm.
Praised be almighty Heaven, who hath averted
Assassination from our much-loved queen!
BURLEIGH.
Praised be His name, who thus hath turned to scorn
The malice of our foes!
AUBESPINE.
May heaven confound
The perpetrator of this cursed deed!
BURLEIGH.
Its perpetrator and its base contriver!
AUBESPINE.
Please you, my lord, to bring me to the queen,
That I may lay the warm congratulations
Of my imperial master at her feet.
BURLEIGH.
There is no need of this.
AUBESPINE (officiously).
My Lord of Burleigh,
I know my duty.
BURLEIGH.
Sir, your duty is
To quit, and that without delay, this kingdom.
AUBESPINE (stepping back with surprise).
What! How is this?
BURLEIGH.
The sacred character
Of an ambassador to-day protects you,
But not to-morrow.
AUBESPINE.
What's my crime?
BURLEIGH.
Should I
Once name it, there were then no pardon for it.
AUBESPINE.
I hope, my lord, my charge's privilege----
BURLEIGH.
Screens not a traitor.
LEICESTER and KENT.
Traitor! How?
AUBESPINE.
My Lord,
Consider well----
BURLEIGH.
Your passport was discovered
In the assassin's pocket.
KENT.
Righteous heaven!
AUBESPINE.
Sir, many passports are subscribed by me;
I cannot know the secret thoughts of men.
BURLEIGH.
He in your house confessed, and was absolved.
AUBESPINE.
My house is open----
BURLEIGH.
To our enemies.
AUBESPINE.
I claim a strict inquiry.
BURLEIGH.
Tremble at it.
AUBESPINE.
My monarch in my person is insulted,
He will annul the marriage contract.
BURLEIGH.
That
My royal mistress has annulled already;
England will not unite herself with France.
My Lord of Kent, I give to you the charge
To see Count Aubespine embarked in safety.
The furious populace has stormed his palace,
Where a whole arsenal of arms was found;
Should he be found, they'll tear him limb from limb,
Conceal him till the fury is abated--
You answer for his life.
AUBESPINE.
I go--I leave
This kingdom where they sport with public treaties
And trample on the laws of nations. Yet
My monarch, be assured, will vent his rage
In direst vengeance!
BURLEIGH.
Let him seek it here.
[Exeunt KENT and AUBESPINE.
SCENE III.
LEICESTER, BURLEIGH.
LEICESTER.
And thus you loose yourself the knot of union
Which you officiously, uncalled for, bound!
You have deserved but little of your country,
My lord; this trouble was superfluous.
BURLEIGH.
My aim was good, though fate declared against it;
Happy is he who has so fair a conscience!
LEICESTER.
Well know we the mysterious mien of Burleigh
When he is on the hunt for deeds of treason.
Now you are in your element, my lord;
A monstrous outrage has been just committed,
And darkness veils as yet its perpetrators:
Now will a court of inquisition rise;
Each word, each look be weighed; men's very thoughts
Be summoned to the bar. You are, my lord,
The mighty man, the Atlas of the state,
All England's weight lies upon your shoulders.
BURLEIGH.
In you, my lord, I recognize my master;
For such a victory as your eloquence
Has gained I cannot boast.
LEICESTER.
What means your lordship?
BURLEIGH.
You were the man who knew, behind my back,
To lure the queen to Fotheringay Castle.
LEICESTER.
Behind your back! When did I fear to act
Before your face?
BURLEIGH.
You led her majesty?
Oh, no--you led her not--it was the queen
Who was so gracious as to lead you thither.
LEICESTER.
What mean you, my lord, by that?
BURLEIGH.
The noble part
You forced the queen to play! The glorious triumph
Which you prepared for her! Too gracious princess!
So shamelessly, so wantonly to mock
Thy unsuspecting goodness, to betray thee
So pitiless to thy exulting foe!
This, then, is the magnanimity, the grace
Which suddenly possessed you in the council!
The Stuart is for this so despicable,
So weak an enemy, that it would scarce
Be worth the pains to stain us with her blood.
A specious plan! and sharply pointed too;
'Tis only pity this sharp point is broken.
LEICESTER.
Unworthy wretch! this instant follow me,
And answer at the throne this insolence.
BURLEIGH.
You'll find me there, my lord; and look you well
That there your eloquence desert you not.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
LEICESTER alone, then MORTIMER.
LEICESTER.
I am detected! All my plot's disclosed!
How has my evil genius tracked my steps!
Alas! if he has proofs, if she should learn
That I have held a secret correspondence
With her worst enemy; how criminal
Shall I appear to her! How false will then
My counsel seem, and all the fatal pains
I took to lure the queen to Fotheringay!
I've shamefully betrayed, I have exposed her
To her detested enemy's revilings!
Oh! never, never can she pardon that.
All will appear as if premeditated.
The bitter turn of this sad interview,
The triumph and the tauntings of her rival;
Yes, e'en the murderous hand which had prepared
A bloody, monstrous, unexpected fate;
All, all will be ascribed to my suggestions!
I see no rescue! nowhere--ha! Who comes?
[MORTIMER enters in the most violent uneasiness,
and looks with apprehension round him.
MORTIMER.
Lord Leicester! Is it you! Are we alone?
LEICESTER.
Ill-fated wretch, away! What seek you here?
MORTIMER.
They are upon our track--upon yours, too;
Be vigilant!
LEICESTER.
Away, away!
MORTIMER.
They know
That private conferences have been held
At Aubespine's----
LEICESTER.
What's that to me?
MORTIMER.
They know, too,
That the assassin----
LEICESTER.
That is your affair--
Audacious wretch! to dare to mix my name
In your detested outrage: go; defend
Your bloody deeds yourself!
MORTIMER.
But only hear me.
LEICESTER (violently enraged).
Down, down to hell! Why cling you at my heels
Like an infernal spirit! I disclaim you;
I know you not; I make no common cause
With murderers!
MORTIMER.
You will not hear me, then!
I came to warn you; you too are detected.
LEICESTER.
How! What?
MORTIMER.
Lord Burleigh went to Fotheringay
Just as the luckless deed had been attempted;
Searched with strict scrutiny the queen's apartments,
And found there----
LEICESTER.
What?
MORTIMER.
A letter which the queen
Had just addressed to you----
LEICESTER.
Unhappy woman!
MORTIMER.
In which she calls on you to keep your word,
Renews the promise of her hand, and mentions
The picture which she sent you.
LEICESTER.
Death and hell!
MORTIMER.
Lord Burleigh has the letter.
LEICESTER.
I am lost!
[During the following speech of MORTIMER, LEICESTER
goes up and down as in despair.
MORTIMER.
Improve the moment; be beforehand with him,
And save yourself--save her! An oath can clear
Your fame; contrive excuses to avert
The worst. I am disarmed, can do no more;
My comrades are dispersed--to pieces fallen
Our whole confederacy. For Scotland I
To rally such new friends as there I may.
'Tis now your turn, my lord; try what your weight,
What bold assurance can effect.
LEICESTER (stops suddenly as if resolved).
I will.
[Goes to the door, opens it, and calls.
Who waits without? Guards! seize this wretched traitor!
[To the officer, who comes in with soldiers.
And guard him closely! A most dreadful plot
Is brought to light--I'll to her majesty.
MORTIMER (stands for a time petrified with wonder; collects himself soon,
and follows LEICESTER with his looks expressive of the most
sovereign contempt).
Infamous wretch! But I deserve it all.
Who told me then to trust this practised villain?
Now o'er my head he strides, and on my fall
He builds the bridge of safety! be it so;
Go, save thyself--my lips are sealed forever;
I will not join even thee in my destruction;
I would not own thee, no, not even in death;
Life is the faithless villain's only good!
[To the officer of the guard, who steps forward to seize him.
What wilt thou, slave of tyranny, with me?
I laugh to scorn thy threatenings; I am free.
[Drawing a dagger.
OFFICER.
He's armed; rush in and wrest his weapon from him.
[They rush upon him, he defends himself.
MORTIMER (raising his voice).
And in this latest moment shall my heart
Expand itself in freedom, and my tongue
Shall break this long constraint. Curse and destruction
Light on you all who have betrayed your faith,
Your God, and your true sovereign! Who, alike
To earthly Mary false as to the heavenly,
Have sold your duties to this bastard queen!
OFFICER.
Hear you these blasphemies? Rush forward--seize him.
MORTIMER.
Beloved queen! I could not set thee free;
Yet take a lesson from me how to die.
Mary, thou holy one, O! pray for me!
And take me to thy heavenly home on high.
[Stabs himself, and falls into the arms of the guard.
SCENE V.
The apartment of the Queen.
ELIZABETH, with a letter in her hand, BURLEIGH.
ELIZABETH.
To lure me thither! trifle with me thus!
The traitor! Thus to lead me, as in triumph,
Into the presence of his paramour!
Oh, Burleigh! ne'er was woman so deceived.
BURLEIGH.
I cannot yet conceive what potent means,
What magic he exerted, to surprise
My queen's accustomed prudence.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, I die
For shame! How must he laugh to scorn my weakness!
I thought to humble her, and was myself
The object of her bitter scorn.
BURLEIGH.
By this
You see how faithfully I counselled you.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, I am sorely punished, that I turned
My ear from your wise counsels; yet I thought
I might confide in him. Who could suspect
Beneath the vows of faithfullest devotion
A deadly snare? In whom can I confide
When he deceives me? He, whom I have made
The greatest of the great, and ever set
The nearest to my heart, and in this court
Allowed to play the master and the king.
BURLEIGH.
Yet in that very moment he betrayed you,
Betrayed you to this wily Queen of Scots.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, she shall pay me for it with her life!
Is the death-warrant ready?
BURLEIGH.
'Tis prepared
As you commanded.
ELIZABETH.
She shall surely die--
He shall behold her fall, and fall himself!
I've driven him from my heart. No longer love,
Revenge alone is there: and high as once
He stood, so low and shameful be his fall!
A monument of my severity,
As once the proud example of my weakness.
Conduct him to the Tower; let a commission
Of peers be named to try him. He shall feel
In its full weight the rigor of the law.
BURLEIGH.
But he will seek thy presence; he will clear----
ELIZABETH.
How can he clear himself? Does not the letter
Convict him. Oh, his crimes are manifest!
BURLEIGH.
But thou art mild and gracious! His appearance,
His powerful presence----
ELIZABETH.
I will never see him;
No never, never more. Are orders given
Not to admit him should he come?
BURLEIGH.
'Tis done.
PAGE (entering).
The Earl of Leicester!
ELIZABETH.
The presumptuous man!
I will not see him. Tell him that I will not.
PAGE.
I am afraid to bring my lord this message,
Nor would he credit it.
ELIZABETH.
And I have raised him
So high that my own servants tremble more
At him than me!
BURLEIGH (to the PAGE).
The queen forbids his presence.
[The PAGE retires slowly.
ELIZABETH (after a pause).
Yet, if it still were possible? If he
Could clear himself? Might it not be a snare
Laid by the cunning one, to sever me
From my best friends--the ever-treacherous harlot!
She might have writ the letter, but to raise
Poisonous suspicion in my heart, to ruin
The man she hates.
BURLEIGH.
Yet, gracious queen, consider.
SCENE VI.
LEICESTER (bursts open the door with violence,
and enters with an imperious air).
LEICESTER.
Fain would I see the shameless man who dares
Forbid me the apartments of my queen!
ELIZABETH (avoiding his sight).
Audacious slave!
LEICESTER.
To turn me from the door!
If for a Burleigh she be visible,
She must be so to me!
BURLEIGH.
My lord, you are
Too bold, without permission to intrude.
LEICESTER.
My lord, you are too arrogant, to take
The lead in these apartments. What! Permission!
I know of none who stands so high at court
As to permit my doings, or refuse them.
[Humbly approaching ELIZABETH.
'Tis from my sovereign's lips alone that I----
ELIZABETH (without looking at him).
Out of my sight, deceitful, worthless traitor!
LEICESTER.
'Tis not my gracious queen I hear, but Burleigh,
My enemy, in these ungentle words.
To my imperial mistress I appeal;
Thou hast lent him thine ear; I ask the like.
ELIZABETH.
Speak, shameless wretch! Increase your crime--deny it.
LEICESTER.
Dismiss this troublesome intruder first.
Withdraw, my lord; it is not of your office
To play the third man here: between the queen
And me there is no need of witnesses.
Retire----
ELIZABETH (to BURLEIGH).
Remain, my lord; 'tis my command.
LEICESTER.
What has a third to do 'twixt thee and me?
I have to clear myself before my queen,
My worshipped queen; I will maintain the rights
Which thou hast given me; these rights are sacred,
And I insist upon it, that my lord
Retire.
ELIZABETH.
This haughty tone befits you well.
LEICESTER.
It well befits me; am not I the man,
The happy man, to whom thy gracious favor
Has given the highest station? this exalts me
Above this Burleigh, and above them all.
Thy heart imparted me this rank, and what
Thy favor gave, by heavens I will maintain
At my life's hazard. Let him go, it needs
Two moments only to exculpate me.
ELIZABETH.
Think not, with cunning words, to hide the truth.
LEICESTER.
That fear from him, so voluble of speech:
But what I say is to the heart addressed;
And I will justify what I have dared
To do, confiding in thy generous favor,
Before thy heart alone. I recognize
No other jurisdiction.
ELIZABETH.
Base deceiver
'Tis this, e'en this, which above all condemns you.
My lord, produce the letter.
[To BURLEIGH.
BURLEIGH.
Here it is.
LEICESTER (running over the letter without losing his presence of mind).
'Tis Mary Stuart's hand----
ELIZABETH.
Read and be dumb!
LEICESTER (having read it quietly).
Appearance is against me, yet I hope
I shall not by appearances be judged.
ELIZABETH.
Can you deny your secret correspondence
With Mary?--that she sent and you received
Her picture, that you gave her hopes of rescue?
LEICESTER.
It were an easy matter, if I felt
That I were guilty of a crime, to challenge
The testimony of my enemy:
Yet bold is my good conscience. I confess
That she hath said the truth.
ELIZABETH.
Well then, thou wretch!
BURLEIGH.
His own words sentence him----
ELIZABETH.
Out of my sight!
Away! Conduct the traitor to the Tower!
LEICESTER.
I am no traitor; it was wrong, I own,
To make a secret of this step to thee;
Yet pure was my intention, it was done
To search into her plots and to confound them.
ELIZABETH.
Vain subterfuge!
BURLEIGH.
And do you think, my lord----
LEICESTER.
I've played a dangerous game, I know it well,
And none but Leicester dare be bold enough
To risk it at this court. The world must know
How I detest this Stuart, and the rank
Which here I hold; my monarch's confidence,
With which she honors me, must sure suffice
To overturn all doubt of my intentions.
Well may the man thy favor above all
Distinguishes pursue a daring course
To do his duty!
BURLEIGH.
If the course was good,
Wherefore conceal it?
LEICESTER.
You are used, my lord,
To prate before you act; the very chime
Of your own deeds. This is your manner, lord;
But mine is first to act, and then to speak.
BURLEIGH.
Yes, now you speak because you must.
LEICESTER (measuring him proudly and disdainfully with his eyes).
And you
Boast of a wonderful, a mighty action,
That you have saved the queen, have snatched away
The mask from treachery; all is known to you;
You think, forsooth, that nothing can escape
Your penetrating eyes. Poor, idle boaster!
In spite of all your cunning, Mary Stuart
Was free to-day, had I not hindered it.
BURLEIGH.
How? You?
LEICESTER.
Yes, I, my lord; the queen confided
In Mortimer; she opened to the youth
Her inmost soul! Yes, she went further still;
She gave him, too, a secret, bloody charge,
Which Paulet had before refused with horror.
Say, is it so, or not?
[The QUEEN and BURLEIGH look at one another with astonishment.
BURLEIGH.
Whence know ye this?
LEICESTER.
Nay, is it not a fact? Now answer me.
And where, my lord, where were your thousand eyes,
Not to discover Mortimer was false?
That he, the Guise's tool, and Mary's creature,
A raging papist, daring fanatic,
Was come to free the Stuart, and to murder
The Queen of England!
ELIZABETH (with the utmost astonishment).
How! This Mortimer!
LEICESTER.
'Twas he through whom our correspondence passed.
This plot it was which introduced me to him.
This very day she was to have been torn
From her confinement; he, this very moment,
Disclosed his plan to me: I took him prisoner,
And gave him to the guard, when in despair
To see his work o'erturned, himself unmasked,
He slew himself!
ELIZABETH.
Oh, I indeed have been
Deceived beyond example, Mortimer!
BURLEIGH.
This happened then but now? Since last we parted?
LEICESTER.
For my own sake, I must lament the deed;
That he was thus cut off. His testimony,
Were he alive, had fully cleared my fame,
And freed me from suspicion; 'twas for this
That I surrendered him to open justice.
I thought to choose the most impartial course
To verify and fix my innocence
Before the world.
BURLEIGH.
He killed himself, you say
Is't so? Or did you kill him?
LEICESTER.
Vile suspicion!
Hear but the guard who seized him.
[He goes to the door, and calls.
Ho! who waits?
[Enter the officer of the guard.
Sir, tell the queen how Mortimer expired.
OFFICER.
I was on duty in the palace porch,
When suddenly my lord threw wide the door,
And ordered me to take the knight in charge,
Denouncing him a traitor: upon this
He grew enraged, and with most bitter curses
Against our sovereign and our holy faith,
He drew a dagger, and before the guards
Could hinder his intention, plunged the steel
Into his heart, and fell a lifeless corpse.
LEICESTER.
'Tis well; you may withdraw. Her majesty
Has heard enough.
[The officer withdraws.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, what a deep abyss
Of monstrous deeds?
LEICESTER.
Who was it, then, my queen,
Who saved you? Was it Burleigh? Did he know
The dangers which surrounded you? Did he
Avert them from your head? Your faithful Leicester
Was your good angel.
BURLEIGH.
This same Mortimer
Died most conveniently for you, my lord.
ELIZABETH.
What I should say I know not. I believe you,
And I believe you not. I think you guilty,
And yet I think you not. A curse on her
Who caused me all this anguish.
LEICESTER.
She must die;
I now myself consent unto her death.
I formerly advised you to suspend
The sentence, till some arm should rise anew
On her behalf; the case has happened now,
And I demand her instant execution.
BURLEIGH.
You give this counsel? You?
LEICESTER.
Howe'er it wound
My feelings to be forced to this extreme,
Yet now I see most clearly, now I feel
That the queen's welfare asks this bloody victim.
'Tis my proposal, therefore, that the writ
Be drawn at once to fix the execution.
BURLEIGH (to the QUEEN).
Since, then, his lordship shows such earnest zeal,
Such loyalty, 'twere well were he appointed
To see the execution of the sentence.
LEICESTER.
Who? I?
BURLEIGH.
Yes, you; you surely ne'er could find
A better means to shake off the suspicion
Which rests upon you still, than to command
Her, whom 'tis said you love, to be beheaded.
ELIZABETH (looking steadfastly at LEICESTER).
My lord advises well. So be it, then.
LEICESTER.
It were but fit that my exalted rank
Should free me from so mournful a commission,
Which would indeed, in every sense, become
A Burleigh better than the Earl of Leicester.
The man who stands so near the royal person
Should have no knowledge of such fatal scenes:
But yet to prove my zeal, to satisfy
My queen, I waive my charge's privilege,
And take upon myself this hateful duty.
ELIZABETH.
Lord Burleigh shall partake this duty with you.
[To BURLEIGH.
So be the warrant instantly prepared.
[BURLEIGH withdraws; a tumult heard without.
SCENE VII.
The QUEEN, the EARL OF KENT.
ELIZABETH.
How now, my Lord of Kent? What uproar's this
I hear without?
KENT.
My queen, it is thy people,
Who, round the palace ranged, impatiently
Demand to see their sovereign.
ELIZABETH.
What's their wish?
KENT.
A panic terror has already spread
Through London, that thy life has been attempted;
That murderers commissioned from the pope
Beset thee; that the Catholics have sworn
To rescue from her prison Mary Stuart,
And to proclaim her queen. Thy loyal people
Believe it, and are mad; her head alone
Can quiet them; this day must be her last.
ELIZABETH.
How! Will they force me, then?
KENT.
They are resolved----
SCENE VIII.
Enter BURLEIGH and DAVISON, with a paper.
ELIZABETH.
Well, Davison?
DAVISON (approaches earnestly).
Your orders are obeyed,
My queen----
ELIZABETH.
What orders, sir?
[As she is about to take the paper, she shudders, and starts back.
Oh, God!
BURLEIGH.
Obey
Thy people's voice; it is the voice of God.
ELIZABETH (irresolute, as if in contest with herself)
Oh, my good lord, who will assure me now
That what I hear is my whole people's voice,
The voice of all the world! Ah! much I fear,
That, if I now should listen to the wish
Of the wild multitude, a different voice
Might soon be heard;--and that the very men,
Who now by force oblige me to this step,
May, when 'tis taken, heavily condemn me!
SCENE IX.
Enter the EARL OF SHREWSBURY (who enters with great emotion).
SHREWSBURY.
Hold fast, my queen, they wish to hurry thee;
[Seeing DAVISON with the paper.
Be firm--or is it then decided?--is it
Indeed decided? I behold a paper
Of ominous appearance in his hand;
Let it not at this moment meet thy eyes,
My queen!----
ELIZABETH.
Good Shrewsbury! I am constrained----
SHREWSBURY.
Who can constrain thee? Thou art Queen of England,
Here must thy majesty assert its rights:
Command those savage voices to be silent,
Who take upon themselves to put constraint
Upon thy royal will, to rule thy judgment.
Fear only, blind conjecture, moves thy people;
Thou art thyself beside thyself; thy wrath
Is grievously provoked: thou art but mortal,
And canst not thus ascend the judgment seat.
BURLEIGH.
Judgment has long been past. It is not now
The time to speak but execute the sentence.
KENT (who upon SHREWSBURY'S entry had retired, comes back).
The tumult gains apace; there are no means
To moderate the people.
ELIZABETH (to SHREWSBURY).
See, my lord,
How they press on.
SHREWSBURY.
I only ask a respite;
A single word traced by thy hand decides
The peace, the happiness of all thy life!
Thou hast for years considered, let not then
A moment ruled by passion hurry thee--
But a short respite--recollect thyself!
Wait for a moment of tranquillity.
BURLEIGH (violently).
Wait for it--pause--delay--till flames of fire
Consume the realm; until the fifth attempt
Of murder be successful! God, indeed,
Hath thrice delivered thee; thy late escape
Was marvellous, and to expect again
A miracle would be to tempt thy God!
SHREWSBURY.
That God, whose potent hand hath thrice preserved thee,
Who lent my aged feeble arm its strength
To overcome the madman:--he deserves
Thy confidence. I will not raise the voice
Of justice now, for now is not the time;
Thou canst not hear it in this storm of passion.
Yet listen but to this! Thou tremblest now
Before this living Mary--tremble rather
Before the murdered, the beheaded Mary.
She will arise, and quit her grave, will range
A fiend of discord, an avenging ghost,
Around thy realm, and turn thy people's hearts
From their allegiance. For as yet the Britons
Hate her, because they fear her; but most surely
Will they avenge her when she is no more.
They will no more behold the enemy
Of their belief, they will but see in her
The much-lamented issue of their kings
A sacrifice to jealousy and hate.
Then quickly shalt thou see the sudden change
When thou hast done the bloody deed; then go
Through London, seek thy people, which till now
Around thee swarmed delighted; thou shalt see
Another England, and another people;
For then no more the godlike dignity
Of justice, which subdued thy subjects' hearts,
Will beam around thee. Fear, the dread ally
Of tyranny, will shuddering march before thee,
And make a wilderness in every street--
The last, extremest crime thou hast committed.
What head is safe, if the anointed fall?
ELIZABETH.
Ah! Shrewsbury, you saved my life, you turned
The murderous steel aside; why let you not
The dagger take its course? then all these broils
Would have been ended; then, released from doubt,
And free from blame, I should be now at rest
In my still, peaceful grave. In very sooth
I'm weary of my life, and of my crown.
If Heaven decree that one of us two queens
Must perish, to secure the other's life--
And sure it must be so--why should not I
Be she who yields? My people must decide;
I give them back the sovereignty they gave.
God is my witness that I have not lived
For my own sake, but for my people's welfare.
If they expect from this false, fawning Stuart,
The younger sovereign, more happy days,
I will descend with pleasure from the throne,
Again repair to Woodstock's quiet bowers,
Where once I spent my unambitious youth;
Where far removed from all the vanities
Of earthly power, I found within myself
True majesty. I am not made to rule--
A ruler should be made of sterner stuff:
My heart is soft and tender. I have governed
These many years this kingdom happily,
But then I only needed to make happy:
Now, comes my first important regal duty,
And now I feel how weak a thing I am.
BURLEIGH.
Now by mine honor, when I hear my queen,
My royal liege, speak such unroyal words,
I should betray my office, should betray
My country, were I longer to be silent.
You say you love your people 'bove yourself,
Now prove it. Choose not peace for your own heart,
And leave your kingdom to the storms of discord.
Think on the church. Shall, with this papist queen
The ancient superstition be renewed?
The monk resume his sway, the Roman legate
In pomp march hither; lock our churches up,
Dethrone our monarchs? I demand of you
The souls of all your subjects--as you now
Shall act, they all are saved, or all are lost!
Here is no time for mercy;--to promote
Your people's welfare is your highest duty.
If Shrewsbury has saved your life, then I
Will save both you and England--that is more!
ELIZABETH.
