Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)
Page 285
And Arthur never missed it. Yet again
The thought strikes back and stabs me, what are they,
What are they all, that they should live, and I
Die? Arthur told me, surely, that this death
Was pangless — swift and soft as when betimes
We sink away to sleep. If sin it is,
I will die praying for pardon: God must see
I am no more fit to live than is a bird
Wounded to death.
Enter
Sir Francis, Sir Arthur, and
Frank.
SIR FRANCIS.
Well, Anne, and could you rest
Well after murdering Mabel? Here is Frank
Declares his crimes would hardly let him sleep:
While he who made you criminals appears
Shamelessly happy.
FRANK.
Redgie always was
Hardened: the plays he used to improvise
At school were deep in bloodshed.
SIR ARTHUR.
Let us trust
That happiness and age may make his Muse
Milder.
ANNE.
I am sure I hope so. It was hard
To find yourself so wicked.
SIR FRANCIS.
Hard on you,
Certainly. Were you tired?
ANNE.
Why? Do I look
Tired?
SIR FRANCIS.
Well, not tired exactly; still, your eyes
Look hot and dull.
ANNE.
All eyes cannot be bright
Always, like Reginald’s and Mabel’s.
SIR ARTHUR.
Ah,
It does one good to see them. Since the world
Began, or love began it, never was
A brighter pair of lovers. What a life
Will theirs be, if the morning of it mean
Really the thing it seems to say, and noon
Keep half the promise of it!
FRANK.
That it should,
If they get only their deserts: they are,
He the best fellow, she the best girl born.
SIR FRANCIS.
You’re not a bad friend, Frank, I will say.
ANNE.
No.
He is not.
SIR FRANCIS.
What your father would have said
To my approval of the match, perhaps
It’s best not guessing: but the harshest brute
That ever made his broken-hearted ward
The subject or the heroine of a tale
Must, I think, have relented here.
SIR ARTHUR.
But still
We are none the less your debtors — Redgie and I.
It lays on me an obligation too,
Your generous goodness to him.
SIR FRANCIS.
No, none at all.
I would not let the youngster tell me so.
Enter
Reginald
and
Mabel.
So, you can look us in the face, my boy,
And not be, as you should, ashamed to see
How much less happy are other folk than you?
Your face is like the morning.
REGINALD.
Does it blush?
You’d see I was ashamed then.
MABEL.
What, of me,
Redgie? It’s rather soon to say so. Still,
It’s not too late — happily.
SIR FRANCIS.
Nothing can
Happen that does not fall out happily,
It seems, for you — and nothing should, I think,
Ever. Come with me, Frank: I want you.
FRANK.
Why?
SIR FRANCIS.
I never thought you quite so dull till now.
Come.
[Exeunt
Sir Francis
and
Frank.
SIR ARTHUR.
Take me with you: I’m superfluous too.
[Exit.
MABEL.
Don’t you go, Anne.
ANNE.
I will not if you wish.
MABEL.
I do, and so does Redgie. We have seen
These last few days as little of you, you know,
As if you had been — well, anywhere.
ANNE.
Except,
Remember, at rehearsals; and last night
We came against each other on the stage.
MABEL.
Indeed we did. Is that a property
You have kept about you?
ANNE.
What? where? this — ah no,
A — something for a touch of cold I caught
Last night — I think at least it was last night.
Arthur prescribed it for me.
MABEL.
Let me taste.
I am hoarse — I am sure I must be hoarse to-day
With rattling out all Redgie’s rant — much more
Than you did.
ANNE.
No: you do not want it.
MABEL.
Anne!
ANNE.
You cannot want it, Mabel.
MABEL.
How can you
Know? Don’t be positive — and selfish.
ANNE.
There —
Take it. No — do not taste it, Mabel.
MABEL.
Look,
Redgie, how strange a pretty colour! Why,
One wants a name to praise it — and it smells
Like miles on miles of almond-blossom, all
Condensed in one full flower. If this had been
The poison Anne and you prepared for me,
I really would have taken it last night
And not pretended, as I did, to sip,
And kept my lips dry.
[Drinks.
REGINALD.
Does the flavour match
The colour?
MABEL.
