The Duchess of Malfi

by Frank Kermode

  Bought me this gay attire, these ornaments?

  Forget you our estate, our poverty?

  SIR C. Call me not brother, but imagine me

  Some barbarous outlaw, or uncivil kern;91

  For if thou shutt’st thy eye, and only hear’st

  The words that I shall utter, thou shalt judge me

  Some staring ruffian, not thy brother Charles,

  O, sister!—

  SUSAN. O, brother! what doth this strange language mean?

  SIR C. Dost love me, sister? Wouldst thou see me live

  A bankrupt beggar in the world’s disgrace,

  And die indebted to mine enemies?

  Wouldst thou behold me stand like a huge beam

  In the world’s eye, a bye-word and a scorn?

  It lies in thee of these to acquit me free,

  And all my debt I may outstrip by thee.

  SUSAN. By me? Why, I have nothing, nothing left;

  I owe even for the clothes upon my back;

  I am not worth—

  SIR C. O sister, say not so!

  It lies in you my downcast state to raise;

  To make me stand on even points with the world.

  Come, sister, you are rich; indeed you are,

  And in your power you have, without delay

  Acton’s five hundred pound back to repay.

  SUSAN. Till now I had thought y’ had loved me. By my honor

  (Which I have kept as spotless as the moon),

  I ne’er was mistress of that single doit92

  Which I reserved not to supply your wants;

  And d’ye think that I would hoard from you?

  Now, by my hopes in heaven, knew I the means

  To buy you from the slavery of your debts

  (Especially from Acton, whom I hate),

  I would redeem it with my life or blood!

  SIR C. I challenge it, and, kindred set apart,

  Thus, ruffian-like, I lay siege to thy heart.

  What do I owe to Acton?

  SUSAN. Why, some five hundred pounds towards which, I swear,

  In all the world I have not one denier.93

  SIR C. It will not prove so. Sister, now resolve me:

  What do you think (and speak your conscience)

  Would Acton give, might he enjoy your bed?

  SUSAN. He would not shrink to spend a thousand pound,

  To give the Mountfords’ name so deep a wound.

  SIR C. A thousand pound! I but five hundred owe:

  Grant him your bed, he’s paid with interest so.

  SUSAN. O, brother!

  SIR C. O, sister! only this one way,

  With that rich jewel you my debts may pay.

  In speaking this my cold heart shakes with shame;

  Nor do I woo you in a brother’s name,

  But in a stranger’s. Shall I die in debt

  To Acton, my grand foe, and you still wear

  The precious jewel that he holds so dear?

  SUSAN. My honor I esteem as dear and precious

  As my redemption.

  SIR C. I esteem you, sister.

  As dear, for so dear prizing it.

  SUSAN. Will Charles

  Have me cut off my hands, and send them to Acton?

  Rip up my breast, and with my bleeding heart

  Present him as a token?

  SIR C. Neither, sister;

  But hear me in my strange assertion!

  Thy honor and my soul are equal in my regard;

  Nor will thy brother Charles survive thy shame.

  His kindness, like a burden, hath surcharged me,

  And under his good deeds I stooping go,

  Not with an upright soul. Had I remained

  In prison still, there doubtless I had died.

  Then, unto him that freed me from that prison,

  Still do I owe this life. What moved my foe

  To enfranchise me? ’Twas, sister, for your love;

  And shall he not enjoy it? Shall the weight

  Of all this heavy burden lean on me,

  And will not you bear part? You did partake

  The joy of my release; will you not stand

  In joint-bond bound to satisfy the debt?

  Shall I be only charged?

  SUSAN. But that I know

  These arguments come from an honored mind,

  As in your most extremity of need

  Scorning to stand in debt to one you hate,—

  Nay, rather would engage your unstained honor,

  Than to be held ingrate,—I should condemn you.

  I see your resolution, and assent;

  So Charles will have me, and I am content.

  SIR C. For this I tricked you up.

  SUSAN. But here’s a knife,

  To save mine honor, shall slice out my life.

  SIR C. I know thou pleasest me a thousand times

  More in thy resolution than thy grant.

  Observe her love; to soothe it to my suit,

  Her honor she will hazard, though not lose;

  To bring me out of debt, her rigorous hand

  Will pierce her heart,—O wonder!—that will choose,

  Rather than stain her blood, her life to lose.