I would be left alone. No consolation,
No counsel can be drawn from human aid
In this conjecture:--I will lay my doubts
Before the Judge of all:--I am resolved
To act as He shall teach. Withdraw, my lords.
[To DAVISON, who lays the paper on the table.
You, sir, remain in waiting--close at hand.
[The lords withdraw, SHREWSBURY alone stands
for a few moments before the QUEEN, regards her
significantly, then withdraws slowly, and with
an expression of the deepest anguish.
SCENE X.
ELIZABETH alone.
Oh! servitude of popularity!
Disgraceful slavery! How weary am I
Of flattering this idol, which my soul
Despises in its inmost depth! Oh! when
Shall I once more be free upon this throne?
I must respect the people's voice, and strive
To win the favor of the multitude,
And please the fancies of a mob, whom naught
But jugglers' tricks delight. O call not him
A king who needs must please the world: 'tis he
Alone, who in his actions does not heed
The fickle approbation of mankind.
Have I then practised justice, all my life
Shunned each despotic deed; have I done this
Only to bind my hands against this first,
This necessary act of violence?
My own example now condemns myself!
Had I but been a tyrant, like my sister,
My predecessor, I could fearless then
Have shed this royal blood:--but am I now
Just by my own free choice? No--I was forced
By stern necessity to use this virtue;
Necessity, which binds e'en monarch's wills.
Surrounded by my foes, my people's love
Alone supports me on my envied throne.
All Europe's powers confederate to destroy me;
The pope's inveterate decree declares me
Accursed and excommunicated. France
Betrays me with a kiss, and Spain prepares
At sea a fierce exterminating war;
Thus stand I, in contention with the world,
A poor defenceless woman: I must seek
To veil the spot in my imperial birth,
By which my father cast disgrace upon me:
In vain with princely virtues would I hide it;
The envious hatred of my enemies
Uncovers it, and places Mary Stuart,
A threatening fiend, before me evermore!
[Walking up and down, with quick and agitated steps.
Oh, no! this fear must end. Her head must fall!
I will have peace. She is the very fury
Of my existence; a tormenting demon,
Which destiny has fastened on my soul.
Wherever I had planted me a comfort,
A flattering hope, my way was ever crossed
By this infernal viper! She has torn
My favorite, and my destined bridegroom from me.
The hated name of every ill I feel
Is Mary Stuart--were but she no more
On earth I should be free as mountain air.
[Standing still.
With what disdain did she look down on me,
As if her eye should blast me like the lightning!
Poor feeble wretch! I bear far other arms,
Their touch is mortal, and thou art no more.
[Advancing to the table hastily, and taking the pen.
I am a bastard, am I? Hapless wretch,
I am but so the while thou liv'st and breath'st.
Thy death will make my birth legitimate.
The moment I destroy thee is the doubt
Destroyed which hangs o'er my imperial right.
As soon as England has no other choice,
My mother's honor and my birthright triumphs!
[She signs with resolution; lets her pen then fall,
and steps back with an expression of terror. After
a pause she rings.
SCENE XI.
ELIZABETH, DAVISON.
ELIZABETH.
Where are their lordships?
DAVISON.
They are gone to quell
The tumult of the people. The alarm
Was instantly appeased when they beheld
The Earl of Shrewsbury. That's he! exclaimed
A hundred voices--that's the man--he saved
The queen; hear him--the bravest man in England!
And now began the gallant Talbot, blamed
In gentle words the people's violence,
And used such strong, persuasive eloquence,
That all were pacified, and silently
They slunk away.
ELIZABETH.
The fickle multitude!
Which turns with every wind. Unhappy he
Who leans upon this reed! 'Tis well, Sir William;
You may retire again----
[As he is going towards the door.
And, sir, this paper,
Receive it back; I place it in your hands.
DAVISON (casts a look upon the paper, and starts back).
My gracious queen--thy name! 'tis then decided.
ELIZABETH.
I had but to subscribe it--I have done so--
A paper sure cannot decide--a name
Kills not.
DAVISON.
Thy name, my queen, beneath this paper
Is most decisive--kills--'tis like the lightning,
Which blasteth as it flies! This fatal scroll
Commands the sheriff and commissioners
To take departure straight for Fotheringay,
And to the Queen of Scots announce her death,
Which must at dawn be put in execution.
There is no respite, no discretion here.
As soon as I have parted with this writ
Her race is run.
ELIZABETH.
Yes, sir, the Lord has placed
This weighty business in your feeble hands;
Seek him in prayer to light you with his wisdom;
I go--and leave you, sir, to do your duty.
[Going.
DAVISON.
No; leave me not, my queen, till I have heard
Your will. The only wisdom that I need
Is, word for word, to follow your commands.
Say, have you placed this warrant in my hands
To see that it be speedily enforced?
ELIZABETH.
That you must do as your own prudence dictates.
DAVISON (interrupting her quickly, and alarmed).
Not mine--oh, God forbid! Obedience is
My only prudence here. No point must now
Be left to be decided by your servant.
A small mistake would here be regicide,
A monstrous crime, from which my soul recoils.
Permit me, in this weighty act, to be
Your passive instrument, without a will:--
Tell me in plain, undoubted terms your pleasure,
What with the bloody mandate I should do.
ELIZABETH.
Its name declares its meaning.
DAVISON.
Do you, then,
My liege, command its instant execution?
ELIZABETH.
I said not that; I tremble but to think it.
DAVISON.
Shall I retain it, then, 'till further orders?
ELIZABETH.
At your own risk; you answer the event.
DAVISON.
I! gracious heavens! Oh, speak, my queen, your pleasure!
ELIZABETH.
My pleasure is that this unhappy business
Be no more mentioned to me; that at last
I may be freed from it, and that forever.
DAVISON.
It costs you but a word--determine then
What shall I do with this mysterious scroll?
ELIZABETH.
I have declared it, plague me, sir, no longer.
DAVISON.
You have declared it, say you? Oh, my queen,
You have said nothing. Please, my gracious mistress,
But to remember----
ELIZABETH (stamps on the ground).
Insupportable!
DAVISON.
Oh, be indulgent to me! I have entered
Unwittingly, not many months ago,
Upon this office; I know not the language
Of courts and kings. I ever have been reared
In simple, open wise, a plain blunt man.
Be patient with me; nor deny your servant
A light to lead him clearly to his duty.
[He approaches her in a supplicating posture,
she turns her back on him; he stands in despair;
then speaks with a tone of resolution.
Take, take again this paper--take it back!
Within my hands it is a glowing fire.
Select not me, my queen; select not me
To serve you in this terrible conjecture.
ELIZABETH.
Go, sir;--fulfil the duty of your office.
[Exit.
SCENE XII.
DAVISON, then BURLEIGH.
DAVISON.
She goes! She leaves me doubting and perplexed
With this dread paper! How to act I know not;
Should I retain it, should I forward it?
[To BURLEIGH, who enters.
Oh! I am glad that you are come, my lord,
'Tis you who have preferred me to this charge;
Now free me from it, for I undertook it,
Unknowing how responsible it made me.
Let me then seek again the obscurity
In which you found me; this is not my place.
BURLEIGH.
How now? Take courage, sir! Where is the warrant?
The queen was with you.
DAVISON.
She has quitted me
In bitter anger. Oh, advise me, help me,
Save me from this fell agony of doubt!
My lord, here is the warrant: it is signed!
BURLEIGH.
Indeed! Oh, give it, give it me!
DAVISON.
I may not.
BURLEIGH.
How!
DAVISON.
She has not yet explained her final will.
BURLEIGH.
Explained! She has subscribed it;--give it to me.
DAVISON.
I am to execute it, and I am not.
Great heavens! I know not what I am to do!
BURLEIGH (urging more violently).
It must be now, this moment, executed.
The warrant, sir. You're lost if you delay.
DAVISON.
So am I also if I act too rashly.
BURLEIGH.
What strange infatuation. Give it me.
[Snatches the paper from him, and exit with it.
DAVISON.
What would you? Hold? You will be my destruction.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
The Scene the same as in the First Act.
HANNAH KENNEDY in deep mourning, her eyes still red
from weeping, in great but quiet anguish, is employed
in sealing letters and parcels. Her sorrow often
interrupts her occupation, and she is seen at such
intervals to pray in silence. PAULET and DRURY,
also in mourning, enter, followed by many servants,
who bear golden and silver vessels, mirrors, paintings,
and other valuables, and fill the back part of the stage
with them. PAULET delivers to the NURSE a box of jewels
and a paper, and seems to inform her by signs that it
contains the inventory of the effects the QUEEN had brought
with her. At the sight of these riches, the anguish of
the NURSE is renewed; she sinks into a deep, glowing
melancholy, during which DRURY, PAULET, and the servants
silently retire.
MELVIL enters.
KENNEDY (screams aloud as soon as she observes him).
Melvil! Is it you? Behold I you again?
MELVIL.
Yes, faithful Kennedy, we meet once more.
KENNEDY.
After this long, long, painful separation!
MELVIL.
A most unhappy, bitter meeting this!
KENNEDY.
You come----
MELVIL.
To take an everlasting leave
Of my dear queen--to bid a last farewell!
KENNEDY.
And now at length, now on the fatal morn
Which brings her death, they grant our royal lady
The presence of her friends. Oh, worthy sir,
I will not question you, how you have fared,
Nor tell you all the sufferings we've endured,
Since you were torn away from us: alas!
There will be time enough for that hereafter.
O, Melvil, Melvil, why was it our fate
To see the dawn of this unhappy day?
MELVIL.
Let us not melt each other with our grief.
Throughout my whole remaining life, as long
As ever it may be, I'll sit and weep;
A smile shall never more light up these cheeks,
Ne'er will I lay this sable garb aside,
But lead henceforth a life of endless mourning.
Yet on this last sad day I will be firm;
Pledge me your word to moderate your grief;
And when the rest of comfort all bereft,
Abandoned to despair, wail round her, we
Will lead her with heroic resolution,
And be her staff upon the road to death!
KENNEDY.
Melvil! You are deceived if you suppose
The queen has need of our support to meet
Her death with firmness. She it is, my friend,
Who will exhibit the undaunted heart.
Oh! trust me, Mary Stuart will expire
As best becomes a heroine and queen!
MELVIL.
Received she firmly, then, the sad decree
Of death?--'tis said that she was not prepared.
KENNEDY.
She was not; yet they were far other terrors
Which made our lady shudder: 'twas not death,
But her deliverer, which made her tremble.
Freedom was promised us; this very night
Had Mortimer engaged to bear us hence:
And thus the queen, perplexed 'twixt hope and fear,
And doubting still if she should trust her honor
And royal person to the adventurous youth,
Sat waiting for the morning. On a sudden
We hear a boisterous tumult in the castle;
Our ears are startled by repeated blows
Of many hammers, and we think we hear
The approach of our deliverers: hope salutes us,
And suddenly and unresisted wakes
The sweet desire of life. And now at once
The portals are thrown open--it is Paulet,
Who comes to tell us--that--the carpenters
Erect beneath our feet the murderous scaffold!
[She turns aside, overpowered by excessive anguish.
MELVIL.
O God in Heaven! Oh, tell me then how bore
The queen this terrible vicissitude?
KENNEDY (after a pause, in which she has somewhat collected herself).
Not by degrees can we relinquish life;
Quick, sudden, in the twinkling of an eye,
The separation must be made, the change
From temporal to eternal life; and God
Imparted to our mistress at this moment
His grace, to cast away each earthly hope,
And firm and full of faith to mount the skies.
No sign of pallid fear dishonored her;
No word of mourning, 'till she heard the tidings
Of Leicester's shameful treachery, the sad fate
Of the deserving youth, who sacrificed
Himself for her; the deep, the bitter anguish
Of that old knight, who lost, through her, his last,
His only hope; till then she shed no tear--
'Twas then her tears began to flow, 'twas not
Her own, but others' woe which wrung them from her.
MELVIL.
Where is she now? Can you not lead me to her?
KENNEDY.
She spent the last remainder of the night
In prayer, and from her dearest friends she took
Her last farewell in writing: then she wrote
Her will [1] with her own hand. She now enjoys
A moment of repose, the latest slumber
Refreshes her weak spirits.
MELVIL.
Who attends her?
KENNEDY.
None but her women and physician Burgoyn:
You seem to look around you with surprise;
Your eyes appear to ask me what should mean
This show of splendor in the house of death.
Oh, sir, while yet we lived we suffered want;
But at our death plenty returns to us.
SCENE II.
Enter MARGARET CURL.
KENNEDY.
How, madam, fares the queen? Is she awake?
CURL (drying her tears).
She is already dressed--she asks for you.
KENNEDY.
I go:--
[To MELVIL, who seems to wish to accompany her.
But follow not until the queen
Has been prepared to see you.
[Exit.
CURL.
Melvil, sure,
The ancient steward?
MELVIL.
Yes, the same.
CURL.
Oh, sir,
This is a house which needs no steward now!
Melvil, you come from London; can you give
No tidings of my husband?
MELVIL.
It is said
He will be set at liberty as soon----
CURL.
As soon as our dear queen shall be no more.
Oh, the unworthy, the disgraceful traitor!
He is our lady's murderer--'tis said
It was his testimony which condemned him.
MELVIL.
'Tis true.
CURL.
Oh, curse upon him! Be his soul
Condemned forever! he has borne false witness.
MELVIL.
Think, madam, what you say.
CURL.
I will maintain it
With every sacred oath before the court,
I will repeat it in his very face;
The world shall hear of nothing else. I say
That she dies innocent!
MELVIL..
God grant it true!
[1] The document is now in the British Museum.
SCENE III.
Enter HANNAH KENNEDY.
KENNEDY (to CURL).
Go, madam, and require a cup of wine--
'Tis for our lady.
MELVIL.
Is the queen then sick?
KENNEDY.
She thinks that she is strong; she is deceived
By her heroic courage; she believes
She has no need of nourishment; yet still
A hard and painful task's allotted her.
Her enemies shall not enjoy the triumph;
They shall not say that fear hath blanched her cheeks
When her fatigues have conquered human weakness.
MELVIL.
May I approach her?
KENNEDY.
She will come herself.
SCENE IV.
Enter BURGOYN; two women of the chamber follow him,
weeping, and in deep mourning.
BURGOYN.
Oh, Melvil!
MELVIL.
Oh, Burgoyn!
[They embrace silently.
FIRST WOMAN (to the NURSE).
She chose to be
Alone: she wishes, at this awful moment,
For the last time, to commune with her God.
SCENE V.
Enter MARGARET CURL, bearing a golden cup of wine;
she places it hastily upon the table, and leans,
pale and trembling, against a chair.
MELVIL.
How, madam! What has frightened you?
KENNEDY.
Oh God!
BURGOYN.
Speak, madam!
CURL.
What, alas! have I beheld!
MELVIL.
Come to yourself, and say what you have seen!
CURL.
As I went down the staircase which conducts
To the great hall below, a door stood open;
I looked into the chamber, and I saw--
Oh heaven!
MELVIL.
What saw you?
CURL.
All the walls were hung
With black; a spacious scaffold, too, o'erspread
With sable cloth, was raised above the floor,
And in the middle of the scaffold stood
A dreadful sable block! upon it lay
A naked, polished axe:--the hall was full
Of cruel people, crowding round the scaffold
Who, with a horrid thirst for human blood,
Seemed waiting for the victim!
THE WOMEN.
Gracious heaven,
Protect our queen!
MELVIL.
Be calm; the queen approaches.
SCENE VI.
Enter MARY in white and sumptuously arrayed, as
for a festival: she wears hanging from her neck,
on a row of small beads, an Agnus Dei; a rosary
hangs from her girdle; she bears a crucifix in
her hand, and a diadem of precious stones binds
her hair; her large black veil is thrown back.
On her entrance all present fall back on both sides
with the most violent expressions of anguish.
MELVIL falls involuntarily upon his knees.
MARY (with quiet majesty, looking round the whole circle).
Why these complaints? Why weep ye? Ye should rather
Rejoice with me, that now at length the end
Of my long woe approaches; that my shackles
Fall off, my prison opens, and my soul
Delighted mounts on seraph's wings, and seeks
The land of everlasting liberty.
When I was offered up to the oppression
Of my proud enemy, was forced to suffer
Ignoble taunts, and insults most unfitting
A free and sovereign queen, then was the time
To weep for me; but as an earnest friend,
Beneficent and healing death approaches.
All the indignities which I have suffered
On earth are covered by his sable wings.
The most degraded criminal's ennobled
By his last sufferings, by his final exit;
I feel again the crown upon my brows.
And dignity possess my swelling soul!
[Advancing a few steps.
How! Melvil here! My worthy sir, not so;
Arise; you rather come in time to see
The triumph of your mistress than her death.
One comfort, which I never had expected,
Is granted me, that after death my name
Will not be quite abandoned to my foes;
One friend at least, one partner of my faith,
Will be my witness in the hour of death.
Say, honest Melvil, how you fared the while
In this inhospitable, hostile land?
For since the time they tore you from my side
My fears for you have oft depressed my soul.
MELVIL.
No other evil galled me but my grief
For thee, and that I wanted power to serve thee.
MARY.
How fares my chamberlain, old Didier?
But sure the faithful servant long has slept
The sleep of death, for he was full of years.
MELVIL.
God hath not granted him as yet this grace;
He lives to see the grave o'erwhelm thy youth.
MARY.
Oh! could I but have felt before my death,
The happiness of pressing one descendant
Of the dear blood of Stuart to my bosom.
But I must suffer in a foreign land,
None but my servants to bewail my fate!
Sir; to your loyal bosom I commit
My latest wishes. Bear then, sir, my blessing
To the most Christian king, my royal brother,
And the whole royal family of France.
I bless the cardinal, my honored uncle,
And also Henry Guise, my noble cousin.
I bless the holy father, the vicegerent
Of Christ on earth, who will, I trust, bless me.
I bless the King of Spain, who nobly offered
Himself as my deliverer, my avenger.
They are remembered in my will: I hope
That they will not despise, how poor soe'er
They be, the presents of a heart which loves them.
[Turning to her servants.
I have bequeathed you to my royal brother
Of France; he will protect you, he will give you
Another country, and a better home;
And if my last desire have any weight,
Stay not in England; let no haughty Briton
Glut his proud heart with your calamities,
Nor see those in the dust who once were mine.
Swear by this image of our suffering Lord
To leave this fatal land when I'm no more.
MELVIL (touching the crucifix).
I swear obedience in the name of all.
MARY.
What I, though poor and plundered, still possess,
Of which I am allowed to make disposal,
Shall be amongst you shared; for I have hope
In this at least my will may be fulfilled.
And what I wear upon my way to death
Is yours--nor envy me on this occasion
The pomp of earth upon the road to heaven.
[To the ladies of her chamber.
To you, my Alice, Gertrude, Rosamund,
I leave my pearls, my garments: you are young,
And ornament may still delight your hearts.
You, Margaret, possess the nearest claims,
To you I should be generous: for I leave you
The most unhappy woman of them all.
That I have not avenged your husband's fault
On you I hope my legacy will prove.
The worth of gold, my Hannah, charms not thee;
Nor the magnificence of precious stones:
My memory, I know, will be to thee
The dearest jewel; take this handkerchief,
I worked it for thee, in the hours of sorrow,
With my own hands, and my hot, scalding tears
Are woven in the texture:--you will bind
My eyes with this, when it is time: this last
Sad service I would wish but from my Hannah.
KENNEDY.
O Melvil! I cannot support it.
MARY.
Come,
Come all and now receive my last farewell.
[She stretches forth her hands; the WOMEN
violently weeping, fall successively at her feet,
and kiss her outstretched hand.
Margaret, farewell--my Alice, fare thee well;
Thanks, Burgoyn, for thy honest, faithful service--
Thy lips are hot, my Gertrude:--I have been
Much hated, yet have been as much beloved.
May a deserving husband bless my Gertrude,
For this warm, glowing heart is formed for love.
Bertha, thy choice is better, thou hadst rather
Become the chaste and pious bride of heaven;
Oh! haste thee to fulfil thy vows; the goods
Of earth are all deceitful; thou may'st learn
This lesson from thy queen. No more; farewell,
Farewell, farewell, my friends, farewell for ever.
[She turns suddenly from them; all but MELVIL
retire at different sides.
SCENE VII.
MARY, MELVIL.
MARY (after the others are all gone).
I have arranged all temporal concerns,
And hope to leave the world in debt to none;
Melvil, one thought alone there is which binds
My troubled soul, nor suffers it to fly
Delighted and at liberty to heaven.
MELVIL.
Disclose it to me; ease your bosom, trust
Your doubts, your sorrows, to your faithful friend.
MARY.
I see eternity's abyss before me;
Soon must I stand before the highest Judge,
And have not yet appeased the Holy One.
A priest of my religion is denied me,
And I disdain to take the sacrament,
The holy, heavenly nourishment, from priests
Of a false faith; I die in the belief
Of my own church, for that alone can save.
MELVIL.
Compose your heart; the fervent, pious wish
Is prized in heaven as high as the performance.
The might of tyrants can but bind the hands,
The heart's devotion rises free to God,
The word is dead--'tis faith which brings to life.
MARY.
The heart is not sufficient of itself;
Our faith must have some earthly pledge to ground
Its claim to the high bliss of heaven. For this
Our God became incarnate, and enclosed
Mysteriously his unseen heavenly grace
Within an outward figure of a body.
The church it is, the holy one, the high one,
Which rears for us the ladder up to heaven:--
'Tis called the Catholic Apostolic church,--
For 'tis but general faith can strengthen faith;
Where thousands worship and adore the heat
Breaks out in flame, and, borne on eagle wings,
The soul mounts upwards to the heaven of heavens.
Ah! happy they, who for the glad communion
Of pious prayer meet in the house of God!
The altar is adorned, the tapers blaze,
The bell invites, the incense soars on high;
The bishop stands enrobed, he takes the cup,
And blessing it declares the solemn mystery,
The transformation of the elements;
And the believing people fall delighted
To worship and adore the present Godhead.
Alas! I only am debarred from this;
The heavenly benediction pierces not
My prison walls: its comfort is denied me.
MELVIL.
Yes! it can pierce them--put thy trust in Him
Who is almighty--in the hand of faith,
The withered staff can send forth verdant branches
And he who from the rock called living water,
He can prepare an altar in this prison,
Can change----
[Seizing the cup, which stands upon the table.
The earthly contents of this cup
Into a substance of celestial grace.
MARY.
Melvil! Oh, yes, I understand you, Melvil!
Here is no priest, no church, no sacrament;
But the Redeemer says, "When two or three
Are in my name assembled, I am with them,"
What consecrates the priest? Say, what ordains him
To be the Lord's interpreter? a heart
Devoid of guile, and a reproachless conduct.
Well, then, though unordained, be you my priest;
To you will I confide my last confession,
And take my absolution from your lips.
MELVIL.
If then thy heart be with such zeal inflamed,
I tell thee that for thine especial comfort,
The Lord may work a miracle. Thou say'st
Here is no priest, no church, no sacrament--
Thou err'st--here is a priest--here is a God;
A God descends to thee in real presence.
[At these words he uncovers his head,
and shows a host in a golden vessel.
I am a priest--to hear thy last confession,
And to announce to thee the peace of God
Upon thy way to death. I have received
Upon my head the seven consecrations.
I bring thee, from his Holiness, this host,
Which, for thy use, himself has deigned to bless.
MARY.
Is then a heavenly happiness prepared
To cheer me on the very verge of death?
As an immortal one on golden clouds
Descends, as once the angel from on high,
Delivered the apostle from his fetters:--
He scorns all bars, he scorns the soldier's sword,
He steps undaunted through the bolted portals,
And fills the dungeon with his native glory;
Thus here the messenger of heaven appears
When every earthly champion had deceived me.
And you, my servant once, are now the servant
Of the Most High, and his immortal Word!
As before me your knees were wont to bend,
Before you humbled, now I kiss the dust.
[She sinks before him on her knees.
MELVIL (making over her the sign of the cross).
Hear, Mary, Queen of Scotland:--in the name
Of God the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Hast thou examined carefully thy heart,
Swearest thou, art thou prepared in thy confession
To speak the truth before the God of truth?
MARY.
Before my God and thee, my heart lies open.
MELVIL.
What calls thee to the presence of the Highest?
MARY.
I humbly do acknowledge to have erred
Most grievously, I tremble to approach,
Sullied with sin, the God of purity.
MELVIL.
Declare the sin which weighs so heavily
Upon thy conscience since thy last confession.
MARY.
My heart was filled with thoughts of envious hate,
And vengeance took possession of my bosom.
I hope forgiveness of my sins from God,
Yet could I not forgive my enemy.
MELVIL.
Repentest thou of the sin? Art thou, in sooth,
Resolved to leave this world at peace with all?
MARY.
As surely as I wish the joys of heaven.
MELVIL.
What other sin hath armed thy heart against thee?
MARY.
Ah! not alone through hate; through lawless love
Have I still more abused the sovereign good.
My heart was vainly turned towards the man
Who left me in misfortune, who deceived me.
MELVIL.
Repentest thou of the sin? And hast thou turned
Thy heart, from this idolatry, to God?
MARY.
It was the hardest trial I have passed;
This last of earthly bonds is torn asunder.
MELVIL.
What other sin disturbs thy guilty conscience?
MARY.
A bloody crime, indeed of ancient date,
And long ago confessed; yet with new terrors.
It now attacks me, black and grisly steps
Across my path, and shuts the gates of heaven:
By my connivance fell the king, my husband--
I gave my hand and heart to a seducer--
By rigid penance I have made atonement;
Yet in my soul the worm is gnawing still.