It’s a sweet strange taste. Don’t you
Try: you won’t like it.
REGINALD.
Let me know, at least.
[Drinks.
ANNE.
You do not yet: or do you now know?
MABEL.
Anne!
What have we done — and you? What is it?
ANNE.
Death,
Mabel. You see, you would not let me die
And leave you living.
MABEL.
Death? She is mad — she is mad!
Reginald, help us — her and me — but her
First.
REGINALD.
Lean hardly help myself to stand.
Sit you down by me.
ANNE.
Can the sun still shine?
I did not mean to murder you.
MABEL.
And yet
We are dying, are we not — dying?
ANNE.
I meant
To die, and never sin again or see
How happy past all dreams of happiness
You, whom he loved, and he, who loved you, were.
Re-enter
Sir Francis, Sir Arthur, and
Frank.
SIR FRANCIS.
We are here again, you see, already. Why,
What strange new tragic play is this you are all
Rehearsing?
ANNE.
Mabel, if you can forgive,
Say so. I may remember that in hell.
MABEL.
I do. And so does Redgie. But you might
Have spared or saved him.
ANNE.
How, and let you die?
REGINALD.
Ah, how? She did not mean it.
ANNE.
And do you
Forgive me?
REGINALD.
Surely. I am one with h
er,
And she forgives.
SIR ARTHUR.
They are dying indeed. And she
Has killed them.
REGINALD.
No. She did not mean.
MABEL.
Indeed,
She did not.
SIR FRANCIS.
God in heaven! What dream is this?
ANNE.
God help me! But God will not. I must die
Alone, if they forgive me. I must die.
[Exit.
REGINALD.
It was a terrible accident, you see —
Was it not, Mabel? That is all we know.
MABEL.
All.
FRANK.
Redgie, will you speak to me?
REGINALD.
Good night,
Frank — dear old Frank — my brother and hers. And you,
Good night, dear Arthur. Think we are going to see
Our mother, Mabel — Frank’s and ours.
MABEL.
I will.
But, Reginald, how hard it is to go!
REGINALD.
We have been so happy, darling, let us die
Thinking of that, and thanking God.
MABEL.
I will.
Kiss me. Ah, Redgie!
[Dies.
REGINALD.
Mabel! I am here.
[Dies.
SIR ARTHUR.
They could have lived no happier than they die.
THE END
ROSAMUND, QUEEN OF THE LOMBARDS
CONTENTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ACT I
ACT II
ACT III
ACT IV
ACT V
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ALBOVINE, King of the Lombards.
ALMACHILDES, a young Lombard warrior.
NARSETES, an old leader and counsellor.
ROSAMUND, Queen of the Lombards
HILDEGARD, a noble Lombard maiden.
SCENE, VERONA
Time, June 573
ACT I
A hall in the Palace: a curtain drawn midway across it.
Enter ALBOVINE and NARSETES.
ALBOVINE.
This is no matter of the wars: in war
Thy king, old friend, is less than king of thine,
And comrade less than follower. Hast thou loved
Ever — loved woman, not as chance may love,
But as thou hast loved thy sword or friend — or me?
Thou hast shewn me love more stout of heart than death.
Death quailed before thee when thou gav’st me life,
Borne down in battle.
NARSETES.
Woman? As I love
Flowers in their season. A rose is but a rose.
ALBOVINE.
Dost thou know rose from thistle or bindweed? Man,
Speak as our north wind speaks, if harsh and hard -
Truth.
NARSETES.
White I know from red, and dark from bright,
And milk from blood in hawthorn-flowers: but not
Woman from woman.
ALBOVINE.
How should God our Lord,
Except his eye see further than his world?
For women ever make themselves anew,
Meseems, to match and mock the maker. Friend,
If ever I were friend of thine in fight,
Speak, and I bid thee not speak truth: I know
Thy tongue knows nought but truth or silence.
NARSETES.
Is it
A king’s or friend’s part, king, to bid his friend
Speak what he knows not? Speak then thou, that I
May find thy will and answer it.
ALBOVINE.
I am fain
And loth to tell thee how it wrings my heart
That now this hard-eyed heavy southern sun
Hath wrought its will upon us all a year
And yet I know not if my wife be mine.