MELVIL.
Has then thy heart no other accusation,
Which hath not been confessed and washed away?
MARY.
All you have heard with which my heart is charged.
MELVIL.
Think on the presence of Omniscience;
Think on the punishments with which the church
Threatens imperfect and reserved confessions
This is the sin to everlasting death,
For this is sinning 'gainst his Holy Spirit.
MARY.
So may eternal grace with victory
Crown my last contest, as I wittingly
Have nothing hid----
MELVIL.
How? Wilt thou then conceal
The crime from God for which thou art condemned?
Thou tell'st me nothing of the share thou hadst
In Babington and Parry's bloody treason:
Thou diest for this a temporal death; for this
Wilt thou, too, die the everlasting death?
MARY.
I am prepared to meet eternity;
Within the narrow limits of an hour
I shall appear before my Judge's throne.
But, I repeat it, my confession's ended.
MELVIL.
Consider well--the heart is a deceiver.
Thou hast, perhaps, with sly equivocation,
The word avoided, which would make thee guilty
Although thy will was party to the crime.
Remember, that no juggler's tricks can blind
The eye of fire which darts through every breast.
MARY.
'Tis true that I have called upon all princes
To free me from unworthy chains; yet 'tis
As true that, neither by intent or deed,
Have I attempted my oppressor's life.
MELVIL.
Your secretaries then have witnessed falsely.
MARY.
It is as I have said;--what they have witnessed
The Lord will judge.
MELVIL.
Thou mountest, then, satisfied
Of thy own innocence, the fatal scaffold?
MARY.
God suffers me in mercy to atone,
By undeserved death, my youth's transgressions.
MELVIL (making over her the sign of the cross).
Go, then, and expiate them all by death;
Sink a devoted victim on the altar,
Thus shall thy blood atone the blood thou'st spilt.
From female frailty were derived thy faults,
Free from the weakness of mortality,
The spotless spirit seeks the blest abodes.
Now, then, by the authority which God
Hath unto me committed, I absolve thee
From all thy sins; be as thy faith thy welfare!
[He gives her the host.
Receive the body which for thee was offered--
[He takes the cup which stands upon the table,
consecrates it with silent prayer, then presents
it to her; she hesitates to take it, and makes
signs to him to withdraw it.
Receive the blood which for thy sins was shed,
Receive it; 'tis allowed thee by the pope
To exercise in death the highest office
Of kings, the holy office of the priesthood.
[She takes the cup.
And as thou now, in this his earthly body
Hast held with God mysterious communion,
So may'st thou henceforth, in his realm of joy,
Where sin no more exists, nor tears of woe,
A fair, transfigured spirit, join thyself
Forever with the Godhead, and forever.
[He sets down the cup; hearing a noise,
he covers his head, and goes to the door;
MARY remains in silent devotion on her knees.
MELVIL (returning).
A painful conflict is in store for thee.
Feel'st thou within thee strength enough to smother
Each impulse of malignity and hate?
MARY.
I fear not a relapse. I have to God
Devoted both my hatred and my love.
MELVIL.
Well, then, prepare thee to receive my Lords
Of Leicester and of Burleigh. They are here.
SCENE VIII.
Enter BURLEIGH, LEICESTER, and PAULET.
[LEICESTER remains in the background, without raising
his eyes; BURLEIGH, who remarks his confusion, steps
between him and the QUEEN.
BURLEIGH.
I come, my Lady Stuart, to receive
Your last commands and wishes.
MARY.
Thanks, my lord.
BURLEIGH.
It is the pleasure of my royal mistress
That nothing reasonable be denied you.
MARY.
My will, my lord, declares my last desires;
I've placed it in the hand of Sir Amias,
And humbly beg that it may be fulfilled.
PAULET.
You may rely on this.
MARY.
I beg that all
My servants unmolested may return
To France, or Scotland, as their wishes lead.
BURLEIGH.
It shall be as you wish.
MARY.
And since my body
Is not to rest in consecrated ground,
I pray you suffer this my faithful servant
To bear my heart to France, to my relations--
Alas! 'twas ever there.
BURLEIGH.
It shall be done.
What wishes else?
MARY.
Unto her majesty
Of England bear a sister's salutation;
Tell her that from the bottom of my heart
I pardon her my death; most humbly, too,
I crave her to forgive me for the passion
With which I spoke to her. May God preserve her
And bless her with a long and prosperous reign.
BURLEIGH.
Say, do you still adhere to your resolve,
And still refuse assistance from the dean?
MARY.
My lord, I've made my peace with God.
[To PAULET.
Good sir,
I have unwittingly caused you much sorrow,
Bereft you of your age's only stay.
Oh, let me hope you do not hate my name.
PAULET (giving her his hand).
The Lord be with you! Go your way in peace.
SCENE IX.
HANNAH KENNEDY, and the other women of the QUEEN crowd
into the room with marks of horror. The SHERIFF follows
them, a white staff in his hand; behind are seen, through
the open doors, men under arms.
MARY.
What ails thee, Hannah? Yes, my hour is come.
The sheriff comes to lead me to my fate,
And part we must. Farewell!
KENNEDY and CURL.
We will not leave thee,
We will not part from thee.
MARY (to MELVIL).
You, worthy sir,
And my dear, faithful Hannah, shall attend me
In my last moments. I am sure, my lord
Will not refuse my heart this consolation.
BURLEIGH.
For this I have no warrant.
MARY.
How, my lord;
Can you deny me, then, this small petition?
Respect my sex; who shall attend me else,
And yield me the last service? Sure, it never
Can be my sister's pleasure that in me
My sex should be insulted; that these men
With their rude hands should touch my royal person.
BURLEIGH.
'Tis ordered that no woman shall ascend
The scaffold steps with you. Their tears and moans----
MARY.
She shall not weep, my lord; she shall not moan;
I answer for my Hannah's resolution;
Be merciful; divide me not so soon
From my true foster-mother, from my friend.
She bore me on her arms into this life;
Let her then gently lead me to my death.
PAULET (to BURLEIGH).
Yield to her wishes.
BURLEIGH.
Be it so.
MARY.
I now
Have nothing in this world to wish for more.
[She takes the crucifix, and kisses it.
My God! My Comforter! My blest Redeemer!
As once thy arms were stretched upon the cross,
Let them be now extended to receive me!
[She turns round to go; at the same moment her
eyes fall upon LEICESTER, who, on her going, starts
involuntarily, and turns his eyes towards her; at
this sight MARY trembles, her knees fail her, she is
about to fall, when LEICESTER catches at her, and
receives her in his arms; she regards him for some
time earnestly, and in silence; he cannot support her
looks; at length she speaks.
You keep your word, my Lord of Leicester: for
You promised me your arm to lead me forth
From prison, and you lend it to me now.
At length the wished-for day is come, and what
Was oft the object of my fondest dreams
Is now accomplished: and the Earl of Leicester,
The long-expected, the long-wished-for friend,
Appears at length in Fotheringay Castle.
I see him standing in my prison; all
Is ready for the journey; all the gates
Stand open, and at length I cross the threshold,
Conducted by his hand; and now I leave
These dismal walls behind me, and forever.
All is fulfilled, and you have saved your honor.
[He stands as if annihilated; she continues,
with a gentle voice.
Yes, Leicester; not for liberty alone
I wished to be indebted to your hands.
You should have made me bless that liberty.
Led by your hand, and happy in your love,
I hoped once more to taste the joys of life.
Yes; now that I'm prepared from all the world
To part, and to become a happy spirit,
Whom earthly inclinations tempt no more!
Now, Leicester, I may venture to confess
Without a blush the frailty I have conquered;
Farewell, my lord; and, if you can, be happy!
To woo two queens has been your daring aim;
You have disdained a tender, loving heart,
Betrayed it in the hope to win a proud one:
Kneel at the feet of Queen Elizabeth!
May your reward not prove your punishment.
Farewell; I now have nothing more on earth.
[She goes, preceded by the SHERIFF; at her side
MELVIL and her nurse; BURLEIGH and PAULET follow;
the others, wailing, follow her with their eyes
till she disappears; they then retire through the
other two doors.
SCENE X.
LEICESTER (remaining alone).
Do I live still? Can I still bear to live?
Will not this roof fall down and bury me?
Yawns no abyss to swallow in its gulf
The veriest wretch on earth? What have I lost?
Oh, what a pearl have I not cast away!
What bliss celestial madly dashed aside!
She's gone, a spirit purged from earthly stain,
And the despair of hell remains for me!
Where is the purpose now with which I came
To stifle my heart's voice in callous scorn?
To see her head descend upon the block
With unaverted and indifferent eyes?
How doth her presence wake my slumbering shame?
Must she in death surround me with love's toils?
Lost, wretched man! No more it suits thee now
To melt away in womanly compassion:
Love's golden bliss lies not upon thy path,
Then arm thy breast in panoply of steel,
And henceforth be thy brows of adamant!
Wouldst thou not lose the guerdon of thy guilt,
Thou must uphold, complete it daringly!
Pity be dumb; mine eyes be petrified!
I'll see--I will be witness of her fall.
[He advances with resolute steps towards the door
through which MARY passed; but stops suddenly half way.
No! No! The terrors of all hell possess me.
I cannot look upon the dreadful deed;
I cannot see her die! Hark! What was that?
They are already there. Beneath my feet
The bloody business is preparing. Hark!
I hear their voices. Hence! Away, away
From this abode of misery and death!
[He attempts to escape by another door;
finds it locked, and returns.
How! Does some demon chain me to this spot?
To hear what I would shudder to behold?
That voice--it is the dean's, exhorting her;
She interrupts him. Hark--she prays aloud;
Her voice is firm--now all is still, quite still!
And sobs and women's moans are all I hear.
Now, they undress her; they remove the stool;
She kneels upon the cushion; lays her head----
[Having spoken these last words, and paused awhile,
he is seen with a convulsive motion suddenly to shrink
and faint away; a confused hum of voices is heard at
the same moment from below, and continues for some time.
SCENE XI.
The Second Chamber in the Fourth Act.
ELIZABETH (entering from a side door; her gait and action expressive
of the most violent uneasiness).
No message yet arrived! What! no one here!
Will evening never come! Stands the sun still
In its ethereal course? I can no more
Remain upon the rack of expectation!
Is it accomplished? Is it not? I shudder
At both events, and do not dare to ask.
My Lord of Leicester comes not,--Burleigh too,
Whom I appointed to fulfil the sentence.
If they have quitted London then 'tis done,
The bolt has left its rest--it cuts the air--
It strikes; has struck already: were my realm
At stake I could not now arrest its course.
Who's there?
SCENE XII.
Enter a PAGE.
ELIZABETH.
Returned alone? Where are the lords?
PAGE.
My Lord High-Treasurer and the Earl of Leicester?
ELIZABETH.
Where are they?
PAGE.
They are not in London.
ELIZABETH.
No!
Where are they then?
PAGE.
That no one could inform me;
Before the dawn, mysteriously, in haste
They quitted London.
ELIZABETH (exultingly).
I am Queen of England!
[Walking up and down in the greatest agitation.
Go--call me--no, remain, boy! She is dead;
Now have I room upon the earth at last.
Why do I shake? Whence comes this aguish dread?
My fears are covered by the grave; who dares
To say I did it? I have tears enough
In store to weep her fall. Are you still here?
[To the PAGE.
Command my secretary, Davison,
To come to me this instant. Let the Earl
Of Shrewsbury be summoned. Here he comes.
[Exit PAGE.
SCENE XIII.
Enter SHREWSBURY.
ELIZABETH.
Welcome, my noble lord. What tidings; say
It cannot be a trifle which hath led
Your footsteps hither at so late an hour.
SHREWSBURY.
My liege, the doubts that hung upon my heart,
And dutiful concern for your fair fame,
Directed me this morning to the Tower,
Where Mary's secretaries, Nau and Curl,
Are now confined as prisoners, for I wished
Once more to put their evidence to proof.
On my arrival the lieutenant seemed
Embarrassed and perplexed; refused to show me
His prisoners; but my threats obtained admittance.
God! what a sight was there! With frantic looks,
With hair dishevelled, on his pallet lay
The Scot like one tormented by a fury.
The miserable man no sooner saw me
Than at my feet he fell, and there, with screams,
Clasping my knees, and writhing like a worm,
Implored, conjured me to acquaint him with
His sovereign's destiny, for vague reports
Had somehow reached the dungeons of the Tower
That she had been condemned to suffer death.
When I confirmed these tidings, adding, too,
That on his evidence she had been doomed,--
He started wildly up,--caught by the throat
His fellow-prisoner; with the giant strength
Of madness tore him to the ground and tried
To strangle him. No sooner had we saved
The wretch from his fierce grapple than at once
He turned his rage against himself and beat
His breast with savage fists; then cursed himself
And his companions to the depths of hell!
His evidence was false; the fatal letters
To Babington, which he had sworn were true,
He now denounced as forgeries; for he
Had set down words the queen had never spoken;
The traitor Nau had led him to this treason.
Then ran he to the casement, threw it wide
With frantic force, and cried into the street
So loud that all the people gathered round:
I am the man, Queen Mary's secretary,
The traitor who accused his mistress falsely;
I bore false witness and am cursed forever!
ELIZABETH.
You said yourself that he had lost his wits;
A madman's words prove nothing.
SHREWSBURY.
Yet this madness
Serves in itself to swell the proof. My liege,
Let me conjure thee; be not over-hasty;
Prithee, give order for a new inquiry!
ELIZABETH.
I will, my lord, because it is your wish,
Not that I can believe my noble peers
Have in this case pronounced a hasty judgment.
To set your mind at rest the inquiry shall
Be straight renewed. Well that 'tis not too late!
Upon the honor of our royal name,
No, not the shadow of a doubt shall rest.
SCENE XIV.
Enter DAVISON.
ELIZABETH.
The sentence, sir, which I but late intrusted
Unto your keeping; where is it?
DAVISON (in the utmost astonishment).
The sentence!
ELIZABETH (more urgent).
Which yesterday I gave into your charge.
DAVISON.
Into my charge, my liege!
ELIZABETH.
The people urged
And baited me to sign it. I perforce
Was driven to yield obedience to their will.
I did so; did so on extreme constraint,
And in your hands deposited the paper.
To gain time was my purpose; you remember
What then I told you. Now, the paper, sir!
SHREWSBURY.
Restore it, sir, affairs have changed since then,
The inquiry must be set on foot anew.
DAVISON.
Anew! Eternal mercy!
ELIZABETH.
Why this pause,
This hesitation? Where, sir, is the paper?
DAVISON.
I am undone! Undone! My fate is sealed!
ELIZABETH (interrupting him violently).
Let me not fancy, sir----
DAVISON.
Oh, I am lost!
I have it not.
ELIZABETH.
How? What?
SHREWSBURY.
Oh, God in heaven!
DAVISON.
It is in Burleigh's hands--since yesterday.
ELIZABETH.
Wretch! Is it thus you have obeyed my orders?
Did I not lay my strict injunction on you
To keep it carefully?
DAVISON.
No such injunction
Was laid on me, my liege.
ELIZABETH.
Give me the lie?
Opprobrious wretch! When did I order you
To give the paper into Burleigh's hands?
DAVISON.
Never expressly in so many words.
ELIZABETH.
And, paltering villain I dare you then presume
To construe, as you list, my words--and lay
Your bloody meaning on them? Wo betide you,
If evil come of this officious deed!
Your life shall answer the event to me.
Earl Shrewsbury, you see how my good name
Has been abused!
SHREWSBURY.
I see! Oh, God in heaven!
ELIZABETH.
What say you?
SHREWSBURY.
If the knight has dared to act
In this, upon his own authority,
Without the knowledge of your majesty,
He must be cited to the Court of Peers
To answer there for subjecting thy name
To the abhorrence of all after time.
SCENE XV.
Enter BURLEIGH.
BURLEIGH (bowing his knee before the QUEEN).
Long life and glory to my royal mistress,
And may all enemies of her dominions
End like this Stuart.
[SHREWSBURY hides his face. DAVIDSON wrings his hands in despair.
ELIZABETH.
Speak, my lord; did you
From me receive the warrant?
BURLEIGH.
No, my queen;
From Davison.
ELIZABETH.
And did he in my name
Deliver it?
BURLEIGH.
No, that I cannot say.
ELIZABETH.
And dared you then to execute the writ
Thus hastily, nor wait to know my pleasure?
Just was the sentence--we are free from blame
Before the world; yet it behooved thee not
To intercept our natural clemency.
For this, my lord, I banish you my presence;
And as this forward will was yours alone
Bear you alone the curse of the misdeed!
[To DAVISON.
For you, sir; who have traitorously o'erstepped
The bounds of your commission, and betrayed
A sacred pledge intrusted to your care,
A more severe tribunal is prepared:
Let him be straight conducted to the Tower,
And capital arraignments filed against him.
My honest Talbot, you alone have proved,
'Mongst all my counsellors, an upright man:
You shall henceforward be my guide--my friend.
SHREWSBURY.
Oh! banish not the truest of your friends;
Nor cast those into prison, who for you
Have acted; who for you are silent now.
But suffer me, great queen, to give the seal,
Which, these twelve years, I've borne unworthily,
Back to your royal hands, and take my leave.
ELIZABETH (surprised).
No, Shrewsbury; you surely would not now
Desert me? No; not now.
SHREWSBURY.
Pardon, I am
Too old, and this right hand is growing too stiff
To set the seal upon your later deeds.
ELIZABETH.
Will he forsake me, who has saved my life?
SHREWSBURY.
'Tis little I have done: I could not save
Your nobler part. Live--govern happily!
Your rival's dead! Henceforth you've nothing more
To fear--henceforth to nothing pay regard.
[Exit.
ELIZABETH (to the EARL of KENT, who enters).
Send for the Earl of Leicester.
KENT.
He desires
To be excused--he is embarked for France.
The Curtain drops.
THE MAID OF ORLEANS.
By Frederich Schiller
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
CHARLES THE SEVENTH, King of France.
QUEEN ISABEL, his Mother.
AGNES SOREL.
PHILIP THE GOOD, Duke of Burgundy.
EARL DUNOIS, Bastard of Orleans.
LA HIRE, DUCRATEL, French Offers.
ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS.
CRATILLON, A Burgundian Knight.
RAOUL, a Lotharingian Knight.
TALBOT, the English General,
LIONEL, FASTOLFE, English Officers.
MONTGOMERY, a Welshman.
COUNCILLORS OF ORLEANS.
AN ENGLISH HERALD.
THIBAUT D'ARC, a wealthy Countryman.
MARGOT, LOUISON, JOHANNA, his Daughters.
ETIENNE, CLAUDE MARIE, RAIMOND, their Suitors.
BERTRAND, another Countryman.
APPARITION OF A BLACK KNIGHT.
CHARCOAL-BURNER AND HIS WIFE.
Soldiers and People, Officers of the Crown, Bishops, Monks, Marshals,
Magistrates, Courtiers, and other mute persons in the Coronation
Procession.
PROLOGUE.
A rural District. To the right, a Chapel with an Image of the Virgin; to
the left, an ancient Oak.
SCENE I.
THIBAUT D'ARC. His Three Daughters. Three young Shepherds,
their Suitors.
THIBAUT.
Ay, my good neighbors! we at least to-day
Are Frenchmen still, free citizens and lords
Of the old soil which our forefathers tilled.
Who knows whom we to-morrow must obey?
For England her triumphal banner waves
From every wall: the blooming fields of France
Are trampled down beneath her chargers' hoofs;
Paris hath yielded to her conquering arms,
And with the ancient crown of Dagobert
Adorns the scion of a foreign race.
Our king's descendant, disinherited,
Must steal in secret through his own domain;
While his first peer and nearest relative
Contends against him in the hostile ranks;
Ay, his unnatural mother leads them on.
Around us towns and peaceful hamlets burn.
Near and more near the devastating fire
Rolls toward these vales, which yet repose in peace.
Therefore, good neighbors, I have now resolved,
While God still grants us safety, to provide
For my three daughters; for 'midst war's alarms
Women require protection, and true love
Hath power to render lighter every load.
[To the first Shepherd.
Come, Etienne! You seek my Margot's hand.
Fields lying side by side and loving hearts
Promise a happy union!
[To the second.
Claude! You're silent,
And my Louison looks upon the ground?
How, shall I separate two loving hearts
Because you have no wealth to offer me?
Who now has wealth? Our barns and homes afford
Spoil to the foe, and fuel to the fires.
In times like these a husband's faithful breast
Affords the only shelter from the storm.
LOUISON.
My father!
CLAUDE MARIE.
My Louison!
LOUISON (embracing JOHANNA).
My dear sister!
THIBAUT.
I give to each a yard, a stall and herd,
And also thirty acres; and as God
Gave me his blessing, so I give you mine!
MARGOT (embracing JOHANNA).
Gladden our father--follow our example!
Let this day see three unions ratified!
THIBAUT.
Now go; make all things ready; for the morn
Shall see the wedding. Let our village friends
Be all assembled for the festival.
[The two couples retire arm in arm.
SCENE II.
THIBAUT, RAIMOND, JOHANNA.
THIBAUT.
Thy sisters, Joan, will soon be happy brides;
I see them gladly; they rejoice my age;
But thou, my youngest, giv'st me grief and pain.
RAIMOND.
What is the matter? Why upbraid thy child?
THIBAUT.
Here is this noble youth, the flower and pride
Of all our village; he hath fixed on thee
His fond affections, and for three long years
Has wooed thee with respectful tenderness;
But thou dost thrust him back with cold reserve.
Nor is there one 'mong all our shepherd youths
Who e'er can win a gracious smile from thee.
I see thee blooming in thy youthful prime;
Thy spring it is, the joyous time of hope;
Thy person, like a tender flower, hath now
Disclosed its beauty, but I vainly wait
For love's sweet blossom genially to blow,
And ripen joyously to golden fruit!
Oh, that must ever grieve me, and betrays
Some sad deficiency in nature's work!
The heart I like not which, severe and cold,
Expands not in the genial years of youth.
RAIMOND.
Forbear, good father! Cease to urge her thus!
A noble, tender fruit of heavenly growth
Is my Johanna's love, and time alone
Bringeth the costly to maturity!
Still she delights to range among the hills,
And fears descending from the wild, free heath,
To tarry 'neath the lowly roofs of men,
Where dwell the narrow cares of humble life.
From the deep vale, with silent wonder, oft
I mark her, when, upon a lofty hill
Surrounded by her flock, erect she stands,
With noble port, and bends her earnest gaze
Down on the small domains of earth. To me
She looketh then, as if from other times
She came, foreboding things of import high.
THIBAUT.
'Tis that precisely which displeases me!
She shuns her sisters' gay companionship;
Seeks out the desert mountains, leaves her couch
Before the crowing of the morning cock,
And in the dreadful hour, when men are wont
Confidingly to seek their fellow-men,
She, like the solitary bird, creeps forth,
And in the fearful spirit-realm of night,
To yon crossway repairs, and there alone
Holds secret commune with the mountain wind.
Wherefore this place precisely doth she choose?
Why hither always doth she drive her flock?
For hours together I have seen her sit
In dreamy musing 'neath the Druid tree,
Which every happy creature shuns with awe.
For 'tis not holy there; an evil spirit
Hath since the fearful pagan days of old
Beneath its branches fixed his dread abode.
The oldest of our villagers relate
Strange tales of horror of the Druid tree;
Mysterious voices of unearthly sound
From its unhallowed shade oft meet the ear.
Myself, when in the gloomy twilight hour
My path once chanced to lead me near this tree,
Beheld a spectral figure sitting there,
Which slowly from its long and ample robe
Stretched forth its withered hand, and beckoned me.
But on I went with speed, nor looked behind,
And to the care of God consigned my soul.
RAIMOND (pointing to the image of the Virgin).
Yon holy image of the Virgin blest,
Whose presence heavenly peace diffuseth round,
Not Satan's work, leadeth thy daughter here.
THIBAUT.
No! not in vain hath it in fearful dreams
And apparitions strange revealed itself.
For three successive nights I have beheld
Johanna sitting on the throne at Rheims,
A sparkling diadem of seven stars
Upon her brow, the sceptre in her hand,
From which three lilies sprung, and I, her sire,
With her two sisters, and the noble peers,
The earls, archbishops, and the king himself,
Bowed down before her. In my humble home
How could this splendor enter my poor brain?
Oh, 'tis the prelude to some fearful fall!
This warning dream, in pictured show, reveals
The vain and sinful longing of her heart.
She looks with shame upon her lowly birth.
Because with richer beauty God hath graced
Her form, and dowered her with wondrous gifts
Above the other maidens of this vale,
She in her heart indulges sinful pride,
And pride it is through which the angels fell,
By which the fiend of hell seduces man.
RAIMOND.
Who cherishes a purer, humbler mind
Than doth thy pious daughter? Does she not
With cheerful spirit work her sisters' will?
She is more highly gifted far than they,
Yet, like a servant maiden, it is she
Who silently performs the humblest tasks.
Beneath her guiding hands prosperity
Attendeth still thy harvest and thy flocks;
And around all she does there ceaseless flows
A blessing, rare and unaccountable.
THIBAUT.
Ah truly! Unaccountable indeed!
Sad horror at this blessing seizes me!
But now no more; henceforth I will be silent.
Shall I accuse my own beloved child?
I can do naught but warn and pray for her.
Yet warn I must. Oh, shun the Druid tree!
Stay not alone, and in the midnight hour
Break not the ground for roots, no drinks prepare,
No characters inscribe upon the sand!
'Tis easy to unlock the realm of spirits;
Listening each sound, beneath a film of earth
They lay in wait, ready to rush aloft.
Stay not alone, for in the wilderness
The prince of darkness tempted e'en the Lord.
SCENE III.
THIBAUT, RAIMOND, JOHANNA.
BERTRAND enters, a helmet in his hand.
RAIMOND.
Hush! here is Bertrand coming back from town;
What bears he in his hand?
BERTRAND.
You look at me
With wondering gaze; no doubt you are surprised
To see this martial helm!
THIBAUT.
We are indeed!
Come, tell us how you come by it? Why bring
This fearful omen to our peaceful vale?
[JOHANNA, who has remained indifferent during the two
previous scenes, becomes attentive, and steps nearer.
BERTRAND.
I scarce can tell you how I came by it.
I had procured some tools at Vaucouleurs;
A crowd was gathered in the market-place,
For fugitives were just arrived in haste
From Orleans, bringing most disastrous news.
In tumult all the town together flocked,
And as I forced a passage through the crowds,
A brown Bohemian woman, with this helm,
Approached me, eyed me narrowly, and said:
"Fellow, you seek a helm; I know it well.
Take this one! For a trifle it is yours."
"Go with it to the soldiers," I replied,
"I am a husbandman, and want no helm."
She would not cease, however, and went on:
"None knoweth if he may not want a helm.
A roof of metal for the Head just now
Is of more value than a house of stone."
Thus she pursued me closely through the streets,
Still offering the helm, which I refused.
I marked it well, and saw that it was bright,
And fair and worthy of a knightly head;
And when in doubt I weighed it in my hand,
The strangeness of the incident revolving,
The woman disappeared, for suddenly
The rushing crowd had carried her away.
And I was left the helmet in my hand.
JOHANNA (attempting eagerly to seize it).
Give me the helmet!
BERTRAND.
Why, what boots it you?
It is not suited to a maiden's head.
JOHANNA (seizing it from him).
Mine is the helmet--it belongs to me!
THIBAUT.
What whim is this?
RAIMOND.
Nay, let her have her way!
This warlike ornament becomes her well,
For in her bosom beats a manly heart.
Remember how she once subdued the wolf,
The savage monster which destroyed our herds,
And filled the neighb'ring shepherds with dismay.
She all alone--the lion-hearted maid
Fought with the wolf, and from him snatched the lamb
Which he was bearing in his bloody jaws.
How brave soe'er the head this helm adorned,
It cannot grace a worthier one than hers!
THIBAUT (to BERTRAND).
Relate what new disasters have occurred.
What tidings brought the fugitives?
BERTRAND.
May God
Have pity on our land, and save the king!
In two great battles we have lost the day;
Our foes are stationed in the heart of France,
Far as the river Loire our lands are theirs--
Now their whole force they have combined, and lay
Close siege to Orleans.
THIBAUT.
God protect the king!
BERTRAND.
Artillery is brought from every side,
And as the dusky squadrons of the bees
Swarm round the hive upon a summer day,
As clouds of locusts from the sultry air
Descend and shroud the country round for miles,
So doth the cloud of war, o'er Orleans' fields,
Pour forth its many-nationed multitudes,
Whose varied speech, in wild confusion blent,
With strange and hollow murmurs fill the air.
For Burgundy, the mighty potentate,
Conducts his motley host; the Hennegarians,
The men of Liege and of Luxemburg,
The people of Namur, and those who dwell
In fair Brabant; the wealthy men of Ghent,
Who boast their velvets, and their costly silks;
The Zealanders, whose cleanly towns appear
Emerging from the ocean; Hollanders
Who milk the lowing herds; men from Utrecht,
And even from West Friesland's distant realm,
Who look towards the ice-pole--all combine,
Beneath the banner of the powerful duke,
Together to accomplish Orleans' fall.
THIBAUT.
Oh, the unblest, the lamentable strife,
Which turns the arms of France against itself!
BERTRAND.
E'en she, the mother-queen, proud Isabel
Bavaria's haughty princess--may be seen,
Arrayed in armor, riding through the camp;
With poisonous words of irony she fires
The hostile troops to fury 'gainst her son,
Whom she hath clasped to her maternal breast.
THIBAUT.
A curse upon her, and may God prepare
For her a death like haughty Jezebel's!
BERTRAND.
The fearful Salisbury conducts the siege,
The town-destroyer; with him Lionel,
The brother of the lion; Talbot, too,
Who, with his murd'rous weapon, moweth down
The people in the battle: they have sworn,
With ruthless insolence to doom to shame
The hapless maidens, and to sacrifice
All who the sword have wielded, with the sword.
Four lofty watch-towers, to o'ertop the town,
They have upreared; Earl Salisbury from on high
Casteth abroad his cruel, murd'rous glance,
And marks the rapid wanderers in the streets.
Thousands of cannon-balls, of pond'rous weight,
Are hurled into the city. Churches lie
In ruined heaps, and Notre Dame's royal tower
Begins at length to bow its lofty head.
They also have formed powder-vaults below,
And thus, above a subterranean hell,
The timid city every hour expects,
'Midst crashing thunder, to break forth in flames.
[JOHANNA listens with close attention, and places
the helmet on her head.
THIBAUT.
But where were then our heroes? Where the swords
Of Saintrailles, and La Hire, and brave Dunois,
Of France the bulwark, that the haughty foe
With such impetuous force thus onward rushed?
Where is the king? Can he supinely see
His kingdom's peril and his cities' fall?
BERTRAND.
The king at Chinon holds his court; he lacks
Soldiers to keep the field. Of what avail
The leader's courage, and the hero's arm,
When pallid fear doth paralyze the host?
A sudden panic, as if sent from God,
Unnerves the courage of the bravest men.
In vain the summons of the king resounds
As when the howling of the wolf is heard,
The sheep in terror gather side by side,
So Frenchmen, careless of their ancient fame,
Seek only now the shelter of the towns.
One knight alone, I have been told, has brought
A feeble company, and joins the king
With sixteen banners.
JOHANNA (quickly).
What's the hero's name?
BERTRAND.
'Tis Baudricour. But much I fear the knight
Will not be able to elude the foe,
Who track him closely with too numerous hosts.
JOHANNA.
Where halts the knight? Pray tell me, if you know.
BERTRAND.
About a one day's march from Vaucouleurs.
THIBAUT (to JOHANNA).
Why, what is that to thee? Thou dost inquire
Concerning matters which become thee not.
BERTRAND.
The foe being now so strong, and from the king
No safety to be hoped, at Vaucouleurs
They have with unanimity resolved
To yield them to the Duke of Burgundy.
Thus we avoid the foreign yoke, and still
Continue by our ancient royal line;
Ay, to the ancient crown we may fall back
Should France and Burgundy be reconciled.
JOHANNA (as if inspired).
Speak not of treaty! Speak not of surrender!
The savior comes, he arms him for the fight.
The fortunes of the foe before the walls
Of Orleans shall be wrecked! His hour is come,
He now is ready for the reaper's hand,
And with her sickle will the maid appear,
And mow to earth the harvest of his pride.
She from the heavens will tear his glory down,
Which he had hung aloft among the stars;
Despair not! Fly not! for ere yonder corn
Assumes its golden hue, or ere the moon
Displays her perfect orb, no English horse
Shall drink the rolling waters of the Loire.
BERTRAND.
Alas! no miracle will happen now!
JOHANNA.
Yes, there shall yet be one--a snow-white dove
Shall fly, and with the eagle's boldness, tear
The birds of prey which rend her fatherland.
She shall o'erthrow this haughty Burgundy,
Betrayer of the kingdom; Talbot, too,
The hundred-handed, heaven-defying scourge;
This Salisbury, who violates our fanes,
And all these island robbers shall she drive
Before her like a flock of timid lambs.
The Lord will be with her, the God of battle;
A weak and trembling creature he will choose,
And through a tender maid proclaim his power,
For he is the Almighty!
THIBAULT.
What strange power
Hath seized the maiden?
RAIMOND.
Doubtless 'tis the helmet
Which doth inspire her with such martial thoughts.
Look at your daughter. Mark her flashing eye,
Her glowing cheek, which kindles as with fire.
JOHANNA.
This realm shall fall! This ancient land of fame,
The fairest that, in his majestic course,
The eternal sun surveys--this paradise,
Which, as the apple of his eye, God loves--
Endure the fetters of a foreign yoke?
Here were the heathen scattered, and the cross
And holy image first were planted here;
Here rest St. Louis' ashes, and from hence
The troops went forth who set Jerusalem free.
BERTRAND (in astonishment).
Hark how she speaks! Why, whence can she obtain
This glorious revelation? Father Arc!
A wondrous daughter God hath given you!
JOHANNA.
We shall no longer serve a native prince!
The king, who never dies, shall pass away--
The guardian of the sacred plough, who fills
The earth with plenty, who protects our herds,
Who frees the bondmen from captivity,
Who gathers all his cities round his throne--
Who aids the helpless, and appals the base,
Who envies no one, for he reigns supreme;
Who is a mortal, yet an angel too,
Dispensing mercy on the hostile earth.
For the king's throne, which glitters o'er with gold,
Affords a shelter for the destitute;
Power and compassion meet together there,
The guilty tremble, but the just draw near,
And with the guardian lion fearless sport!
The stranger king, who cometh from afar,
Whose fathers' sacred ashes do not lie
Interred among us; can he love our land?
Who was not young among our youth, whose heart
Respondeth not to our familiar words,
Can he be as a father to our sons?
THIBAUT.
God save the king and France! We're peaceful folk,
Who neither wield the sword, nor rein the steed.
--Let us await the king whom victory crowns;
The fate of battle is the voice of God.
He is our lord who crowns himself at Rheims,
And on his head receives the holy oil.
--Come, now to work! come! and let every one
Think only of the duty of the hour!
Let the earth's great ones for the earth contend,
Untroubled we may view the desolation,
For steadfast stand the acres which we till.
The flames consume our villages, our corn
Is trampled 'neath the tread of warlike steeds;
With the new spring new harvests reappear,
And our light huts are quickly reared again!
[They all retire except the maiden.
SCENE IV.
JOHANNA (alone).
Farewell ye mountains, ye beloved glades,
Ye lone and peaceful valleys, fare ye well!
Through you Johanna never more may stray!
For, ay, Johanna bids you now farewell.
Ye meads which I have watered, and ye trees
Which I have planted, still in beauty bloom!
Farewell ye grottos, and ye crystal springs!
Sweet echo, vocal spirit of the vale.
Who sang'st responsive to my simple strain,
Johanna goes, and ne'er returns again.
Ye scenes where all my tranquil joys
I knew, Forever now I leave you far behind!
Poor foldless lambs, no shepherd now have you!
O'er the wide heath stray henceforth unconfined!
For I to danger's field, of crimson hue,
Am summoned hence another flock to find.
Such is to me the spirit's high behest;
No earthly, vain ambition fires my breast.
For who in glory did on Horeb's height
Descend to Moses in the bush of flame,
And bade him go and stand in Pharaoh's sight--
Who once to Israel's pious shepherd came,
And sent him forth, his champion in the fight,--
Who aye hath loved the lowly shepherd train,--
He, from these leafy boughs, thus spake to me,
"Go forth! Thou shalt on earth my witness be.
"Thou in rude armor must thy limbs invest,
A plate of steel upon thy bosom wear;
Vain earthly love may never stir thy breast,
Nor passion's sinful glow be kindled there.
Ne'er with the bride-wreath shall thy locks be dressed,
Nor on thy bosom bloom an infant fair;
But war's triumphant glory shall be thine;
Thy martial fame all women's shall outshine.
"For when in fight the stoutest hearts despair,
When direful ruin threatens France, forlorn,
Then thou aloft my oriflamme shalt bear,
And swiftly as the reaper mows the corn,
Thou shalt lay low the haughty conqueror;
His fortune's wheel thou rapidly shalt turn,
To Gaul's heroic sons deliverance bring,
Relieve beleaguered Rheims, and crown thy king!"
The heavenly spirit promised me a sign;
He sends the helmet, it hath come from him.
Its iron filleth me with strength divine,
I feel the courage of the cherubim;
As with the rushing of a mighty wind
It drives me forth to join the battles din;
The clanging trumpets sound, the chargers rear,
And the loud war-cry thunders in mine ear.
[She goes out.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
The royal residence at Chinon.
DUNOIS and DUCHATEL.
DUNOIS.
No longer I'll endure it. I renounce
This recreant monarch who forsakes himself.
My valiant heart doth bleed, and I could rain
Hot tear-drops from mine eyes, that robber-swords
Partition thus the royal realm of France;
That cities, ancient as the monarchy,
Deliver to the foe the rusty keys,
While here in idle and inglorious ease
We lose the precious season of redemption.
Tidings of Orleans' peril reach mine ear,
Hither I sped from distant Normandy,
Thinking, arrayed in panoply of war,
To find the monarch with his marshalled hosts;
And find him--here! begirt with troubadours,
And juggling knaves, engaged in solving riddles,
And planning festivals in Sorel's honor,
As brooded o'er the land profoundest peace!
The Constable hath gone; he will not brook
Longer the spectacle of shame. I, too,
Depart, and leave him to his evil fate.
DUCHATEL.
Here comes the king.
SCENE II.
KING CHARLES. The same.
CHARLES.
The Constable hath sent us back his sword
And doth renounce our service. Now, by heaven!
He thus hath rid us of a churlish man,
Who insolently sought to lord it o'er us.
DUNOIS.
A man is precious in such perilous times;
I would not deal thus lightly with his loss.
CHARLES.
Thou speakest thus from love of opposition;
While he was here thou never wert his friend.
DUNOIS.
He was a tiresome, proud, vexatious fool,
Who never could resolve. For once, however,
He hath resolved. Betimes he goeth hence,
Where honor can no longer be achieved.
CHARLES.
Thou'rt in a pleasant humor; undisturbed
I'll leave thee to enjoy it. Hark, Duchatel!
Ambassadors are here from old King Rene,
Of tuneful songs the master, far renowned.
Let them as honored guests be entertained,
And unto each present a chain of gold.
[To the Bastard.
Why smilest thou, Dunois?
DUNOIS.
That from thy mouth
Thou shakest golden chains.
DUCHATEL.
Alas! my king!
No gold existeth in thy treasury.
CHARLES.
Then gold must be procured. It must not be
That bards unhonored from our court depart.
'Tis they who make our barren sceptre bloom,
'Tis they who wreath around our fruitless crown
Life's joyous branch of never-fading green.
Reigning, they justly rank themselves as kings,
Of gentle wishes they erect their throne,
Their harmless realm existeth not in space;
Hence should the bard accompany the king,
Life's higher sphere the heritage of both!
DUCHATEL.
My royal liege! I sought to spare thine ear
So long as aid and counsel could be found;
Now dire necessity doth loose my tongue.
Naught hast thou now in presents to bestow,
Thou hast not wherewithal to live to-morrow!
The spring-tide of thy fortune is run out,
And lowest ebb is in thy treasury!
The soldiers, disappointed of their pay,
With sullen murmurs, threaten to retire.
My counsel faileth, not with royal splendor
But meagerly, to furnish out thy household.
CHARLES.
My royal customs pledge, and borrow gold
From the Lombardians.
DUCHATEL.
Sire, thy revenues,
Thy royal customs are for three years pledged.
DUNOIS.
And pledge meanwhile and kingdom both are lost.
CHARLES.
Still many rich and beauteous lands are ours.
DUNOIS.
So long as God and Talbot's sword permit!
When Orleans falleth into English hands
Then with King Rene thou may'st tend thy sheep!
CHARLES.
Still at this king thou lov'st to point thy jest;
Yet 'tis this lackland monarch who to-day
Hath with a princely crown invested me.
DUNOIS.
Not, in the name of heaven, with that of Naples,
Which is for sale, I hear, since he kept sheep.
CHARLES.
It is a sportive festival, a jest,
Wherein he giveth to his fancy play,
To found a world all innocent and pure
In this barbaric, rude reality.
Yet noble--ay, right royal is his aim!
He will again restore the golden age,
When gentle manners reigned, when faithful love
The heroic hearts of valiant knights inspired,
And noble women, whose accomplished taste
Diffuseth grace around, in judgment sat.
The old man dwelleth in those bygone times,
And in our workday world would realize
The dreams of ancient bards, who picture life
'Mid bowers celestial, throned on golden clouds.
He hath established hence a court of love
Where valiant knights may dwell, and homage yield
To noble women, who are there enthroned,
And where pure love and true may find a home.
Me he hath chosen as the prince of love.
DUNOIS.
I am not such a base, degenerate churl
As love's dominion rudely to assail.
I am her son, from her derive my name,
And in her kingdom lies my heritage.
The Prince of Orleans was my sire, and while
No woman's heart was proof against his love,
No hostile fortress could withstand his shock!
Wilt thou, indeed, with honor name thyself
The prince of love--be bravest of the brave!
As I have read in those old chronicles,
Love aye went coupled with heroic deeds,
And valiant heroes, not inglorious shepherds,
So legends tell us, graced King Arthur's board.
The man whose valor is not beauty's shield
Is all unworthy of her golden prize.
Here the arena! combat for the crown,
Thy royal heritage! With knightly sword
Thy lady's honor and thy realm defend--
And hast thou with hot valor snatched the crown
From streams of hostile blood,--then is the time,
And it would well become thee as a prince,
Love's myrtle chaplet round thy brows to wreathe.
CHARLES (to a PAGE, who enters).
What is the matter?
PAGE.
Senators from Orleans
Entreat an audience, sire.
CHARLES.
Conduct them hither!
[PAGE retires.
Doubtless they succor need; what can I do,
Myself all-succorless!
SCENE III.
The same. Three SENATORS.
CHARLES.
Welcome, my trusty citizens of Orleans!
What tidings bring ye from my faithful town?
Doth she continue with her wonted zeal
Still bravely to withstand the leaguering foe?
SENATOR.
Ah, sire! the city's peril is extreme;
And giant ruin, waxing hour by hour,
Still onward strides. The bulwarks are destroyed--
The foe at each assault advantage gains;
Bare of defenders are the city walls,
For with rash valor forth our soldiers rush,
While few, alas! return to view their homes,
And famine's scourge impendeth o'er the town.
In this extremity the noble Count
Of Rochepierre, commander of the town,
Hath made a compact with the enemy,
According to old custom, to yield up,
On the twelfth day, the city to the foe,
Unless, meanwhile, before the town appear
A host of magnitude to raise the siege.
[DUNOIS manifests the strongest indignation.
CHARLES.
The interval is brief.
SENATOR.
We hither come,
Attended by a hostile retinue,
To implore thee, sire, to pity thy poor town,
And to send succor ere the appointed day,
When, if still unrelieved, she must surrender.
DUNOIS.
And could Saintrailles consent to give his voice
To such a shameful compact?
SENATOR.
Never, sir!
Long as the hero lived, none dared to breathe
A single word of treaty or surrender.
DUNOIS.
He then is dead?
SENATOR.
The noble hero fell,
His monarch's cause defending on our walls.
CHARLES.
What! Saintrailles dead! Oh, in that single man
A host is foundered!
[A Knight enters and speaks apart with DUNOIS,
who starts with surprise.
DUNOIS.
That too!
CHARLES.
Well? What is it?
DUNOIS.
Count Douglass sendeth here. The Scottish troops
Revolt, and threaten to retire at once.
Unless their full arrears are paid to-day.
CHARLES.
Duchatel!
DUCHATEL (shrugs his shoulders).
Sire! I know not what to counsel.
CHARLES.
Pledge, promise all, even unto half my realm.
DUCHATEL.
'Tis vain! They have been fed with hope too often.
CHARLES.
They are the finest troops of all my hosts!
They must not now, not now abandon me!
SENATOR (throwing himself at the KING'S feet).
Oh, king, assist us! Think of our distress!
CHARLES (in despair).
How! Can I summon armies from the earth?
Or grow a cornfield on my open palm?
Rend me in pieces! Pluck my bleeding heart
Forth from my breast, and coin it 'stead of gold!
I've blood for you, but neither gold nor troops.
[He sees SOREL approach, and hastens towards her
with outstretched arms.
SCENE IV.
The same. AGNES SOREL, a casket in her hand.
CHARLES.
My Agnes! Oh, my love! My dearest life!
Thou comest here to snatch me from despair!
Refuge I take within thy loving arms!
Possessing thee I feel that nothing is lost.
SOREL.
My king, beloved!
[looking round with an anxious, inquiring gaze.
Dunois! Say, is it true,
Duchatel?
DUCHATEL.
'Tis, alas!
SOREL.
So great the need?
No treasure left? The soldiers will disband?
DUCHATEL.
Alas! It is too true!
SOREL (giving him the casket).
Here-here is gold,
Here too are jewels! Melt my silver down!
Sell, pledge my castles--on my fair domains
In Provence--treasure raise, turn all to gold,
Appease the troops! No time to be lost!
[She urges him to depart.
CHARLES.
Well now, Dunois! Duchatel! Do ye still
Account me poor, when I possess the crown
Of womankind? She's nobly born as I;
The royal blood of Valois not more pure;
The most exalted throne she would adorn--
Yet she rejects it with disdain, and claims
No other title than to be my love.
No gift more costly will she e'er receive
Than early flower in winter, or rare fruit!
No sacrifice on my part she permits,
Yet sacrificeth all she had to me!
With generous spirit she doth venture all
Her wealth and fortune in my sinking bark.
DUNOIS.
Ay, she is mad indeed, my king, as thou;
She throws her all into a burning house,
And draweth water in the leaky vessel
Of the Danaides. Thee she will not save,
And in thy ruin but involve herself.
SOREL.
Believe him not! Full many a time he hath
Perilled his life for thee, and now, forsooth,
Chafeth because I risk my worthless gold!
How? Have I freely sacrificed to thee
What is esteemed far more than gold and pearls,
And shall I now hold back the gifts of fortune?
Oh, come! Let my example challenge thee
To noble self-denial! Let's at once
Cast off the needless ornaments of life!
Thy courtiers metamorphose into soldiers;
Thy gold transmute to iron; all thou hast,
With resolute daring, venture for thy crown!
Peril and want we will participate!
Let us bestride the war-horse, and expose
Our tender person to the fiery glow
Of the hot sun, take for our canopy
The clouds above, and make the stones our pillow.
The rudest warrior, when he sees his king
Bear hardship and privation like the meanest
Will patiently endure his own hard lot!
CHARLES (laughing).
Ay! now is realized an ancient word
Of prophesy, once uttered by a nun
Of Clairmont, in prophetic mood, who said,
That through a woman's aid I o'er my foes
Should triumph, and achieve my father's crown.
Far off I sought her in the English camp;
I strove to reconcile a mother's heart;
Here stands the heroine--my guide to Rheims!
My Agnes! I shall triumph through thy love!
SOREL.
Thou'lt triumph through the valiant swords of friends.
CHARLES.
And from my foes' dissensions much I hope
For sure intelligence hath reached mine ear,
That 'twixt these English lords and Burgundy
Things do not stand precisely as they did;
Hence to the duke I have despatched La Hire,
To try if he can lead my angry vassal
Back to his ancient loyalty and faith:
Each moment now I look for his return.
DUCHATEL (at the window).
A knight e'en now dismounteth in the court.
CHARLES.
A welcome messenger! We soon shall learn
Whether we're doomed to conquer or to yield.
SCENE V.
The same. LA HIRE.
CHARLES (meeting him).
Hope bringest thou, or not? Be brief, La Hire,
Out with thy tidings! What must we expect?
LA HIRE.
Expect naught, sire, save from thine own good sword.
CHARLES.
The haughty duke will not be reconciled!
Speak! How did he receive my embassy?
LA HIRE.
His first and unconditional demand,
Ere he consent to listen to thine errand,
Is that Duchatel be delivered up,
Whom he doth name the murderer of his sire.
CHARLES.
This base condition we reject with scorn!
LA HIRE.
Then be the league dissolved ere it commence!
CHARLES.
Hast thou thereon, as I commanded thee,
Challenged the duke to meet him in fair fight
On Montereau's bridge, whereon his father fell?
LA HIRE.
Before him on the ground I flung thy glove,
And said: "Thou wouldst forget thy majesty,
And like a knight do battle for thy realm."
He scornfully rejoined "He needed not
To fight for that which he possessed already,
But if thou wert so eager for the fray,
Before the walls of Orleans thou wouldst find him,
Whither he purposed going on the morrow;"
Thereon he laughing turned his back upon me.
CHARLES.
Say, did not justice raise her sacred voice,
Within the precincts of my parliament?
LA HIRE.
The rage of party, sire, hath silenced her.
An edict of the parliament declares
Thee and thy race excluded from the throne.
DUNOIS.
These upstart burghers' haughty insolence!
CHARLES.
Hast thou attempted with my mother aught?
LA HIRE.
With her?
CHARLES.
Ay! How did she demean herself?
LA HIRE (after a few moments' reflection).
I chanced to step within St. Denis' walls
Precisely at the royal coronation.
The crowds were dressed as for a festival;
Triumphal arches rose in every street
Through which the English monarch was to pass.
The way was strewed with flowers, and with huzzas,
As France some brilliant conquest had achieved,
The people thronged around the royal car.
SOREL.
They could huzza--huzza, while trampling thus
Upon a gracious sovereign's loving heart!
LA HIRE.
I saw young Harry Lancaster--the boy--
On good St. Lewis' regal chair enthroned;
On either side his haughty uncles stood,
Bedford and Gloucester, and before him kneeled,
To render homage for his lands, Duke Philip.
CHARLES.
Oh, peer dishonored! Oh, unworthy cousin!