NARSETES.
Thy meanest man at arms had known ere dawn
Blinked on his bridal birthday.
ALBOVINE.
Did I bid thee
Mock, and forget me for thy friend — I say not,
King? Is thy heart so light and lean a thing,
So loose in faith and faint in love? I bade thee
Stand to me, help me, hold my hand in thine
And give my heart back answer. This it is,
Old friend and fool, that gnaws my life in twain -
The worm that writhes and feeds about my heart -
The devil and God are crying in either ear
One murderous word for ever, night and day,
Dark day and deadly night and deadly day,
Can she love thee who slewest her father? I
Love her.
NARSETES.
Thy wife should love thee as thy sire’s
Loved him. Thou art worth a woman — heart for heart.
ALBOVINE.
My sire’s wife loved him? Hers he had not slain.
Would God I might but die and burn in hell
And know my love had loved me!
NARSETES.
Is thy name
Babe? Sweet are babes as flowers that wed the sun,
But man may be not born a babe again,
And less than man may woman. Rosamund
Stands radiant now in royal pride of place
As wife of thine and queen of Lombards — not
Cunimund’s daughter. Hadst thou slain her sire
Shamefully, shame were thine to have sought her hand
And shame were hers to love thee: but he died
Manfully, by thy mightier hand than his
Manfully mastered. War, born blind as fire,
Fed not as fire upon her: many a maid
As royal dies disrobed of all but shame
And even to death burnt up for shame’s sake: she
Lives, by thy grace, imperial.
ALBOVINE.
He or I,
Her lord or sire, which hath most part in her,
This hour shall try between us.
Enter ROSAMUND.
ROSAMUND.
Royal lord,
Thy wedded handmaid craves of thee a grace.
ALBOVINE.
My sovereign bids her bondman what she will.
ROSAMUND.
I bid thee mock me not: I may ask thee
Aught, and be heard of any save my lord.
ALBOVINE.
Go, friend. [Exit NARSETES.]
Speak now. Say first what ails thee?
ROSAMUND.
Me?
ALBOVINE.
Thy voice was honey-hearted music, sweet
As wine and glad as clarions: not in battle
Might man have more of joy than I to hear it
And feel delight dance in my heart and laugh
Too loud for hearing save its own. Thou rose,
Why did God give thee more than all thy kin
Whose pride is perfume only and colour, this?
Music? No rose but mine sings, and the birds
Hush all their hearts to hearken. Dost thou hear not
How heavy sounds her note now?
ROSAMUND.
Sire, not I.
But sire I should not call thee.
ALBOVINE.
Surely, no.
I bade thee speak: I did not bid thee sing:
Thou canst not speak and sing not.
ROSAMUND.
Albovine,
I had at heart a simple thing to crave
And thought not on thy flatteries — as I think not
Now. Knowest thou not my handmaid Hildegard
Free-born, a noble maiden?
ALBOVINE.
And a fair
As ever shone like sundawn on the snows.
ROSAMUND.
I had at heart to plead for her
with thee.
ALBOVINE.
Plead? hast thou found her noble maidenhood
Ignobly turned unmaidenlike? I may not
Lightly believe it.
ROSAMUND.
Believe it not at all.
Wouldst thou think shame of me — lightly? She loves
As might a maid whose kin were northern gods
The fairest-faced of warriors Lombard born,
Thine Almachildes.
ALBOVINE.
If he loves not her,
More fool is he than warrior even, though war
Have wakened laughter in his eyes, and left
His golden hair fresh gilded, when his hand
Had won the crown that clasps a boy’s brows close
With first-born sign of battle.
ROSAMUND.
No such fool
May live in such a warrior; if he love not
Some loveliness not hers. No face as bright
Crowned with so fair a Mayflower crown of praise
Lacked ever yet love, if its eyes were set
With all their soul to loveward.
ALBOVINE.
Ay?
ROSAMUND.
I know not
A man so fair of face. I like him well.
And well he hath served and loves thee.
ALBOVINE.
Ay? The boy
Seems winsome then with women.
ROSAMUND.
Hildegard
Hath hearkened when he spake of love — it may be,