LA HIRE.
The child was timid, and his footing lost
As up the steps he mounted towards the throne.
An evil omen! murmured forth the crowd,
And scornful laughter burst on every side.
Then forward stepped Queen Isabel--thy mother,
And--but it angers me to utter it!
CHARLES.
Say on.
LA HIRE.
Within her arms she clasped the boy,
And herself placed him on thy father's throne.
CHARLES.
Oh, mother! mother!
LA HIRE.
E'en the murderous bands
Of the Burgundians, at this spectacle,
Evinced some tokens of indignant shame.
The queen perceived it, and addressed the crowds,
Exclaiming with loud voice: "Be grateful, Frenchmen,
That I engraft upon a sickly stock
A healthy scion, and redeem you from
The misbegotten son of a mad sire!"
[The KING hides his face; AGNES hastens towards him
and clasps him in her arms; all the bystanders express
aversion and horror.
DUNOIS.
She-wolf of France! Rage-breathing Megara!
CHARLES (after a pause, to the SENATORS).
Yourselves have heard the posture of affairs.
Delay no longer, back return to Orleans,
And bear this message to my faithful town;
I do absolve my subjects from their oath,
Their own best interests let them now consult,
And yield them to the Duke of Burgundy;
'Yclept the Good, he need must prove humane.
DUNOIS.
What say'st thou, sire? Thou wilt abandon Orleans!
SENATOR (kneels down).
My king! Abandon not thy faithful town!
Consign her not to England's harsh control.
She is a precious jewel in the crown,
And none hath more inviolate faith maintained
Towards the kings, thy royal ancestors.
DUNOIS.
Have we been routed? Is it lawful, sire,
To leave the English masters of the field,
Without a single stroke to save the town?
And thinkest thou, with careless breath, forsooth,
Ere blood hath flowed, rashly to give away
The fairest city from the heart of France?
CHARLES.
Blood hath been poured forth freely, and in vain
The hand of heaven is visibly against me;
In every battle is my host o'erthrown,
I am rejected of my parliament,
My capital, my people, hail me foe,
Those of my blood,--my nearest relatives,--
Forsake me and betray--and my own mother
Doth nurture at her breast the hostile brood.
Beyond the Loire we will retire, and yield
To the o'ermastering hand of destiny
Which sideth with the English.
SOREL.
God forbid
That we in weak despair should quit this realm!
This utterance came not from thy heart, my king,
Thy noble heart, which hath been sorely riven
By the fell deed of thy unnatural mother,
Thou'lt be thyself again, right valiantly
Thou'lt battle with thine adverse destiny,
Which doth oppose thee with relentless ire.
CHARLES (lost in gloomy thought).
Is it not true? A dark and ominous doom
Impendeth o'er the heaven-abandoned house
Of Valois--there preside the avenging powers,
To whom a mother's crime unbarred the way.
For thirty years my sire in madness raved;
Already have three elder brothers been
Mowed down by death; 'tis the decree of heaven,
The house of the Sixth Charles is doomed to fall.
SOREL.
In thee 'twill rise with renovated life!
Oh, in thyself have faith!--believe me, king,
Not vainly hath a gracious destiny
Redeemed thee from the ruin of thy house,
And by thy brethren's death exalted thee,
The youngest born, to an unlooked-for throne
Heaven in thy gentle spirit hath prepared
The leech to remedy the thousand ills
By party rage inflicted on the land.
The flames of civil discord thou wilt quench,
And my heart tells me thou'lt establish peace,
And found anew the monarchy of France.
CHARLES.
Not I! The rude and storm-vexed times require
A pilot formed by nature to command.
A peaceful nation I could render happy
A wild, rebellious people not subdue.
I never with the sword could open hearts
Against me closed in hatred's cold reserve.
SOREL.
The people's eye is dimmed, an error blinds them,
But this delusion will not long endure;
The day is not far distant when the love
Deep rooted in the bosom of the French,
Towards their native monarch, will revive,
Together with the ancient jealousy,
Which forms a barrier 'twixt the hostile nations.
The haughty foe precipitates his doom.
Hence, with rash haste abandon not the field,
With dauntless front contest each foot of ground,
As thine own heart defend the town of Orleans!
Let every boat be sunk beneath the wave,
Each bridge be burned, sooner than carry thee
Across the Loire, the boundary of thy realm,
The Stygian flood, o'er which there's no return.
CHARLES.
What could be done I have done. I have offered,
In single fight, to combat for the crown.
I was refused. In vain my people bleed,
In vain my towns are levelled with the dust.
Shall I, like that unnatural mother, see
My child in pieces severed with the sword?
No; I forego my claim, that it may live.
DUNOIS.
How, sire! Is this fit language for a king?
Is a crown thus renounced? Thy meanest subject,
For his opinion's sake, his hate and love,
Sets property and life upon a cast;
When civil war hangs out her bloody flag,
Each private end is drowned in party zeal.
The husbandman forsakes his plough, the wife
Neglects her distaff; children, and old men,
Don the rude garb of war; the citizen
Consigns his town to the devouring flames,
The peasant burns the produce of his fields;
And all to injure or advantage thee,
And to achieve the purpose of his heart.
Men show no mercy, and they wish for none,
When they at honor's call maintain the fight,
Or for their idols or their gods contend.
A truce to such effeminate pity, then,
Which is not suited to a monarch's breast.
Thou didst not heedlessly provoke the war;
As it commenced, so let it spend its fury.
It is the law of destiny that nations
Should for their monarchs immolate themselves.
We Frenchmen recognize this sacred law,
Nor would annul it. Base, indeed, the nation
That for its honor ventures not its all.
CHARLES (to the SENATORS).
You've heard my last resolve; expect no other.
May God protect you! I can do no more.
DUNOIS.
As thou dost turn thy back upon thy realm,
So may the God of battle aye avert
His visage from thee. Thou forsak'st thyself,
So I forsake thee. Not the power combined
Of England and rebellious Burgundy,
Thy own mean spirit hurls thee from the throne.
Born heroes ever were the kings of France;
Thou wert a craven, even from thy birth.
[To the SENATORS.
The king abandons you. But I will throw
Myself into your town--my father's town--
And 'neath its ruins find a soldier's grave.
[He is about to depart. AGNES SOREL detains him.
SOREL (to the KING).
Oh, let him not depart in anger from thee!
Harsh words his lips have uttered, but his heart
Is true as gold. 'Tis he, himself, my king,
Who loves thee, and hath often bled for thee.
Dunois, confess, the heat of noble wrath
Made thee forget thyself; and oh, do thou
Forgive a faithful friend's o'erhasty speech!
Come, let me quickly reconcile your hearts,
Ere anger bursteth forth in quenchless flame.
[DUNOIS looks fixedly at the KING, and appears to await an answer.
CHARLES.
Our way lies over the Loire. Duchatel,
See all our equipage embarked.
DUNOIS (quickly to SOREL).
Farewell.
[He turns quickly round, and goes out. The SENATORS follow.
SOREL (wringing her hands in despair).
Oh, if he goes, we are forsaken quite!
Follow, La Hire! Oh, seek to soften him!
[LA HIRE goes out.
SCENE VI.
CHARLES, SOREL, DUCHATEL.
CHARLES.
Is, then, the sceptre such a peerless treasure?
Is it so hard to loose it from our grasp?
Believe me, 'tis more galling to endure
The domineering rule of these proud vassals.
To be dependent on their will and pleasure
Is, to a noble heart, more bitter far
Than to submit to fate.
[To DUCHATEL, who still lingers.
Duchatel, go,
And do what I commanded.
DUCHATEL (throws himself at the KING'S feet).
Oh, my king!
CHARLES.
No more! Thou'st heard my absolute resolve!
DUCHATEL.
Sire, with the Duke of Burgundy make peace!
'Tis the sole outlet from destruction left!
CHARLES.
Thou giv'st this counsel, and thy blood alone
Can ratify this peace.
DUCHATEL.
Here is my head.
I oft have risked it for thee in the fight,
And with a joyful spirit I, for thee,
Would lay it down upon the block of death.
Conciliate the duke! Deliver me
To the full measure of his wrath, and let
My flowing blood appease the ancient hate.
CHARLES (looks at him for some time in silence, and with deep emotion).
Can it be true? Am I, then, sunk so low,
That even friends, who read my inmost heart,
Point out for my escape the path of shame?
Yes, now I recognize my abject fall.
My honor is no more confided in.
DUCHATEL.
Reflect----
CHARLES.
Be silent, and incense me not!
Had I ten realms, on which to turn my back,
With my friend's life I would not purchase them.
Do what I have commanded. Hence, and see
My equipage embarked.
DUCHATEL.
'Twill speedily
Be done.
[He stands up and retires. AGNES SOREL weeps passionately.
SCENE VII.
The royal palace at Chinon.
CHARLES, AGNES SOREL.
CHARLES (seizing the hand of AGNES).
My Agnes, be not sorrowful!
Beyond the Loire we still shall find a France;
We are departing to a happier land,
Where laughs a milder, an unclouded sky,
And gales more genial blow; we there shall meet
More gentle manners; song abideth there,
And love and life in richer beauty bloom.
SOREL.
Oh, must I contemplate this day of woe!
The king must roam in banishment! the son
Depart, an exile from his father's house,
And turn his back upon his childhood's home!
Oh, pleasant, happy land that we forsake,
Ne'er shall we tread thee joyously again.
SCENE VIII.
LA HIRE returns, CHARLES, SOREL.
SOREL.
You come alone? You do not bring him back?
[Observing him more closely.
La Hire! What news? What does that look announce?
Some new calamity?
LA HIRE.
Calamity
Hath spent itself; sunshine is now returned.
SOREL.
What is it? I implore you.
LA HIRE (to the KING).
Summon back
The delegates from Orleans.
CHARLES.
Why? What is it?
LA HIRE.
Summon them back! Thy fortune is reversed.
A battle has been fought, and thou hast conquered.
SOREL.
Conquered! Oh, heavenly music of that word!
CHARLES.
La Hire! A fabulous report deceives thee;
Conquered! In conquest I believe no more.
LA HIRE.
Still greater wonders thou wilt soon believe.
Here cometh the archbishop. To thine arms
He leadeth back Dunois.
SOREL.
O beauteous flower
Of victory, which doth the heavenly fruits
Of peace and reconcilement bear at once!
SCENE IX.
The same, ARCHBISHOP of RHEIMS, DUNOIS, DUCHATEL,
with RAOUL, a Knight in armor.
ARCHBISHOP (leading DUNOIS to the KING, and joining their hands).
Princes, embrace! Let rage and discord cease,
Since Heaven itself hath for our cause declared.
[DUNOIS embraces the KING.
CHARLES.
Relieve my wonder and perplexity.
What may this solemn earnestness portend?
Whence this unlooked-for change of fortune?
ARCHBISHOP (leads the KNIGHT forward, and presents him to the KING).
Speak!
RAOUL.
We had assembled sixteen regiments
Of Lotharingian troops to join your host;
And Baudricourt, a knight of Vaucouleurs,
Was our commander. Having gained the heights
By Vermanton, we wound our downward way
Into the valley watered by the Yonne.
There, in the plain before us, lay the foe,
And when we turned, arms glittered in our rear.
We saw ourselves surrounded by two hosts,
And could not hope for conquest or for flight.
Then sank the bravest heart, and in despair
We all prepared to lay our weapons down.
The leaders with each other anxiously
Sought counsel and found none; when to our eyes
A spectacle of wonder showed itself.
For suddenly from forth the thickets' depths
A maiden, on her head a polished helm,
Like a war-goddess, issued; terrible
Yet lovely was her aspect, and her hair
In dusky ringlets round her shoulders fell.
A heavenly radiance shone around the height;
When she upraised her voice and thus addressed us:
"Why be dismayed, brave Frenchmen? On the foe!
Were they more numerous than the ocean sands,
God and the holy maiden lead you on"!
Then quickly from the standard-bearer's hand
She snatched the banner, and before our troop
With valiant bearing strode the wondrous maid.
Silent with awe, scarce knowing what we did,
The banner and the maiden we pursue,
And fired with ardor, rush upon the foe,
Who, much amazed, stand motionless and view
The miracle with fixed and wondering gaze.
Then, as if seized by terror sent from God,
They suddenly betake themselves to flight,
And casting arms and armor to the ground,
Disperse in wild disorder o'er the field.
No leader's call, no signal now avails;
Senseless from terror, without looking back,
Horses and men plunge headlong in the stream,
Where they without resistance are despatched.
It was a slaughter rather than a fight!
Two thousand of the foe bestrewed the field,
Not reckoning numbers swallowed by the flood,
While of our company not one was slain.
CHARLES.
'Tis strange, by heaven! most wonderful and strange!
SOREL.
A maiden worked this miracle, you say?
Whence did she come? Who is she?
RAOUL.
Who she is
She will reveal to no one but the king!
She calls herself a seer and prophetess
Ordained by God, and promises to raise
The siege of Orleans ere the moon shall change.
The people credit her, and thirst for war.
The host she follows--she'll be here anon.
[The ringing of bells is heard, together with the clang of arms.
Hark to the din! The pealing of the bells!
'Tis she! The people greet God's messenger.
CHARLES (to DUCHATEL).
Conduct her thither.
[To the ARCHBISHOP.
What should I believe?
A maiden brings me conquest even now,
When naught can save me but a hand divine!
This is not in the common course of things.
And dare I here believe a miracle?
MANY VOICES (behind the scene).
Hail to the maiden!--the deliverer!
CHARLES.
She comes! Dunois, now occupy my place!
We will make trial of this wondrous maid.
Is she indeed inspired and sent by God
She will be able to discern the king.
[DUNOIS seats himself; the KING stands at his right hand,
AGNES SOREL near him; the ARCHBISHOP and the others opposite;
so that the intermediate space remains vacant.
SCENE X.
The same. JOHANNA, accompanied by the councillors and many knights,
who occupy the background of the scene; she advances with noble
bearing, and slowly surveys the company.
DUNOIS (after a long and solemn pause).
Art thou the wondrous maiden----
JOHANNA (interrupts him, regarding him with dignity).
Bastard of Orleans, thou wilt tempt thy God!
This place abandon, which becomes thee not!
To this more mighty one the maid is sent.
[With a firm step she approaches the KING, bows one
knee before him, and, rising immediately, steps back.
All present express their astonishment, DUNOIS forsakes
his seat, which is occupied by the KING.
CHARLES.
Maiden, thou ne'er hast seen my face before.
Whence hast thou then this knowledge?
JOHANNA.
Thee I saw
When none beside, save God in heaven, beheld thee.
[She approaches the KING, and speaks mysteriously.
Bethink thee, Dauphin, in the bygone night,
When all around lay buried in deep sleep,
Thou from thy couch didst rise and offer up
An earnest prayer to God. Let these retire
And I will name the subject of thy prayer.
CHARLES.
What! to Heaven confided need not be
From men concealed. Disclose to me my prayer,
And I shall doubt no more that God inspires thee.
JOHANNA.
Three prayers thou offeredst, Dauphin; listen now
Whether I name them to thee! Thou didst pray
That if there were appended to this crown
Unjust possession, or if heavy guilt,
Not yet atoned for, from thy father's times,
Occasioned this most lamentable war,
God would accept thee as a sacrifice,
Have mercy on thy people, and pour forth
Upon thy head the chalice of his wrath.
CHARLES (steps back with awe).
Who art thou, mighty one? Whence comest thou?
[All express their astonishment.
JOHANNA.
To God thou offeredst this second prayer:
That if it were his will and high decree
To take away the sceptre from thy race,
And from thee to withdraw whate'er thy sires,
The monarchs of this kingdom, once possessed,
He in his mercy would preserve to thee
Three priceless treasures--a contented heart,
Thy friend's affection, and thine Agnes' love.
[The KING conceals his face: the spectators
express their astonishment. After a pause.
Thy third petition shall I name to thee?
CHARLES.
Enough; I credit thee! This doth surpass
Mere human knowledge: thou art sent by God!
ARCHBISHOP.
Who art thou, wonderful and holy maid?
What favored region bore thee? What blest pair,
Beloved of Heaven, may claim thee as their child?
JOHANNA.
Most reverend father, I am named Johanna,
I am a shepherd's lowly daughter, born
In Dom Remi, a village of my king.
Included in the diocese of Toul,
And from a child I kept my father's sheep.
And much and frequently I heard them tell
Of the strange islanders, who o'er the sea
Had come to make us slaves, and on us force
A foreign lord, who loveth not the people;
How the great city, Paris, they had seized,
And had usurped dominion o'er the realm.
Then earnestly God's Mother I implored
To save us from the shame of foreign chains,
And to preserve to us our lawful king.
Not distant from my native village stands
An ancient image of the Virgin blest,
To which the pious pilgrims oft repaired;
Hard by a holy oak, of blessed power,
Standeth, far-famed through wonders manifold.
Beneath the oak's broad shade I loved to sit
Tending my flock--my heart still drew me there.
And if by chance among the desert hills
A lambkin strayed, 'twas shown me in a dream,
When in the shadow of this oak I slept.
And once, when through the night beneath this tree
In pious adoration I had sat,
Resisting sleep, the Holy One appeared,
Bearing a sword and banner, otherwise
Clad like a shepherdess, and thus she spake:
"'Tis I; arise, Johanna! leave thy flock,
The Lord appoints thee to another task!
Receive this banner! Gird thee with this sword!
Therewith exterminate my people's foes;
Conduct to Rheims thy royal master's son,
And crown him with the kingly diadem!"
And I made answer: "How may I presume
To undertake such deeds, a tender maid,
Unpractised in the dreadful art of war!"
And she replied: "A maiden pure and chaste
Achieves whate'er on earth is glorious
If she to earthly love ne'er yields her heart.
Look upon me! a virgin, like thyself;
I to the Christ, the Lord divine, gave birth,
And am myself divine!" Mine eyelids then
She touched, and when I upward turned my amaze,
Heaven's wide expanse was filled with angel-boys,
Who bore white lilies in their hands, while tones
Of sweetest music floated through the air.
And thus on three successive nights appeared
The Holy One, and cried,--"Arise, Johanna!
The Lord appoints thee to another task!"
And when the third night she revealed herself,
Wrathful she seemed, and chiding spake these words:
"Obedience, woman's duty here on earth;
Severe endurance is her heavy doom;
She must be purified through discipline;
Who serveth here, is glorified above!"
While thus she spake, she let her shepherd garb
Fail from her, and as Queen of Heaven stood forth
Enshrined in radiant light, while golden clouds
Upbore her slowly to the realms of bliss.
[All are moved; AGNES SOREL weeping, hides her face
on the bosom of the KING.
ARCHBISHOP (after a long pause).
Before divine credentials such as these
Each doubt of earthly prudence must subside,
Her deeds attest the truth of what she speaks,
For God alone such wonders can achieve.
DUNOIS.
I credit not her wonders, but her eyes
Which beam with innocence and purity.
CHARLES.
Am I, a sinner, worthy of such favor?
Infallible, All-searching eye, thou seest
Mine inmost heart, my deep humility!
JOHANNA.
Humility shines brightly in the skies;
Thou art abased, hence God exalteth thee.
CHARLES.
Shall I indeed withstand mine enemies?
JOHANNA.
France I will lay submissive at thy feet!
CHARLES.
And Orleans, say'st thou, will not be surrendered?
JOHANNA.
The Loire shall sooner roll its waters back.
CHARLES.
Shall I in triumph enter into Rheims?
JOHANNA.
I through ten thousand foes will lead you there.
[The knights make a noise with their lances and shields,
and evince signs of courage.
DUNOIS.
Appoint the maiden to command the host!
We follow blindly whereso'er she leads!
The Holy One's prophetic eye shall guide,
And this brave sword from danger shall protect her!
LA HIRE.
A universe in arms we will not fear,
If she, the mighty one, precede our troops.
The God of battle walketh by her side;
Let her conduct us on to victory!
[The knights clang their arms and step forward.
CHARLES.
Yes, holy maiden, do thou lead mine host;
My chiefs and warriors shall submit to thee.
This sword of matchless temper, proved in war,
Sent back in anger by the Constable,
Hath found a hand more worthy. Prophetess,
Do thou receive it, and henceforward be----
JOHANNA.
No, noble Dauphin! conquest to my liege
Is not accorded through this instrument
Of earthly might. I know another sword
Wherewith I am to conquer, which to thee,
I, as the Spirit taught, will indicate;
Let it be hither brought.
CHARLES.
Name it, Johanna.
JOHANNA.
Send to the ancient town of Fierbois;
There in Saint Catherine's churchyard is a vault
Where lie in heaps the spoils of bygone war.
Among them is the sword which I must use.
It by three golden lilies may be known,
Upon the blade impressed. Let it be brought
For thou, my liege, shalt conquer through this sword.
CHARLES.
Perform what she commands.
JOHANNA.
And a white banner,
Edged with a purple border, let me bear.
Upon this banner let the Queen of Heaven
Be pictured with the beauteous Jesus child
Floating in glory o'er this earthly ball.
For so the Holy Mother showed it me.
CHARLES.
So be it as thou sayest.
JOHANNA (to the ARCHBISHOP).
Reverend bishop;
Lay on my head thy consecrated hands!
Pronounce a blessing, Father, on thy child!
[She kneels down.
ARCHBISHOP.
Not blessings to receive, but to dispense
Art thou appointed. Go, with power divine!
But we are sinners all and most unworthy.
[She rises: a PAGE enters.
PAGE.
A herald from the English generals.
JOHANNA.
Let him appear, for he is sent by God!
[The KING motions to the PAGE, who retires.
SCENE XI.
The HERALD. The same.
CHARLES.
Thy tidings, herald? What thy message! Speak!
HERALD.
Who is it, who for Charles of Valois,
The Count of Pointhieu, in this presence speaks?
DUNOIS.
Unworthy herald! base, insulting knave!
Dost thou presume the monarch of the French
Thus in his own dominions to deny?
Thou art protected by thine office, else----
HERALD.
One king alone is recognized by France,
And he resideth in the English camp.
CHARLES.
Peace, peace, good cousin! Speak thy message, herald!
HERALD.
My noble general laments the blood
Which hath already flowed, and still must flow.
Hence, in the scabbard holding back the sword,
Before by storm the town of Orleans falls,
He offers thee an amicable treaty.
CHARLES.
Proceed!
JOHANNA (stepping forward).
Permit me, Dauphin, in thy stead,
To parley with this herald.
CHARLES.
Do so, maid!
Determine thou, for peace, or bloody war.
JOHANNA (to the HERALD).
Who sendeth thee? Who speaketh through thy mouth?
HERALD.
The Earl of Salisbury; the British chief.
JOHANNA.
Herald, 'tis false! The earl speaks not through thee.
Only the living speak, the dead are silent.
HERALD.
The earl is well, and full of lusty strength;
He lives to bring down ruin on your heads.
JOHANNA.
When thou didst quit the British army he lived.
This morn, while gazing from Le Tournelle's tower,
A ball from Orleans struck him to the ground.
Smilest thou that I discern what is remote?
Not to my words give credence; but believe
The witness of thine eyes! his funeral train
Thou shalt encounter as you goest hence!
Now, herald, speak, and do thine errand here.
HERALD.
If what is hidden thou canst thus reveal,
Thou knowest mine errand ere I tell it thee.
JOHANNA.
It boots me not to know it. But do thou
Give ear unto my words! This message bear
In answer to the lords who sent thee here.
Monarch of England, and ye haughty dukes,
Bedford and Gloucester, regents of this realm!
To heaven's high King you are accountable
For all the blood that hath been shed. Restore
The keys of all the cities ta'en by force
In opposition to God's holy law!
The maiden cometh from the King of Heaven
And offers you or peace or bloody war.
Choose ye! for this I say, that you may know it:
To you this beauteous realm is not assigned
By Mary's son;--but God hath given it
To Charles, my lord and Dauphin, who ere long
Will enter Paris with a monarch's pomp,
Attended by the great ones of his realm.
Now, herald, go, and speedily depart,
For ere thou canst attain the British camp
And do thine errand, is the maiden there,
To plant the sign of victory at Orleans.
[She retires. In the midst of a general movement,
the curtain falls.
ACT II.
Landscape, bounded by rocks.
SCENE I.
TALBOT and LIONEL, English generals, PHILIP, DUKE OF BURGUNDY,
FASTOLFE, and CHATILLON, with soldiers and banners.
TALBOT.
Here let us make a halt beneath these rocks,
And pitch our camp, in case our scattered troops,
Dispersed in panic fear, again should rally.
Choose trusty sentinels, and guard the heights!
'Tis true the darkness shields us from pursuit,
And sure I am, unless the foe have wings,
We need not fear surprisal. Still 'tis well
To practice caution, for we have to do
With a bold foe, and have sustained defeat.
[FASTOLFE goes out with the soldiers.
LIONEL.
Defeat! My general, do not speak that word.
It stings me to the quick to think the French
To-day have seen the backs of Englishmen.
Oh, Orleans! Orleans! Grave of England's glory!
Our honor lies upon thy fatal plains
Defeat most ignominious and burlesque!
Who will in future years believe the tale!
The victors of Poictiers and Agincourt,
Cressy's bold heroes, routed by a woman?
BURGUNDY.
That must console us. Not by mortal power,
But by the devil have we been o'erthrown!
TALBOT.
The devil of our own stupidity!
How, Burgundy? Do princes quake and fear
Before the phantom which appals the vulgar?
Credulity is but a sorry cloak
For cowardice. Your people first took flight.
BURGUNDY.
None stood their ground. The flight was general.
TALBOT.
'Tis false! Your wing fled first. You wildly broke
Into our camp, exclaiming: "Hell is loose,
The devil combats on the side of France!"
And thus you brought confusion 'mong our troops.
LIONEL.
You can't deny it. Your wing yielded first.
BURGUNDY.
Because the brunt of battle there commenced.
TALBOT.
The maiden knew the weakness of our camp;
She rightly judged where fear was to be found.
BURGUNDY.
How? Shall the blame of our disaster rest
With Burgundy?
LIONEL.
By heaven! were we alone,
We English, never had we Orleans lost!
BURGUNDY.
No, truly! for ye ne'er had Orleans seen!
Who opened you a way into this realm,
And reached you forth a kind and friendly hand
When you descended on this hostile coast?
Who was it crowned your Henry at Paris,
And unto him subdued the people's hearts?
Had this Burgundian arm not guided you
Into this realm, by heaven you ne'er had seen
The smoke ascending from a single hearth!
LIONEL.
Were conquests with big words effected, duke,
You, doubtless, would have conquered France alone.
BURGUNDY.
The loss of Orleans angers you, and now
You vent your gall on me, your friend and ally.
What lost us Orleans but your avarice?
The city was prepared to yield to me,
Your envy was the sole impediment.
TALBOT.
We did not undertake the siege for you.
BURGUNDY.
How would it stand with you if I withdrew
With all my host?
LIONEL.
We should not be worse off
Than when, at Agincourt, we proved a match
For you and all the banded power of France.
BURGUNDY.
Yet much you stood in need of our alliance;
The regent purchased it at heavy cost.
TALBOT.
Most dearly, with the forfeit of our honor,
At Orleans have we paid for it to-day.
BURGUNDY.
Urge me no further, lords. Ye may repent it!
Did I forsake the banners of my king,
Draw down upon my head the traitor's name,
To be insulted thus by foreigners?
Why am I here to combat against France?
If I must needs endure ingratitude,
Let it come rather from my native king!
TALBOT.
You're in communication with the Dauphin,
We know it well, but we soon shall find means
To guard ourselves 'gainst treason.
BURGUNDY.
Death and hell!
Am I encountered thus? Chatillon, hark!
Let all my troops prepare to quit the camp.
We will retire into our own domain.
[CHATILLON goes out.
LIONEL.
God speed you there! Never did Britain's fame
More brightly shine than when she stood alone,
Confiding solely in her own good sword.
Let each one fight his battle for himself,
For 'tis eternal truth that English blood
Cannot, with honor, blend with blood of France.
SCENE II.
The same. QUEEN ISABEL, attended by a PAGE.
ISABEL.
What must I hear? This fatal strife forbear!
What brain-bewildering planet o'er your minds
Sheds dire perplexity? When unity
Alone can save you, will you part in hate,
And, warring 'mong yourselves, prepare your doom?--
I do entreat you, noble duke, recall
Your hasty order. You, renowned Talbot,
Seek to appease an irritated friend!
Come, Lionel, aid me to reconcile
These haughty spirits and establish peace.
LIONEL.
Not I, madame. It is all one to me.
'Tis my belief, when things are misallied,
The sooner they part company the better.
ISABEL.
How? Do the arts of hell, which on the field
Wrought such disastrous ruin, even here
Bewilder and befool us? Who began
This fatal quarrel? Speak! Lord-general!
Your own advantage did you so forget,
As to offend your worthy friend and ally?
What could you do without his powerful arm?
'Twas he who placed your monarch on the throne,
He holds him there, and he can hurl him thence;
His army strengthens you--still more his name.
Were England all her citizens to pour
Upon our coasts, she never o'er this realm
Would gain dominion did she stand alone;
No! France can only be subdued by France!
TALBOT.
A faithful friend we honor as we ought;
Discretion warns us to beware the false.
BURGUNDY.
The liar's brazen front beseemeth him
Who would absolve himself from gratitude.
ISABEL.
How, noble duke? Could you so far renounce
Your princely honor, and your sense of shame,
As clasp the hand of him who slew your sire?
Are you so mad to entertain the thought
Of cordial reconcilement with the Dauphin,
Whom you yourself have hurled to ruin's brink?
His overthrow you have well nigh achieved,
And madly now would you renounce your work?
Here stand your allies. Your salvation lies
In an indissoluble bond with England?
BURGUNDY.
Far is my thought from treaty with the Dauphin;
But the contempt and insolent demeanor
Of haughty England I will not endure.
ISABEL.
Come, noble duke? Excuse a hasty word.
Heavy the grief which bows the general down,
And well you know misfortune makes unjust.
Come! come! embrace; let me this fatal breach
Repair at once, ere it becomes eternal.
TALBOT.
What think you, Burgundy? A noble heart,
By reason vanquished, doth confess its fault.
A wise and prudent word the queen hath spoken;
Come, let my hand with friendly pressure heal
The wound inflicted by my angry tongue.
BURGUNDY.
Discreet the counsel offered by the queen!
My just wrath yieldeth to necessity.
ISABEL.
'Tis well! Now, with a brotherly embrace
Confirm and seal the new-established bond;
And may the winds disperse what hath been spoken.
[BURGUNDY and TALBOT embrace.
LIONEL (contemplating the group aside).
Hail to an union by the furies planned!
ISABEL.
Fate hath proved adverse, we have lost a battle,
But do not, therefore, let your courage sink.
The Dauphin, in despair of heavenly aid,
Doth make alliance with the powers of hell;
Vainly his soul he forfeits to the devil,
For hell itself cannot deliver him.
A conquering maiden leads the hostile force;
Yours, I myself will lead; to you I'll stand
In place of maiden or of prophetess.
LIONEL.
Madame, return to Paris! We desire
To war with trusty weapons, not with women.
TALBOT.
GO! go! Since your arrival in the camp,
Fortune hath fled our banners, and our course
Hath still been retrograde. Depart at once!
BURGUNDY.
Your presence here doth scandalize the host.
ISABEL (looks from one to the other with astonishment).
This, Burgundy, from you? Do you take part
Against me with these thankless English lords?
BURGUNDY.
Go! go! The thought of combating for you
Unnerves the courage of the bravest men.
ISABEL.
I scarce among you have established peace,
And you already form a league against me!
TALBOT.
Go, in God's name. When you have left the camp
No devil will again appal our troops.
ISABEL.
Say, am I not your true confederate?
Are we not banded in a common cause?
TALBOT.
Thank God! your cause of quarrel is not ours.
We combat in an honorable strife.
BURGUNDY.
A father's bloody murder I avenge.
Stern filial duty consecrates my arms.
TALBOT.
Confess at once. Your conduct towards the Dauphin
Is an offence alike to God and man.
ISABEL.
Curses blast him and his posterity!
The shameless son who sins against his mother!
BURGUNDY.
Ay! to avenge a husband and a father!
ISABEL.
To judge his mother's conduct he presumed!
LIONEL.
That was, indeed, irreverent in a son!
ISABEL.
And me, forsooth, he banished from the realm.
TALBOT.
Urged to the measure by the public voice.
ISABEL.
A curse light on him if I e'er forgive him!
Rather than see him on his father's throne----
TALBOT.
His mother's honor you would sacrifice!
ISABEL.
Your feeble natures cannot comprehend
The vengeance of an outraged mother's heart.
Who pleasures me, I love; who wrongs, I hate.
If he who wrongs me chance to be my son,
All the more worthy is he of my hate.
The life I gave I will again take back
From him who doth, with ruthless violence,
The bosom rend which bore and nourished him.
Ye, who do thus make war upon the Dauphin,
What rightful cause have ye to plunder him?
What crime hath he committed against you?
What insult are you called on to avenge?
Ambition, paltry envy, goad you on;
I have a right to hate him--he's my son.
TALBOT.
He feels his mother in her dire revenge!
ISABEL.
Mean hypocrites! I hate you and despise.
Together with the world, you cheat yourselves!
With robber-hands you English seek to clutch
This realm of France, where you have no just right,
Nor equitable claim, to so much earth
As could be covered by your charger's hoof.
--This duke, too, whom the people style the Good,
Doth to a foreign lord, his country's foe,
For gold betray the birthland of his sires.
And yet is justice ever on your tongue.
--Hypocrisy I scorn. Such as I am,
So let the world behold me!
BURGUNDY.
It is true!
Your reputation you have well maintained.
ISABEL.
I've passions and warm blood, and as a queen
Came to this realm to live, and not to seem.
Should I have lingered out a joyless life
Because the curse of adverse destiny
To a mad consort joined my blooming youth?
More than my life I prize my liberty.
And who assails me here----But why should I
Stoop to dispute with you about my rights?
Your sluggish blood flows slowly in your veins!
Strangers to pleasure, ye know only rage!
This duke, too--who, throughout his whole career,
Hath wavered to and fro, 'twixt good and ill--
Can neither love or hate with his whole heart.
--I go to Melun. Let this gentleman,
[Pointing to LIONEL.
Who doth my fancy please, attend me there,
To cheer my solitude, and you may work
Your own good pleasure! I'll inquire no more
Concerning the Burgundians or the English.
[She beckons to her PAGE, and is about to retire.
LIONEL.
Rely upon us, we will send to Melun
The fairest youths whom we in battle take.
[Coming back.
ISABEL.
Skilful your arm to wield the sword of death,
The French alone can round the polished phrase.
[She goes out.
SCENE III.
TALBOT, BURGUNDY, LIONEL.
TALBOT.
Heavens! What a woman!
LIONEL.
Now, brave generals,
Your counsel! Shall we prosecute our flight,
Or turn, and with a bold and sudden stroke
Wipe out the foul dishonor of to-day?
BURGUNDY.
We are too weak, our soldiers are dispersed,
The recent terror still unnerves the host.
TALBOT.
Blind terror, sudden impulse of a moment,
Alone occasioned our disastrous rout.
This phantom of the terror-stricken brain,
More closely viewed will vanish into air.
My counsel, therefore, is, at break of day,
To lead the army back, across the stream,
To meet the enemy.
BURGUNDY.
Consider well----
LIONEL.
Your pardon! Here is nothing to consider
What we have lost we must at once retrieve,
Or look to be eternally disgraced.
TALBOT.
It is resolved. To-morrow morn we fight,
This dread-inspiring phantom to destroy,
Which thus doth blind and terrify the host
Let us in fight encounter this she-devil.
If she oppose her person to our sword,
Trust me, she never will molest us more;
If she avoid our stroke--and be assured
She will not stand the hazard of a battle--
Then is the dire enchantment at an end?
LIONEL.
So be it! And to me, my general. leave
This easy, bloodless combat, for I hope
Alive to take this ghost, and in my arms,
Before the Bastard's eyes--her paramour--
To bear her over to the English camp,
To be the sport and mockery of the host.
BURGUNDY.
Make not too sure.
TALBOT.
If she encounter me,
I shall not give her such a soft embrace.
Come now, exhausted nature to restore
Through gentle sleep. At daybreak we set forth.
[They go out.
SCENE IV.
JOHANNA with her banner, in a helmet and breastplate,
otherwise attired as a woman. DUNOIS, LA HIRE, knights
and soldiers appear above upon the rocky path, pass
silently over, and appear immediately after on the scene.
JOHANNA (to the knights who surround her while the
procession continues above).
The wall is scaled and we are in the camp!
Now fling aside the mantle of still night,
Which hitherto hath veiled your silent march,
And your dread presence to the foe proclaim.
By your loud battle-cry--God and the maiden!
ALL (exclaim aloud, amidst the loud clang of arms).
God and the maiden!
[Drums and trumpets.
SENTINELS (behind the scene).
The foe! The foe! The foe!
JOHANNA.
Ho! torches here. Hurl fire into the tents!
Let the devouring flames augment the horror,
While threatening death doth compass them around!
[Soldiers hasten on, she is about to follow.
DUNOIS (holding her back).
Thy part thou hast accomplished now, Johanna!
Into the camp thou hast conducted us,
The foe thou hast delivered in our hands,
Now from the rush of war remain apart!
The bloody consummation leave to us.
LA HIRE.
Point out the path of conquest to the host;
Before us, in pure hand, the banner bear.
But wield the fatal weapon not thyself;
Tempt not the treacherous god of battle, for
He rageth blindly, and he spareth not.
JOHANNA.
Who dares impede my progress? Who presume
The spirit to control which guideth me?
Still must the arrow wing its destined flight!
Where danger is, there must Johanna be;
Nor now, nor here, am I foredoomed to fall;
Our monarch's royal brow I first must see
Invested with the round of sovereignty.
No hostile power can rob me of my life,
Till I've accomplished the commands of God.
[She goes out.
LA HIRE.
Come, let us follow after her, Dunois,
And let our valiant bosoms be her shield!
[Exit.
SCENE V.
ENGLISH SOLDIERS hurry over the stage.
Afterwards TALBOT.
1 SOLDIER.
The maiden in the camp!
2 SOLDIER.
Impossible!
It cannot be! How came she in the camp?
3 SOLDIER.
Why, through the air! The devil aided her!
4 AND 5 SOLDIERS.
Fly! fly! We are dead men!
TALBOT (enters).
They heed me not! They stay not at my call!
The sacred bands of discipline are loosed!
As hell had poured her damned legions forth,
A wild, distracting impulse whirls along,
In one mad throng, the cowardly and brave.
I cannot rally e'en the smallest troop
To form a bulwark gainst the hostile flood,
Whose raging billows press into our camp!
Do I alone retain my sober senses,
While all around in wild delirium rave?
To fly before these weak, degenerate Frenchmen
Whom we in twenty battles have overthrown?
Who is she then--the irresistible--
The dread-inspiring goddess, who doth turn
At once the tide of battle, and transform
The lions bold a herd of timid deer?
A juggling minx, who plays the well-learned part
Of heroine, thus to appal the brave?
A woman snatch from me all martial fame?
SOLDIER (rushing in).
The maiden comes! Fly, general, fly! fly!
TALBOT (strikes him down).
Fly thou, thyself, to hell! This sword shall pierce
Who talks to me of fear, or coward flight!
[He goes out.
SCENE VI.
The prospect opens. The English camp is seen in flames.
Drums, flight, and pursuit. After a while MONTGOMERY enters.
MONTGOMERY (alone).
Where shall I flee? Foes all around and death! Lo! here
The furious general, who with threatening sword, prevents
Escape, and drives us back into the jaws of death.
The dreadful maiden there--the terrible--who like
Devouring flame, destruction spreads; while all around
Appears no bush wherein to hide--no sheltering cave!
Oh, would that o'er the sea I never had come here!
Me miserable--empty dreams deluded me--
Cheap glory to achieve on Gallia's martial fields.
And I am guided by malignant destiny
Into this murderous flight. Oh, were I far, far hence.
Still in my peaceful home, on Severn's flowery banks,
Where in my father's house, in sorrow and in tears,
I left my mother and my fair young bride.
[JOHANNA appears in the distance.
Wo's me! What do I see! The dreadful form appears!
Arrayed in lurid light, she from the raging fire
Issues, as from the jaws of hell, a midnight ghost.
Where shall I go? where flee? Already from afar
She seizes on me with her eye of fire, and flings
Her fatal and unerring coil, whose magic folds
With ever-tightening pressure, bind my feet and make
Escape impossible! Howe'er my heart rebels,
I am compelled to follow with my gaze that form
Of dread!
[JOHANNA advances towards him some steps;
and again remains standing.
She comes! I will not passively await
Her furious onset! Imploringly I'll clasp
Her knees! I'll sue to her for life. She is a woman.
I may perchance to pity move her by my tears!
[While he is on the point of approaching her she draws near.
SCENE VII.
JOHANNA, MONTGOMERY.
JOHANNA.
Prepare to die! A British mother bore thee!
MONTGOMERY (falls at her feet).
Fall back, terrific one! Forbear to strike
An unprotected foe! My sword and shield
I've flung aside, and supplicating fall
Defenceless at thy feet. A ransom take!
Extinguish not the precious light of life!
With fair possessions crowned, my father dwells
In Wales' fair land, where among verdant meads
The winding Severn rolls his silver tide,
And fifty villages confess his sway.
With heavy gold he will redeem his son,
When he shall hear I'm in the camp of France.
JHANNA.
Deluded mortal! to destruction doomed!
Thou'rt fallen in the maiden's hand, from which
Redemption or deliverance there is none.
Had adverse fortune given thee a prey
To the fierce tiger or the crocodile--
Hadst robbed the lion mother of her brood--
Compassion thou might'st hope to find and pity;
But to encounter me is certain death.
For my dread compact with the spirit realm--
The stern inviolable--bindeth me,
To slay each living thing whom battle's God,
Full charged with doom, delivers to my sword.
MONTGOMERY.
Thy speech is fearful, but thy look is mild;
Not dreadful art thou to contemplate near;
My heart is drawn towards thy lovely form.
Oh! by the mildness of thy gentle sex,
Attend my prayer. Compassionate my youth.
JOHANNA.
Name me not woman! Speak not of my sex!
Like to the bodiless spirits, who know naught
Of earth's humanities, I own no sex;
Beneath this vest of steel there beats no heart.
MONTGOMERY.
Oh! by love's sacred, all-pervading power,
To whom all hearts yield homage, I conjure thee.
At home I left behind a gentle bride,
Beauteous as thou, and rich in blooming grace:
Weeping she waiteth her betrothed's return.
Oh! if thyself dost ever hope to love,
If in thy love thou hopest to be happy,
Then ruthless sever not two gentle hearts,
Together linked in love's most holy bond!
JOHANNA.
Thou dost appeal to earthly, unknown gods,
To whom I yield no homage. Of love's bond,
By which thou dost conjure me, I know naught
Nor ever will I know his empty service.
Defend thy life, for death doth summon thee.
MONTGOMERY.
Take pity on my sorrowing parents, whom
I left at home. Doubtless thou, too, hast left
Parents, who feel disquietude for thee.
JOHANNA.
Unhappy man! thou dost remember me
How many mothers of this land your arms
Have rendered childless and disconsolate;
How many gentle children fatherless;
How many fair young brides dejected widows!
Let England's mothers now be taught despair,
And learn to weep the bitter tear oft shed
By the bereaved and sorrowing wives of France.
MONTGOMERY.
'Tis hard in foreign lands to die unwept.
JOHANNA.
Who called you over to this foreign land,
To waste the blooming culture of our fields,
To chase the peasant from his household hearth,
And in our cities' peaceful sanctuary
To hurl the direful thunderbolt of war?
In the delusion of your hearts ye thought
To plunge in servitude the freeborn French,
And to attach their fair and goodly realm,
Like a small boat, to your proud English bark!
Ye fools! The royal arms of France are hung
Fast by the throne of God; and ye as soon
From the bright wain of heaven might snatch a star
As rend a single village from this realm,
Which shall remain inviolate forever!
The day of vengeance is at length arrived;
Not living shall ye measure back the sea,
The sacred sea--the boundary set by God
Betwixt our hostile nations--and the which
Ye ventured impiously to overpass.
MONTGOMERY (lets go her hands).
Oh, I must die! I feel the grasp of death!
JOHANNA.
Die, friend! Why tremble at the approach of death?
Of mortals the irrevocable doom?
Look upon me! I'm born a shepherd maid;
This hand, accustomed to the peaceful crook,
Is all unused to wield the sword of death.
Yet, snatched away from childhood's peaceful haunts,
From the fond love of father and of sisters,
Urged by no idle dream of earthly glory,
But heaven-appointed to achieve your ruin,
Like a destroying angel I must roam,
Spreading dire havoc around me, and at length
Myself must fall a sacrifice to death!
Never again shall I behold my home!
Still, many of your people I must slay,
Still, many widows make, but I at length
Myself shall perish, and fulfil my doom.
Now thine fulfil. Arise! resume thy sword,
And let us fight for the sweet prize of life.
MONTGOMERY (stands up).
Now, if thou art a mortal like myself,
Can weapons wound thee, it may be assigned
To this good arm to end my country's woe,
Thee sending, sorceress, to the depths of hell.
In God's most gracious hands I leave my fate.
Accursed one! to thine assistance call
The fiends of hell! Now combat for thy life!
[He seizes his sword and shield, and rushes upon her;
martial music is heard in the distance. After a short
conflict MONTGOMERY falls.
SCENE VIII.
JOHANNA (alone).
To death thy foot did bear thee--fare thee well!
[She steps away from him and remains absorbed in thought.
Virgin, thou workest mightily in me!
My feeble arm thou dost endue with strength,
And steep'st my woman's heart in cruelty.
In pity melts the soul and the hand trembles,
As it did violate some sacred fane,
To mar the goodly person of the foe.
Once I did shudder at the polished sheath,
But when 'tis needed, I'm possessed with strength,
And as it were itself a thing of life,
The fatal weapon, in my trembling grasp,
Self-swayed, inflicteth the unerring stroke.
SCENE IX.
A KNIGHT with closed visor, JOHANNA.
KNIGHT.
Accursed one! thy hour of death has come!
Long have I sought thee on the battle-field,
Fatal delusion! get thee back to hell,
Whence thou didst issue forth.
JOHANNA.
Say, who art thou,
Whom his bad genius sendeth in my way?
Princely thy port, no Briton dost thou seem,
For the Burgundian colors stripe thy shield,
Before the which my sword inclines its point.
KNIGHT.
Vile castaway! Thou all unworthy art
To fall beneath a prince's noble hand.
The hangman's axe should thy accursed head
Cleave from thy trunk, unfit for such vile use
The royal Duke of Burgundy's brave sword.
JOHANNA.
Art thou indeed that noble duke himself?
KNIGHT (raises his visor).
I'm he, vile creature, tremble and despair!
The arts of hell shall not protect thee more.
Thou hast till now weak dastards overcome;
Now thou dost meet a man.
SCENE X.
DUNOIS and LA HIRE. The same.
DUNOIS.
Hold, Burgundy!
Turn! combat now with men, and not with maids.
LA HIRE.
We will defend the holy prophetess;
First must thy weapon penetrate this breast.
BURGUNDY.
I fear not this seducing Circe; no,
Nor you, whom she hath changed so shamefully!
Oh, blush, Dunois! and do thou blush, La Hire
To stoop thy valor to these hellish arts--
To be shield-bearer to a sorceress!
Come one--come all! He only who despairs
Of heaven's protection seeks the aid of hell.
[They prepare for combat, JOHANNA steps between.
JOHANNA.
Forbear!
BURGUNDY.
Dost tremble for thy lover? Thus
Before thine eyes he shall----
[He makes a thrust at DUNOIS.
JOHANNA.
Dunois, forbear!
Part them, La Hire! no blood of France must flow:
Not hostile weapons must this strife decide,
Above the stars 'tis otherwise decreed.
Fall back! I say. Attend and venerate
The Spirit which hath seized, which speaks through me!
DUNOIS.
Why, maiden, now hold back my upraised arm?
Why check the just decision of the sword?
My weapon pants to deal the fatal blow
Which shall avenge and heal the woes of France.
[She places herself in the midst and separates the parties.
JOHANNA.
Fall back, Dunois! Stand where thou art, La Hire!
Somewhat I have to say to Burgundy.
[When all is quiet.
What wouldst thou, Burgundy? Who is the foe
Whom eagerly thy murderous glances seek?
This prince is, like thyself, a son of France,--
This hero is thy countryman, thy friend;
I am a daughter of thy fatherland.
We all, whom thou art eager to destroy,
Are of thy friends;--our longing arms prepare
To clasp, our bending knees to honor thee.
Our sword 'gainst thee is pointless, and that face
E'en in a hostile helm is dear to us,
For there we trace the features of our king.
BURGUNDY.
What, syren! wilt thou with seducing words
Allure thy victim? Cunning sorceress,
Me thou deludest not. Mine ears are closed
Against thy treacherous words; and vainly dart
Thy fiery glances 'gainst this mail of proof.
To arms, Dunois!
With weapons let us fight, and not with words.
DUNOIS.
First words, then weapons, Burgundy! Do words
With dread inspire thee? 'Tis a coward's fear,
And the betrayer of an evil cause.
JOHANNA.
'Tis not imperious necessity
Which throws us at thy feet! We do not come
As suppliants before thee. Look around!
The English tents are level with the ground,
And all the field is covered with your slain.
Hark! the war-trumpets of the French resound;
God hath decided--ours the victory!
Our new-culled laurel garland with our friend
We fain would share. Come, noble fugitive!
Oh, come where justice and where victory dwell!
Even I, the messenger of heaven, extend
A sister's hand to thee. I fain would save
And draw thee over to our righteous cause!
Heaven hath declared for France! Angelic powers,
Unseen by thee, do battle for our king;
With lilies are the holy ones adorned,
Pure as this radiant banner is our cause;
Its blessed symbol is the queen of heaven.
BURGUNDY.
Falsehood's fallacious words are full of guile,
But hers are pure and simple as a child's.
If evil spirits borrow this disguise,
They copy innocence triumphantly.
I'll hear no more. To arms, Dunois! to arms!
Mine ear, I feel, is weaker than mine arm.
JOHANNA.
You call me an enchantress, and accuse
Of hellish arts. Is it the work of hell
To heal dissension and to foster peace?
Comes holy concord from the depths below?
Say, what is holy, innocent, and good,
If not to combat for our fatherland?
Since when hath nature been so self-opposed
That heaven forsakes the just and righteous cause,
While hell protects it? If my words are true,
Whence could I draw them but from heaven above?
Who ever sought me in my shepherd-walks,
To teach the humble maid affairs of state?
I ne'er have stood with princes, to these lips
Unknown the arts of eloquence. Yet now,
When I have need of it to touch thy heart,
Insight and varied knowledge I possess;
The fate of empires and the doom of kings
Lie clearly spread before my childish mind,
And words of thunder issue from my mouth.
BURGUNDY (greatly moved, looks at her with emotion and astonishment).
How is it with me? Doth some heavenly power
Thus strangely stir my spirit's inmost depths?
This pure, this gentle creature cannot lie!
No, if enchantment blinds me, 'tis from heaven.
My spirit tells me she is sent from God.
JOHANNA.
Oh, he is moved! I have not prayed in vain,
Wrath's thunder-cloud dissolves in gentle tears,
And leaves his brow, while mercy's golden beams
Break from his eyes and gently promise peace.
Away with arms, now clasp him to your hearts,
He weeps--he's conquered, he is ours once more!
[Her sword and banner fall; she hastens to him with
outstretched arms, and embraces him in great agitation.
LA HIRE and DUNOIS throw down their swords, and hasten
also to embrace him.
ACT III.
Residence of the KING at Chalons on the Marne.
SCENE I.
DUNOIS, LA HIRE.
DUNOIS.
We have been true heart-friends, brothers in arms,
Still have we battled in a common cause,
And held together amid toil and death.
Let not the love of woman rend the bond
Which hath resisted every stroke of fate.
LA HIRE.
Hear me, my prince!
DUNOIS.
You love the wondrous maid,
And well I know the purpose of your heart.
You think without delay to seek the king,
And to entreat him to bestow on you
Her hand in marriage. Of your bravery
The well-earned guerdon he cannot refuse
But know,--ere I behold her in the arms
Of any other----
LA HIRE.
Listen to me, prince!
DUNOIS.
'Tis not the fleeting passion of the eye
Attracts me to her. My unconquered sense
Had set at naught the fiery shafts of love
Till I beheld this wondrous maiden, sent
By a divine appointment to become
The savior of this kingdom, and my wife;
And on the instant in my heart I vowed
A sacred oath, to bear her home, my bride.
For she alone who is endowed with strength
Can be the strong man's friend. This glowing heart
Longs to repose upon a kindred breast,
Which can sustain and comprehend its strength.
LA HIRE.
How dare I venture, prince, my poor deserts
To measure with your name's heroic fame!
When Count Dunois appeareth in the lists,
Each humbler suitor must forsake the field;
Still it doth ill become a shepherd maid
To stand as consort by your princely side.
The royal current in your veins would scorn
To mix with blood of baser quality.
DUNOIS.
She, like myself, is holy Nature's child,
A child divine--hence we by birth are equal.
She bring dishonor on a prince's hand,
Who is the holy angel's bride, whose head
Is by a heavenly glory circled round,
Whose radiance far outshineth earthly crowns,
Who seeth lying far beneath her feet
All that is greatest, highest of this earth!
For thrones on thrones, ascending to the stars,
Would fail to reach the height where she abides
In angel majesty!
LA HIRE.
Our monarch must decide.
DUNOIS.
Not so! she must
Decide! Free hath she made this realm of France,
And she herself must freely give her heart.
LA HIRE.
Here comes the king!
SCENE II.
CHARLES, AGNES, SOREL, DUCHATEL, and CHATILLON.
The same.
CHARLES (to CHATILLON).
He comes! My title he will recognize,
And do me homage as his sovereign liege?
CHATILLON.
Here, in his royal town of Chalons, sire,
The duke, my master, will fall down before thee.
He did command me, as my lord and king,
To give thee greeting. He'll be here anon.
SOREL.
He comes! Hail beauteous and auspicious day,
Which bringeth joy, and peace, and reconcilement!
CHATILLON.
The duke, attended by two hundred knights,
Will hither come; he at thy feet will kneel;
But he expecteth not that thou to him
Should yield the cordial greeting of a kinsman.
CHARLES.
I long to clasp him to my throbbing heart.
CHATILLON.
The duke entreats that at this interview,
No word be spoken of the ancient strife!
CHARLES.
In Lethe be the past forever sunk!
The smiling future now invites our gaze.
CHATILLON.
All who have combated for Burgundy
Shall be included in the amnesty.
CHARLES.
So shall my realm be doubled in extent!
CHATILLON.
Queen Isabel, if she consent thereto,
Shall also be included in the peace.
CHARLES.
She maketh war on me, not I on her.
With her alone it rests to end our quarrel.
CHATILLON.
Twelve knights shall answer for thy royal word.
CHARLES.
My word is sacred.
CHATILLON.
The archbishop shall
Between you break the consecrated host,
As pledge and seal of cordial reconcilement.
CHARLES.
Let my eternal weal be forfeited,
If my hand's friendly grasp belie my heart.
What other surety doth the duke require?
CHATILLON (glancing at DUCHATEL).
I see one standing here, whose presence, sire,
Perchance might poison the first interview.
[DUCHATEL retires in silence.
CHARLES.
Depart, Duchatel, and remain concealed
Until the duke can bear thee in his sight.
[He follows him with his eye, then hastens after
and embraces him.
True-hearted friend! Thou wouldst far more than this
Have done for my repose!
[Exit DUCHATEL.
CHATILLON.
This instrument doth name the other points.
CHARLES (to the ARCHBISHOP).
Let it be settled. We agree to all.
We count no price too high to gain a friend.
Go now, Dunois, and with a hundred knights,
Give courteous conduct to the noble duke.
Let the troops, garlanded with verdant boughs,
Receive their comrades with a joyous welcome.
Be the whole town arrayed in festive pomp,
And let the bells with joyous peal, proclaim
That France and Burgundy are reconciled.
[A PAGE enters. Trumpets sound.
Hark! What importeth that loud trumpet's call?
PAGE.
The Duke of Burgundy hath stayed his march.
[Exit.
DUNOIS.
Up! forth to meet him!
[Exit with LA HIRE and CHATILLON.
CHARLES (to SOREL).
My Agnes! thou dost weep! Even my strength
Doth almost fail me at this interview.
How many victims have been doomed to fall
Ere we could meet in peace and reconcilement!
But every storm at length suspends its rage,
Day follows on the murkiest night; and still
When comes the hour, the latest fruits mature!
ARCHBISHOP (at the window).
The thronging crowds impede the duke's advance;
He scarce can free himself. They lift him now
From off his horse; they kiss his spurs, his mantle.
CHARLES.
They're a good people, in whom love flames forth
As suddenly as wrath. In how brief space
They do forget that 'tis this very duke
Who slew, in fight, their fathers and their sons;
The moment swallows up the whole of life!
Be tranquil, Sorel. E'en thy passionate joy
Perchance might to his conscience prove a thorn.
Nothing should either shame or grieve him here.
SCENE III.
The DUKE OF BURGUNDY, DUNOIS, LA HIRE, CHATILLON, and two other
knights of the DUKE'S train. The DUKE remains standing at the
door; the KING inclines towards him; BURGUNDY immediately advances,
and in the moment when he is about to throw himself upon his knees,
the KING receives him in his arms.
CHARLES.
You have surprised us; it was our intent
To fetch you hither, but your steeds are fleet.
BURGUNDY.
They bore me to my duty.
[He embraces SOREL, and kisses her brow.
With your leave!
At Arras, niece, it is our privilege,
And no fair damsel may exemption claim.
CHARLES.
Rumor doth speak your court the seat of love,
The mart where all that's beautiful must tarry.
BURGUNDY.
We are a traffic-loving people, sire;
Whate'er of costly earth's wide realms produce,
For show and for enjoyment, is displayed
Upon our mart at Bruges; but above all
There woman's beauty is pre-eminent.
SOREL.
More precious far is woman's truth; but it
Appeareth not upon the public mart.
CHARLES.
Kinsman, 'tis rumored to your prejudice
That woman's fairest virtue you despise.
BURGUNDY.
The heresy inflicteth on itself
The heaviest penalty. 'Tis well for you,
From your own heart, my king, you learned betimes
What a wild life hath late revealed to me.
[He perceives the ARCHBISHOP, and extends his hand.
Most reverend minister of God! your blessing!
You still are to be found on duty's path,
Where those must walk who would encounter you.
ARCHBISHOP.
Now let my Master call me when he will;
My heart is full, I can with joy depart,
Since that mine eyes have seen this day!
BURGUNDY (to SOREL).
'Tis said
That of your precious stones you robbed yourself,
Therefrom to forge 'gainst me the tools of war!
Bear you a soul so martial? Were you then
So resolute to work my overthrow?
Well, now our strife is over; what was lost
Will in due season all be found again.
Even your jewels have returned to you.
Against me to make war they were designed;
Receive them from me as a pledge of peace.
[He receives a casket from one of the attendants,
and presents it to her to open. SOREL, embarrassed,
looks at the KING.
CHARLES.
Receive this present; 'tis a twofold pledge
Of reconcilement and of fairest love.
BURGUNDY (placing a diamond rose in her hair).
Why, is it not the diadem of France?
With full as glad a spirit I would place
The golden circle on this lovely brow.
[Taking her hand significantly.
And count on me if, at some future time
You should require a friend.
[AGNES SOREL bursts into tears, and steps aside.
THE KING struggles with his feelings. The bystanders
contemplate the two princes with emotion.
BURGUNDY (after gazing round the circle, throws himself into
the KING'S arms).
Oh, my king!
[At the same moment the three Burgundian knights hasten to DUNOIS,
LA HIRE, and the ARCHBISHOP. They embrace each other. The two
PRINCES remain for a time speechless in each other's arms.
I could renounce you! I could bear your hate!
CHARLES.
Hush! hush! No further!
BURGUNDY.
I this English king
Could crown! Swear fealty to this foreigner!
And you, my sovereign, into ruin plunge!
CHARLES.
Forget it! Everything's forgiven now!
This single moment doth obliterate all.
'Twas a malignant star! A destiny!
BURGUNDY (grasps his hand).
Believe me, sire, I'll make amends for all.
Your bitter sorrow I will compensate;
You shall receive your kingdom back entire,
A solitary village shall not fail!
CHARLES.
We are united. Now I fear no foe.
BURGUNDY.
Trust me, it was not with a joyous spirit
That I bore arms against you. Did you know?
Oh, wherefore sent you not this messenger?
[Pointing to SOREL.
I must have yielded to her gentle tears.
Henceforth, since breast to breast we have embraced,
No power of hell again shall sever us!
My erring course ends here. His sovereign's heart
Is the true resting-place for Burgundy.
ARCHBISHOP (steps between them).
Ye are united, princes! France doth rise
A renovated phoenix from its ashes.
The auspicious future greets us with a smile.
The country's bleeding wounds will heal again,
The villages, the desolated towns,
Rise in new splendor from their ruined heaps,
The fields array themselves in beauteous green;
But those who, victims of your quarrel, fell,
The dead, rise not again; the bitter tears,
Caused by your strife, remain forever wept!
One generation hath been doomed to woe;
On their descendants dawns a brighter day;
The gladness of the son wakes not the sire.
This the dire fruitage of your brother-strife!
Oh, princes, learn from hence to pause with dread,
Ere from its scabbard ye unsheath the sword.
The man of power lets loose the god of war,
But not, obedient, as from fields of air
Returns the falcon to the sportsman's hand,
Doth the wild deity obey the call
Of mortal voice; nor will the Saviour's hand
A second time forth issue from the clouds.
BURGUNDY.
Oh, sire! an angel walketh by your side.
Where is she? Why do I behold her not?
CHARLES.
Where is Johanna? Wherefore faileth she
To grace the festival we owe to her?
ARCHBISHOP.
She loves not, sire, the idleness of the court,
And when the heavenly mandate calls her not
Forth to the world's observance, she retires,
And doth avoid the notice of the crowd.
Doubtless, unless the welfare of the realm
Claims her regard, she communes with her God,
For still a blessing on her steps attends.
SCENE IV.
The same.
JOHANNA enters. She is clad in armor, and wears
a garland in her hair.
CHARLES.
Thou comest as a priestess decked, Johanna,
To consecrate the union formed by thee!
BURGUNDY.
How dreadful was the maiden in the fight!
How lovely circled by the beams of peace!
My word, Johanna, have I now fulfilled?
Art thou contented? Have I thine applause?
JOHANNA.
The greatest favor thou hast shown thyself.
Arrayed in blessed light thou shinest now,
Who didst erewhile with bloody, ominous ray,
Hang like a moon of terror in the heavens.
[Looking round.
Many brave knights I find assembled here,
And joy's glad radiance beams in every eye;
One mourner, one alone I have encountered;
He must conceal himself, where all rejoice.
BURGUNDY.
And who is conscious of such heavy guilt,
That of our favor he must needs despair?
JOHANNA.
May he approach? Oh, tell me that he may;
Complete thy merit. Void the reconcilement
That frees not the whole heart. A drop of hate
Remaining in the cup of joy converts
The blessed draught to poison. Let there be
No deed so stained with blood that Burgundy
Cannot forgive it on this day of joy.
BURGUNDY.
Ha! now I understand!
JOHANNA.
And thou'lt forgive?
Thou wilt indeed forgive? Come in, Duchatel!
[She opens the door and leads in DUCHATEL,
who remains standing at a distance.
The duke is reconciled to all his foes,
And he is so to thee.
[DUCHATEL approaches a few steps nearer,
and tries to read the countenance of the DUKE.
BURGUNDY.
What makest thou
Of me, Johanna? Know'st thou what thou askest?
JOHANNA.
A gracious sovereign throws his portals wide,
Admitting every guest, excluding none;
As freely as the firmament the world,
So mercy must encircle friend and foe.
Impartially the sun pours forth his beams
Through all the regions of infinity;
The heaven's reviving dew falls everywhere,
And brings refreshment to each thirsty plant;
Whate'er is good, and cometh from on high,
Is universal, and without reserve;
But in the heart's recesses darkness dwells!
BURGUNDY.
Oh, she can mould me to her wish; my heart
Is in her forming hand like melted wax.
--Duchatel, I forgive thee--come, embrace me!
Shade of my sire! oh, not with wrathful eye
Behold me clasp the hand that shed thy blood.
Ye death-gods, reckon not to my account,
That my dread oath of vengeance I abjure.
With you, in yon drear realm of endless night,
There beats no human heart, and all remains
Eternal, steadfast, and immovable.
Here in the light of day 'tis otherwise.
Man, living, feeling man, is aye the sport
Of the o'ermastering present.
CHARLES (to JOHANNA).
Lofty maid!
What owe I not to thee! How truly now
Hast thou fulfilled thy word,--how rapidly
Reversed my destiny! Thou hast appeased
My friends, and in the dust o'erwhelmed my foes;
From foreign yoke redeemed my cities. Thou
Hast all achieved. Speak, how can I reward thee?
JOHANNA.
Sire, in prosperity be still humane,
As in misfortune thou hast ever been;
And on the height of greatness ne'er forget
The value of a friend in times of need;
Thou hast approved it in adversity.
Refuse not to the lowest of thy people
The claims of justice and humanity,
For thy deliverer from the fold was called.
Beneath thy royal sceptre thou shalt gather
The realm entire of France. Thou shalt become
The root and ancestor of mighty kings;
Succeeding monarchs, in their regal state,
Shall those outshine, who filled the throne before.
Thy stock, in majesty shall bloom so long
As it stands rooted in the people's love.
Pride only can achieve its overthrow,
And from the lowly station, whence to-day
God summoned thy deliverer, ruin dire
Obscurely threats thy crime-polluted sons!
BURGUNDY.
Exalted maid! Possessed with sacred fire!
If thou canst look into the gulf of time,
Speak also of my race! Shall coming years
With ampler honors crown my princely line!
JOHANNA.
High as the throne, thou, Burgundy, hast built
Thy seat of power, and thy aspiring heart
Would raise still higher, even to the clouds,
The lofty edifice. But from on high
A hand omnipotent shall check its rise.
Fear thou not hence the downfall of thy house!
Its glory in a maiden shall survive;
Upon her breast shall sceptre-bearing kings,
The people's shepherds, bloom. Their ample sway
Shall o'er two realms extend, they shall ordain
Laws to control the known world, and the new,
Which God still veils behind the pathless waves.
CHARLES.
Oh, if the Spirit doth reveal it, speak;
Shall this alliance which we now renew
In distant ages still unite our sons?
JOHANNA (after a pause).
Sovereigns and kings! disunion shun with dread!
Wake not contention from the murky cave
Where he doth lie asleep, for once aroused
He cannot soon be quelled? He doth beget
An iron brood, a ruthless progeny;
Wildly the sweeping conflagration spreads.
--Be satisfied! Seek not to question further
In the glad present let your hearts rejoice,
The future let me shroud!
SOREL.
Exalted maid!
Thou canst explore my heart, thou readest there
If after worldly greatness it aspires,
To me to give a joyous oracle.
JOHANNA.
Of empires only I discern the doom;
In thine own bosom lies thy destiny!
DUNOIS.
What, holy maid, will be thy destiny?
Doubtless, for thee, who art beloved of heaven,
The fairest earthly happiness shall bloom,
For thou art pure and holy.
JOHANNA.
Happiness
Abideth yonder, with our God, in heaven.
CHARLES.
Thy fortune be henceforth thy monarch's care!
For I will glorify thy name in France,
And the remotest age shall call thee blest.
Thus I fulfil my word. Kneel down!
[He draws his sword and touches her with it.
And rise!
A noble! I, thy monarch, from the dust
Of thy mean birth exalt thee. In the grave
Thy fathers I ennoble--thou shalt bear
Upon thy shield the fleur-de-lis, and be
Of equal lineage with the best in France.
Only the royal blood of Valois shall
Be nobler than thine own! The highest peer
Shall feel himself exalted by thy hand;
To wed thee nobly, maid, shall be my care!
DUNOIS (advancing).
My heart made choice of her when she was lowly.
The recent honor which encircles her,
Neither exalts her merit nor my love.
Here in my sovereign's presence, and before
This holy bishop, maid, I tender thee
My hand, and take thee as my princely wife,
If thou esteem me worthy to be thine.
CHARLES.
Resistless maiden! wonder thou dost add
To wonder! Yes, I now believe that naught's
Impossible to thee! Thou hast subdued
This haughty heart, which still hath scoffed till now
At love's omnipotence.
LA HIRE (advancing).
If I have read
Aright Johanna's soul, her modest heart's
Her fairest jewel. She deserveth well
The homage of the great, but her desires
Soar not so high. She striveth not to reach
A giddy eminence; an honest heart's
True love content's her, and the quiet lot
Which with this hand I humbly proffer her.
CHARLES.
Thou, too, La Hire! two brave competitors,--
Peers in heroic virtue and renown!
--Wilt thou, who hast appeased mine enemies,
My realms united, part my dearest friends?
One only can possess her; I esteem
Each to be justly worthy such a prize.
Speak, maid! thy heart alone must here decide.
SOREL.
The noble maiden is surprised, her cheek
Is crimsoned over with a modest blush.
Let her have leisure to consult her heart,
And in confiding friendship to unseal
Her long-closed bosom. Now the hour is come
When, with a sister's love, I also may
Approach the maid severe, and offer her
This silent, faithful breast. Permit us women
Alone to weigh this womanly affair;
Do you await the issue.
CHARLES (about to retire).
Be it so!
JOHANNA.
No, sire, not so! the crimson on my cheek
Is not the blush of bashful modesty.
Naught have I for this noble lady's ear
Which in this presence I may not proclaim.
The choice of these brave knights much honors me,
But I did not forsake my shepherd-walks,
To chase vain worldly splendor, nor array
My tender frame in panoply of war,
To twine the bridal garland in my hair.
Far other labor is assigned to me,
Which a pure maiden can alone achieve.
I am the soldier of the Lord of Hosts,
And to no mortal man can I be wife.
ARCHBISHOP.
To be a fond companion unto man
Is woman born--when nature she obeys,
Most wisely she fulfils high heaven's decree!
When His behest who called thee to the field
Shall be accomplished, thou'lt resign thy arms,
And once again rejoin the softer sex,
Whose gentle nature thou dost now forego,
And which from war's stern duties is exempt.
JOHANNA.
Most reverend sir! as yet I cannot say
What work the Spirit will enjoin on me.
But when the time comes round, his guiding voice
Will not be mute, and it I will obey.
Now he commands me to complete my task;
My royal master's brow is still uncrowned,
'Twere better for me I had ne'er been born!
Henceforth no more of this, unless ye would
Provoke the Spirit's wrath who in me dwells!
The eye of man, regarding me with love,
To me is horror and profanity.
CHARLES.
Forbear! It is in vain to urge her further.
JOHANNA.
Command the trumpets of the war to sound!
This stillness doth perplex and harass me;
An inward impulse drives me from repose,
It still impels me to achieve my work,
And sternly beckons me to meet my doom.
SCENE V.
A KNIGHT, entering hastily.
CHARLES.
What tidings? Speak!
KNIGHT.
The foe has crossed the Marne,
And marshalleth his army for the fight.
JOHANNA (inspired).
Battle and tumult! Now my soul is free.
Arm, warriors, arm! while I prepare the troops.
[She goes out.
CHARLES.
Follow, La Hire! E'en at the gates of Rheims
They will compel us to dispute the crown!
DUNOIS.
No genuine courage prompts them. This essay
Is the last effort of enraged despair.
CHARLES.
I do not urge you, duke. To-day's the time
To compensate the errors of the past.
BURGUNDY.
You shall be satisfied with me.
CHARLES.
Myself
Will march before you on the path of fame;
Here, with my royal town of Rheims in view,
I'll fight, and gallantry achieve the crown.
Thy knight, my Agnes, bids thee now farewell!
AGNES (embracing him).
I do not weep, I do not tremble for thee;
My faith, unshaken, cleaveth unto God!
Heaven, were we doomed to failure, had not given
So many gracious pledges of success!
My heart doth whisper me that, victory-crowned,
In conquered Rheims, I shall embrace my king.
[Trumpets sound with a spirited tone, and while the scene
is changing pass into a wild martial strain. When the
scene opens, the orchestra joins in, accompanied by warlike
instruments behind the scene.
SCENE VI.
The scene changes to an open country skirted with trees. During the
music soldiers are seen retreating hastily across the background.
TALBOT, leaning on FASTOLFE, and accompanied by soldiers. Soon
after, LIONEL.
TALBOT.
Here lay me down beneath the trees, and then
Betake you back, with speed, unto the fight;
I need no aid to die.
FASTOLFE.
Oh, woful day!
[LIONEL enters.
Behold what sign awaits you, Lionel!
Here lies our general wounded unto death.
LIONEL.
Now, God forbid! My noble lord, arise!
No moment this to falter and to sink.
Yield not to death. By your all-powerful will
Command your ebbing spirit still to live.
TALBOT.
In vain! The day of destiny is come,
Which will o'erthrow the English power in France.
In desperate combat I have vainly risked
The remnant of our force to ward it off.
Struck by the thunderbolt I prostrate lie,
Never to rise again. Rheims now is lost,
Hasten to succor Paris!
LIONEL.
Paris is with the Dauphin reconciled;
A courier even now has brought the news.
TALBOT (tearing off his bandages).
Then freely flow, ye currents of my blood,
For Talbot now is weary of the sun!
LIONEL.
I may no longer tarry: Fastolfe, haste!
Convey our leader to a place of safety.
No longer now can we maintain this post;
Our flying troops disperse on every side,
On, with resistless might, the maiden comes.
TALBOT.
Folly, thou conquerest, and I must yield!
Against stupidity the very gods.
Themselves contend in vain. Exalted reason,
Resplendent daughter of the head divine,
Wise foundress of the system of the world,
Guide of the stars, who art thou then if thou,
Bound to the tail of folly's uncurbed steed,
Must, vainly shrieking with the drunken crowd,
Eyes open, plunge down headlong in the abyss.
Accursed, who striveth after noble ends,
And with deliberate wisdom forms his plans!
To the fool-king belongs the world.
LIONEL.
My lord,
But for a few brief moments can you live--
Think of your Maker!
TALBOT.
Had we, like brave men,
Been vanquished by the brave, we might, indeed,
Console ourselves that 'twas the common lot;
For fickle fortune aye revolves her wheel.
But to be baffled by such juggling arts!
Deserved our earnest and laborious life
Not a more earnest issue?
LIONEL (extends his hand to him).
Fare you well!
The debt of honest tears I will discharge
After the battle--if I then survive.
Now Fate doth call me hence, where on the field
Her web she waveth, and dispenseth doom.
We in another world shall meet again;
For our long friendship, this a brief farewell.
[Exit.
TALBOT.
Soon is the struggle past, and to the earth,
To the eternal sun, I render back
These atoms, joined in me for pain and pleasure.
And of the mighty Talbot, who the world
Filled with his martial glory, there remains
Naught save a modicum of senseless dust.
Such is the end of man--the only spoil
We carry with us from life's battle-field,
Is but an insight into nothingness,
And utter scorn of all which once appeared
To us exalted and desirable.
SCENE VII.
CHARLES, BURGUNDY, DUNOIS, DUCHATEL, and Soldiers.
BURGUNDY.
The trench is stormed!
DUNOIS.
The victory is ours!
CHARLES (perceiving TALBOT.)
Look! Who is he, who yonder of the sun
Taketh reluctant, sorrowful farewell?
His armor indicates no common man;
Go, succor him, if aid may yet avail.
[Soldiers of the KING'S retinue step forward.
FASTOLFE.
Back! Stand apart! Respect the mighty dead,
Whom ye in life ne'er ventured to approach!
BURGUNDY.
What do I see? Lord Talbot in his blood!
[He approaches him. TALBOT gazes fixedly at him, and dies.
FASTOLFE.
Traitor, avaunt! Let not the sight of thee
Poison the dying hero's parting glance.
DUNOIS.
Resistless hero! Dread-inspiring Talbot!
Does such a narrow space suffice thee now,
And this vast kingdom could not satisfy
The large ambition of thy giant soul!
Now first I can salute you, sire, as king:
The diadem but tottered on your brow,
While yet a spirit tenanted this clay.
CHARLES (after contemplating the body in silence).
A higher power hath vanquished him, not we!
He lies upon the soil of France, as lies
The hero on the shield he would not quit.
Well, peace be with his ashes! Bear him hence!
[Soldiers take up the body and carry it away.
Here in the heart of France, where his career
Of conquest ended, let his relics lie!
So far no hostile sword attained before.
A fitting tomb shall memorize his name;
His epitaph the spot whereon he fell.
FASTOLFE (yielding his sword).
I am your prisoner, sir.
CHARLES (returning his sword).
Not so! Rude war
Respects each pious office; you are free
To render the last honors to the dead,
Go now, Duchatel--still my Agnes trembles--
Hasten to snatch her from anxiety--
Bring her the tidings of our victory,
And usher her in triumph into Rheims!
[Exit DUCHATEL.
SCENE VIII.
The same. LA HIRE.
DUNOIS.
La Hire, where is the maiden?
LA HIRE.
That I ask
Of you; I left her fighting by your side.
DUNOIS.
I thought she was protected by your arm,
When I departed to assist the king.
BURGUNDY.
Not long ago I saw her banner wave
Amidst the thickest of the hostile ranks.
DUNOIS.
Alas! where is she? Evil I forebode?
Come, let us haste to rescue her. I fear
Her daring soul hath led her on too far;
Alone she combats in the midst of foes,
And without succor yieldeth to the crowd.
CHARLES.
Haste to her rescue!
LA HIRE.
Come!
BURGUNDY.
We follow all!
[Exit.
[They retire in haste. A deserted part of the
battle-field. In the distance are seen the towers
of Rheims illumined by the sun.
SCENE IX.
A KNIGHT in black armor, with closed visor. JOHANNA follows
him to the front of the stage, where he stops and awaits her.
JOHANNA.
Deluder! now I see thy stratagem!
Thou hast deceitfully, through seeming flight,
Allured me from the battle, doom and death
Averting thus from many a British head.
Destruction now doth overtake thyself.
BLACK KNIGHT.
Why dost thou follow after me and track
My steps with quenchless rage? I am not doomed
To perish by thy hand.
JOHANNA.
Deep in my soul
I hate thee as the night, which is thy color;
To blot thee out from the fair light of day
An irresistible desire impels me.
Who art thou? Raise thy visor. I had said
That thou wert Talbot had I not myself
Seen warlike Talbot in the battle fall.
BLACK KNIGHT.
Is the divining-spirit mute in thee?
JOHANNA.
His voice speaks loudly in my spirit's depth
The near approach of woe.
BLACK KNIGHT.
Johanna D'Arc!
Borne on the wings of conquest, thou hast reached
The gates of Rheims. Let thy achieved renown
Content thee. Fortune, like thy slave, till now
Hath followed thee; dismiss her, ere in wrath
She free herself; fidelity she hates;
She serveth none with constancy till death.
JOHANNA.
Why check me in the midst of my career?
Why bid me falter and forsake my work?
I will complete it and fulfil my vow!
BLACK KNIGHT.
Nothing can thee, thou mighty one, withstand,
In battle thou art aye invincible.
But henceforth shun the fight; attend my warning.
JOHANNA.
Not from my hand will I resign this sword
Till haughty England's prostrate in the dust.
BLACK KNIGHT.
Behold! there Rheims ariseth with its towers,
The goal and end of thy career. Thou seest
The lofty minster's sun-illumined dome;
Thou in triumphal pomp wouldst enter there,
Thy monarch crown, and ratify thy vow.
Enter not there! Return! Attend my warning!
JOHANNA.
What art thou, double-tongued, deceitful being,
Who wouldst bewilder and appal me? Speak!
By what authority dost thou presume
To greet me with fallacious oracles?
[The BLACK KNIGHT is about to depart, she steps in his way.
No, thou shalt speak, or perish by my hand!
[She endeavors to strike him.
BLACK KNIGHT (touches her with his hand, she remains motionless).
Slay what is mortal!
[Darkness, thunder and lightning. The KNIGHT sinks into the earth.
JOHANNA (stands at first in amazement, but soon recovers herself).
'Twas nothing living. 'Twas a base delusion,
An instrument of hell, a juggling fiend,
Uprisen hither from the fiery pool
To shake and terrify my steadfast heart.
Wielding the sword of God, whom should I fear!
I will triumphantly achieve my work.
My courage should not waver, should not fail
Were hell itself to champion me to fight!
[She is about to depart.
SCENE X.
LIONEL, JOHANNA.
LIONEL.
Accursed one, prepare thee for the fight!
Not both of us shall quit this field alive.
Thou hast destroyed the bravest of our host
The noble Talbot hath his mighty soul
Breathed forth upon my bosom. I'll avenge
The hero, or participate his doom.
And wouldst thou know who brings thee glory now,
Whether he live or die,--I'm Lionel,
The sole survivor of the English chiefs,
And still unconquered is this valiant arm.
[He rushes upon her; after a short combat she strikes
the sword out of his hand.
Perfidious fortune!
[He wrestles with her. JOHANNA seizes him by the crest
and tears open his helmet; his face is thus exposed;
at the same time she draws her sword with her right hand.
JOHANNA.
Suffer, what thou soughtest!
The Virgin sacrifices thee through me!
[At this moment she gazes in his face. His aspect
softens her, she remains motionless and slowly lets
her arm sink.
LIONEL.
Why linger, why withhold the stroke of death?
My glory thou hast taken--take my life!
I want no mercy, I am in thy power.
[She makes him a sign with her hand to fly.
How! shall I fly and owe my life to thee?
No, I would rather die.
JOHANNA (with averted face).
I will not know
That ever thou didst owe thy life to me.
LIONEL.
I hate alike thee and thy proffered gift.
I want no mercy--kill thine enemy
Who loathes and would have slain thee.
JOHANNA.
Slay me, then,
And fly!
LIONEL.
Ha! What is this?
JOHANNA (hiding her face).
Woe's me!
LIONEL (approaching her).
'Tis said
Thou killest all the English whom thy sword
Subdues in battle--why spare me alone?
JOHANNA (raises her sword with a rapid movement as if to strike him,
but lets it fall quickly when she gazes on his face).
Oh, Holy Virgin!
LIONEL.
Wherefore namest thou
The Holy Virgin? she knows naught of thee;
Heaven hath no part in thee.
JOHANNA (in the greatest anxiety).
What have I done?
Alas! I've broke my vow!
[She wrings her hands in despair.
LIONEL (looks at her with sympathy and approaches her).
Unhappy maid!
I pity thee! Thy sorrow touches me;
Thou hast shown mercy unto me alone,
My hatred yielded unto sympathy!
Who art thou, and whence comest thou?
JOHANNA.
Away!
LIONEL.
Thy youth, thy beauty, move my soul to pity!
Thy look sinks in my heart. I fain would save thee!
How may I do so? tell me. Come! oh, come!
Renounce this fearful league--throw down these arms!
JOHANNA.
I am unworthy now to carry them!
LIONEL.
Then throw them from thee--quick! come, follow me!
JOHANNA (with horror).
How! follow thee!
LIONEL.
Thou may'st be saved. Oh, come!
I will deliver thee, but linger not.
Strange sorrow for thy sake doth seize my heart,
Unspeakable desire to rescue thee----
[He seizes her arm.
JOHANNA.
The Bastard comes! 'Tis they! They seek for me!
If they should find thee----
LIONEL.
I'll defend thee, maid.
JOHANNA.
I die if thou shouldst perish by their hands!
LIONEL.
Am I then dear to thee?
JOHANNA.
Ye heavenly powers!
LIONEL.
Shall I again behold thee--hear from thee?
JOHANNA.
No! never!
LIONEL.
Thus this sword I seize in pledge
That I again behold thee!
[He snatches her sword.
JOHANNA.
Madman, hold!
Thou darest?
LIONEL.
Now I yield to force--again
I'll see thee!
[He retires.
SCENE XI.
JOHANNA, DUNOIS, LA HIRE.
LA HIRE.
It is she! The maiden lives!
DUNOIS.
Fear not, Johanna! friends are at thy side.
LA HIRE.
Is not that Lionel who yonder flies?
DUNOIS.
Let him escape! Maiden, the righteous cause
Hath triumphed now. Rheims opens wide its gates;
The joyous crowds pour forth to meet their king.
LA HIRE.
What ails thee, maiden? She grows pale--she sinks!
[JOHANNA grows dizzy, and is about to fall.
DUNOIS.
She's wounded--rend her breastplate--'tis her arm!
The wound is not severe.
LA HIRE.
Her blood doth flow.
JOHANNA.
Oh, that my life would stream forth with my blood!
[She lies senseless in LA HIRE'S arms.
ACT IV.
A hall adorned as for a festival; the columns are hung
with garlands; behind the scene flutes and hautboys.
SCENE I.
JOHANNA.
Hushed is the din of arms, war's storms subside,
Glad songs and dance succeed the bloody fray,
Through all the streets joy echoes far and wide,
Altar and church are decked in rich array,
Triumphal arches rise in vernal pride,
Wreathes round the columns wind their flowery way,
Wide Rheims cannot contain the mighty throng,
Which to joyous pageant rolls along.
One thought alone doth every heart possess,
One rapt'rous feeling o'er each breast preside.
And those to-day are linked in happiness
Whom bloody hatred did erewhile divide.
All who themselves of Gallic race confess
The name of Frenchman own with conscious pride,
France sees the splendor of her ancient crown,
And to her monarch's son bows humbly down.
Yet I, the author of this wide delight,
The joy, myself created, cannot share;
My heart is changed, in sad and dreary plight
It flies the festive pageant in despair;
Still to the British camp it taketh flight,
Against my will my gaze still wanders there,
And from the throng I steal, with grief oppressed,
To hide the guilt which weighs upon my breast!
What! I permit a human form
To haunt my bosom's sacred cell?
And there, where heavenly radiance shone,
Doth earthly love presume to dwell?
The savior of my country, I,
The warrior of God most high,
Burn for my country's foeman? Dare I name
Heaven's holy light, nor feel o'erwhelmed with shame?
[The music behind the scene passes into a soft and moving melody.
Woe is me! Those melting tones!
They distract my 'wildered brain!
Every note, his voice recalling,
Conjures up his form again
Would that spears were whizzing round!
Would that battle's thunder roared!
'Midst the wild tumultuous sound
My former strength were then restored.
These sweet tones, these melting voices,
With seductive power are fraught!
They dissolve, in gentle longing,
Every feeling, every thought,
Waking tears of plaintive sadness.
[After a pause, with more energy.
Should I have killed him? Could I, when I gazed
Upon his face? Killed him? Oh, rather far
Would I have turned my weapon 'gainst myself!
And am I culpable because humane?
Is pity sinful? Pity! Didst then hear
The voice of pity and humanity
When others fell the victims of thy sword?
Why was she silent when the gentle youth
From Wales entreated thee to spare his life?
Oh, cunning heart! Thou liest before high heaven!
It is not pity's voice impels thee now!
Why was I doomed to look into his eyes!
To mark his noble features! With that glance,
Thy crime, thy woe commenced. Unhappy one!
A sightless instrument thy God demands,
Blindly thou must accomplish his behest!
When thou didst see, God's shield abandoned thee,
And the dire snares of hell around thee pressed!
[Flutes are again heard, and she subsides into a quiet melancholy.
Harmless staff! Oh, that I ne'er
Had for the sword abandoned thee!
Had voices never reached mine ear,
From thy branches, sacred tree!
High queen of heaven! Oh, would that thou
Hadst ne'er revealed thyself to me!
Take back--I dare not claim it now--
Take back thy crown, 'tis not for me!
I saw the heavens open wide,
I gazed upon that face of love!
Yet here on earth my hopes abide,
They do not dwell in heaven above!
Why, Holy One, on me impose
This dread vocation? Could I steel,
And to each soft emotion close
This heart, by nature formed to feel?
Wouldst thou proclaim thy high command,
Make choice of those who, free from sin,
In thy eternal mansions stand;
Send forth thy flaming cherubim!
Immortal ones, thy law they keep,
They do not feel, they do not weep!
Choose not a tender woman's aid,
Not the frail soul of shepherd maid!
Was I concerned with warlike things,
With battles or the strife of kings?
In innocence I led my sheep
Adown the mountain's silent steep,
But thou didst send me into life,
Midst princely halls and scenes of strife,
To lose my spirit's tender bloom
Alas, I did not seek my doom!
SCENE II.
AGNES SOREL, JOHANNA.
SOREL (advances joyfully. When she perceives JOHANNA she hastens to
her and falls upon her neck; then suddenly recollecting herself; she
relinquishes her hold, and falls down before her).
No! no! not so! Before thee in the dust----
JOHANNA (trying to raise her).
Arise! Thou dost forget thyself and me.
SOREL.
Forbid me not! 'tis the excess of joy
Which throws me at thy feet--I must pour forth
My o'ercharged heart in gratitude to God;
I worship the Invisible in thee.
Thou art the angel who has led my lord
To Rheims, to crown him with the royal crown.
What I ne'er dreamed to see is realized!
The coronation march will soon set forth;
Arrayed in festal pomp the monarch stands;
Assembled are the nobles of the realm,
The mighty peers to bear the insignia;
To the cathedral rolls the billowy crowd;
Glad songs resound, the bells unite their peal:
Oh, this excess of joy I cannot bear!
[JOHANNA gently raises her. AGNES SOREL pauses a moment,
and surveys the MAIDEN more narrowly.
Yet thou remainest ever grave and stern;
Thou canst create delight, yet share it not.
Thy heart is cold, thou feelest not our joy,
Thou hast beheld the glories of the skies;
No earthly interest moveth thy pure breast.
[JOHANNA seizes her hand passionately, but soon lets it fall again.
Oh, couldst thou own a woman's feeling heart!
Put off this armor, war is over now,
Confess thy union with the softer sex!
My loving heart shrinks timidly from thee,
While thus thou wearest Pallas' brow severe.
JOHANNA.
What wouldst thou have me do?
SOREL.
Unarm thyself!
Put off this coat of mail! The God of Love
Fears to approach a bosom clad in steel.
Oh, be a woman, thou wilt feel his power!
JOHANNA.
What, now unarm myself? Midst battle's roar
I'll bare my bosom to the stroke of death!
Not now! Would that a sevenfold wall of brass
Could hide me from your revels, from myself!
SOREL.
Thou'rt loved by Count Dunois. His noble heart,
Which virtue and renown alone inspire,
With pure and holy passion glows for thee.
Oh, it is sweet to know oneself beloved
By such a hero--sweeter still to love him!
[JOHANNA turns away with aversion.
Thou hatest him?--No, no, thou only canst
Not love him:--how could hatred stir thy breast!
Those who would tear us from the one we love,
We hate alone; but none can claim thy love.
Thy heart is tranquil--if it could but feel----
JOHANNA.
Oh, pity me! Lament my hapless fate!
SOREL.
What can be wanting to complete thy joy?
Thou hast fulfilled thy promise, France is free,
To Rheims, in triumph, thou hast led the king,
Thy mighty deeds have gained thee high renown,
A happy people praise and worship thee;
Thy name, the honored theme of every tongue;
Thou art the goddess of this festival;
The monarch, with his crown and regal state,
Shines not with greater majesty than thou!
JOHANNA.
Oh, could I hide me in the depths of earth!
SOREL.
Why this emotion? Whence this strange distress?
Who may to-day look up without a fear
If thou dost cast thine eyes upon the ground!
It is for me to blush, me, who near thee
Feel all my littleness; I cannot reach
The lofty virtue, thy heroic strength!
For--all my weakness shall I own to thee?
Not the renown of France, my Fatherland,
Not the new splendor of the monarch's crow,
Not the triumphant gladness of the crowds,
Engage this woman's heart. One only form
Is in its depths enshrined; it hath no room
For any feeling save for one alone:
He is the idol, him the people bless,
Him they extol, for him they strew these flowers,
And he is mine, he is my own true love!
JOHANNA.
Oh, thou art happy! thou art blessed indeed!
Thou lovest, where all love. Thou may'st, unblamed
Pour forth thy rapture, and thine inmost heart,
Fearless discover to the gaze of man!
Thy country's triumph is thy lover's too.
The vast, innumerable multitudes,
Who, rolling onward, crowd within these walls,
Participate thy joy, they hallow it;
Thee they salute, for thee they twine the wreath,
Thou art a portion of the general joy;
Thou lovest the all-inspiring soul, the sun,
And what thou seest is thy lover's glory!
SOREL (falling on her neck).
Thou dost delight me, thou canst read my heart!
I did thee wrong, thou knowest what love is,
Thou tell'st my feelings with a voice of power.
My heart forgets its fear and its reserve,
And seeks confidingly to blend with thine----
JOHANNA (tearing herself from her with violence).
Forsake me! Turn away! Do not pollute
Thyself by longer intercourse with me!
Be happy! go--and in the deepest night
Leave me to hide my infamy, my woe!
SOREL.
Thou frighten'st me, I understand thee not,
I ne'er have understood thee--for from me
Thy dark mysterious being still was veiled.
Who may divine what thus disturbs thy heart,
Thus terrifies thy pure and sacred soul!
JOHANNA.
Thou art the pure, the holy one! Couldst thou
Behold mine inmost heart, thou, shuddering,
Wouldst fly the traitoress, the enemy!
SCENE III.
DUNOIS, DUCHATEL, and LA HIRE, with the banner of JOHANNA.
DUNOIS.
Johanna, thee we seek. All is prepared;
The king hath sent us, 'tis his royal will
That thou before him shouldst thy banner bear,
The company of princes thou shalt join;
And march immediately before the king:
For he doth not deny it, and the world
Shall witness, maiden, that to thee alone
He doth ascribe the honor of this day.
LA HIRE.
Here is the banner. Take it, noble maiden
Thou'rt stayed for by the princes and the people.
JOHANNA.
I march before him? I the banner bear?
DUNOIS.
Whom else would it become? What other hand
Is pure enough to bear the sacred ensign!
Amid the battle thou hast waved it oft;
To grace our glad procession bear it now.
[LA HIRE presents the banner to her, she draws back, shuddering.
JOHANNA.
Away! away!
LA HIRE.
Art thou terrified
At thine own banner, maiden? Look at it!
[He displays the banner.
It is the same thou didst in conquest wave.
Imaged upon it is the queen of heaven,
Floating in glory o'er this earthly ball;
For so the Holy Mother showed it thee.
[JOHANNA gazing upon it with horror.
'Tis she herself! so she appeared to me.
See, how she looks at me and knits her brow,
And anger flashes from her threatening eye!
SOREL.
Alas, she raveth! Maiden, be composed!
Collect thyself! Thou seest nothing real!
That is her pictured image; she herself
Wanders above, amid the angelic choir!
JOHANNA.
Thou comest, fearful one, to punish me?
Destroy, o'erwhelm, thy lightnings hurl,
And let them fall upon my guilty head.
Alas, my vow I've broken. I've profaned
And desecrated thy most holy name!
DUNOIS.
Woe's us! What may this mean? What unblest words?
LA HIRE (in astonishment, to DUCHATEL).
This strange emotion canst thou comprehend?
DUCHATEL.
That which I see, I see--I long have feared it.
DUNOIS.
What sayest thou?
DUCHATEL.
I dare not speak my thoughts.
I would to heaven that the king were crowned!
LA HIRE.
How! hath the awe this banner doth inspire
Turned back upon thyself? before this sign
Let Britons tremble; to the foes of France
'Tis fearful, but to all true citizens
It is auspicious.
JOHANNA.
Yes, thou sayest truly!
To friends 'tis gracious! but to enemies
It causeth horror!
[The Coronation march is heard.
DUNOIS.
Take thy banner, then!
The march begins--no time is to be lost!
[They press the banner upon her; she seizes it with
evident emotion, and retires; the others follow.
[The scene changes to an open place before the Cathedral.
SCENE IV.
Spectators occupy the background; BERTRAND, CLAUDE MARIE, and
ETIENNE come forward; then MARGOT and LOUISON. The Coronation
march is heard in the distance.
BERTRAND.
Hark to the music! They approach already!
What had we better do? Shall we mount up
Upon the platform, or press through the crowd,
That we may nothing lose of the procession?
ETIENNE.
It is not to be thought of. All the streets
Are thronged with horsemen and with carriages.
Beside these houses let us take our stand,
Here we without annoyance may behold
The train as it goes by.
CLAUDE MARIE.
Almost it seems
As were the half of France assembled here,
So mighty is the flood that it hath reached
Even our distant Lotharingian land
And borne us thither!
BERTRAND.
Who would sit at home
When great events are stirring in the land!
It hath cost plenty, both of sweat and blood,
Ere the crown rested on its rightful head!
Nor shall our lawful king, to whom we give
The crown, be worse accompanied than he
Whom the Parisians in St. Denis crowned!
He is no loyal, honest-minded man
Who doth absent him from this festival,
And joins not in the cry: "God save the King!"
SCENE V.
MARGOT and LOUISON join them.
LOUISON.
We shall again behold our sister, Margot!
How my heart beats!
MARGOT.
In majesty and pomp
We shall behold her, saying to ourselves:
It is our sister, it is our Johanna!
LOUISON.
Till I have seen her, I can scarce believe
That she, whom men the Maid of Orleans name,
The mighty warrior, is indeed Johanna,
Our sister whom we lost!
[The music draws nearer.
MARGOT.
Thou doubtest still!
Thou wilt thyself behold her!
BERTRAND.
See, they come!
SCENE VI.
Musicians, with flutes and hautboys, open the procession. Children
follow, dressed in white, with branches in their hands; behind them
two heralds. Then a procession of halberdiers, followed by
magistrates in their robes. Then two marshals with their staves;
the DUKE of BURGUNDY, bearing the sword; DUNOIS with the sceptre,
other nobles with the regalia; others with sacrificial offerings.
Behind these, KNIGHTS with the ornaments of their order; choristers
with incense; two BISHOPS with the ampulla; the ARCHBISHOP with the
crucifix. JOHANNA follows, with her banner, she walks with downcast
head and wavering steps; her sisters, on beholding her, express
their astonishment and joy. Behind her comes the KING under a
canopy, supported by four barons; courtiers follow, soldiers
conclude the procession; as soon as it has entered the church the
music ceases.
SCENE VII.
LOUISON, MARGOT, CLAUDE MARIE, ETIENNE, BERTRAND.
MARGOT.
Saw you our sister?
CLAUDE MARIE.
She in golden armor,
Who with the banner walked before the king?
MARGOT.
It was Johanna. It was she, our sister!
LOUISON.
She recognized us not! She did not feel
That we, her sisters, were so near to her.
She looked upon the ground, and seemed so pale,
And trembled so beneath her banner's weight
When I beheld her, I could not rejoice.
MARGOT.
So now, arrayed in splendor and in pomp,
I have beheld our sister--who in dreams
Would ever have imagined or conceived,
When on our native hills she drove the flock,
That we should see her in such majesty?
LOUISON.
Our father's dream is realized, that we
In Rheims before our sister should bow down.
That is the church, which in his dream he saw
And each particular is now fulfilled.
But images of woe he also saw!
Alas! I'm grieved to see her raised so high!
BERTRAND.
Why stand we idly here? Let's to the church
To view the coronation!
MARGOT.
Yes! perchance
We there may meet our sister; let us go!
LOUISON.
We have beheld her. Let us now return
Back to our village.
MARGOT.
How? Ere we with her
Have interchanged a word?
LOUISON.
She doth belong
To us no longer; she with princes stands
And monarchs. Who are we, that we should seek
With foolish vanity to near her state?
She was a stranger while she dwelt with us!
MARGOT.
Will she despise, and treat us with contempt?
BERTRAND.
The king himself is not ashamed of us,
He kindly greets the meanest of the crowd.
How high soever she may be exalted,
The king is raised still higher!
[Trumpets and kettle-drums are heard from the church.
CLAUDE MARIE.
Let's to the church!
[They hasten to the background, where they are lost among the crowd.
SCENE VIII.
THIBAUT enters, clad in black. RAIMOND follows him, and tries
to hold him back.
RAIMOND.
Stay, father Thibaut! Do not join the crowds!
Here, at this joyous festival you meet
None but the happy, whom your grief offends.
Come! Let us quit the town with hasty steps.
THIBAUT.
Hast thou beheld my child? My wretched child?
Didst thou observe her?
RAIMMOND.
I entreat you, fly!
THIBAUT.
Didst mark her tottering and uncertain steps,
Her countenance, so pallid and disturbed?
She feels her dreadful state; the hour is come
To save my child, and I will not neglect it.
[He is about to retire.
RAIMOND.
What would you do?
THIBAUT.
Surprise her, hurl her down
From her vain happiness, and forcibly
Restore her to the God whom she denies.
RAIMOND.
Oh, do not work the ruin of your child!
THIBAUT.
If her soul lives, her mortal part may die.
[JOHANNA rushes out of the church, without her banner.
The people press around her, worship her, and kiss her
garments. She is detained in the background by the crowd.
She comes! 'tis she! She rushes from the church.
Her troubled conscience drives her from the fane!
'Tis visibly the judgment of her God!
RAIMOND.
Farewell! Require not my attendance further!
Hopeful I came, and sorrowful depart.
Your daughter once again I have beheld,
And feel again that she is lost to me!
[He goes out. THIBAUT retires on the opposite side.