  Come, you sad sister to a woful brother,

  This is the gate. I’ll bear him such a present,

  Such an acquittance for the knight to seal,

  As will amaze his senses, and surprise

  With admiration all his fantasies.

  Enter [Sir Francis] Acton and Malby

  SUSAN. Before his unchaste thoughts shall seize on me,

  ’Tis here shall my imprisoned soul set free.

  SIR F. How! Mountford with his sister, hand in hand!

  What miracle’s afoot?

  MAL. It is a sight

  Begets in me much admiration.

  SIR C. Stand not amazed to see me thus attended!

  Acton, I owe thee money, and, being unable

  To bring thee the full sum in ready coin,

  Lo! for thy more assurance, here’s a pawn,—

  My sister, my dear sister, whose chaste honor

  I prize above a million. Here! Nay, take her;

  She’s worth your money, man; do not forsake her.

  SIR F. I would he were in earnest!

  SUSAN. Impute it not to my immodesty.

  My brother, being rich in nothing else

  But in his interest that he hath in me,

  According to his poverty hath brought you

  Me, all his store; whom, howsoe’er you prize,

  As forfeit to your hand, he values highly,

  And would not sell, but to acquit your debt,

  For any emperor’s ransom.

  SIR F. [Aside] Stern heart, relent,

  Thy former cruelty at length repent!

  Was ever known, in any former age,

  Such honorable, wrested94 courtesy?

  Lands, honors, life, and all the world forego,

  Rather than stand engaged to such a foe!

  SIR C. Acton, she is too poor to be thy bride,

  And I too much opposed to be thy brother.

  There, take her to thee; if thou hast the heart

  To seize her as a rape, or lustful prey;

  To blur our house, that never yet was stained;

  To murder her that never meant thee harm;

  To kill me now, whom once thou sav’dst from death:—

  Do them at once; on her all these rely,

  And perish with her spotless chastity.

  SIR F. You overcome me in your love, Sir Charles.

  I cannot be so cruel to a lady

  I love so dearly. Since you have not spared

  To engage your reputation to the world,

  Your sister’s honor, which you prize so dear,

  Nay, all the comfort which you hold on earth,

  To grow out of my debt, being your foe,—

  Your honored thoughts, lo! thus I recompe
nse.

  Your metamorphosed foe receives your gift

  In satisfaction of all former wrongs.

  This jewel I will wear here in my heart;

  And where before I thought her, for her wants,

  Too base to be my bride, to end all strife,

  I seal you my dear brother, her my wife.

  SUSAN. You still exceed us. I will yield to fate,

  And learn to love, where I till now did hate.

  SIR C. With that enchantment you have charmed my soul,

  And made me rich even in those very words!

  I pay no debt, but am indebted more;

  Rich in your love, I never can be poor.

  SIR F. All’s mine is yours; we are alike in state;

  Let’s knit in love what was opposed in hate!

  Come, for our nuptials we will straight provide,

  Blest only in our brother and fair bride.

  Exeunt

  SCENE II

  Enter Cranwell, Frankford, and Nick

  CRAN. Why do you search each room about your house,

  Now that you have despatched your wife away?

  FRANK. O, sir! To see that nothing may be left

  That ever was my wife’s. I loved her dearly;

  And when I do but think of her unkindness,

  My thoughts are all in hell; to avoid which torment,

  I would not have a bodkin or a cuff,

  A bracelet, necklace, or rebato wire,95

  Nor any thing that ever was called hers,

  Left me, by which I might remember her.—

  See round about.

  NICK. ’Sblood! master, here’s her lute flung in a corner.

  FRANK. Her lute! O, God! Upon this instrument

  Her fingers have ran quick division,96

  Sweeter than that which now divides our hearts.

  These frets have made me pleasant, that have now

  Frets of my heart-strings made. O, Master Cranwell,

  Oft hath she made this melancholy wood

  (Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance)

  Speak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain

  To her own ravishing voice; which being well strung,

  What pleasant strange airs have they jointly rung!—

  Post with it after her!—Now nothing’s left;

  Of her and hers I am at once bereft.

  NICK. I’ll ride and overtake her; do my message,

  And come back again.

  Exit

  CRAN. Meantime, sir, if you please,

  I’ll to Sir Francis Acton, and inform him

  Of what hath passed betwixt you and his sister.

  FRANK. Do as you please.—How ill am I bested,97

  To be a widower ere my wife be dead!

  Exeunt

  SCENE III

  Enter Mistress Frankford, with Jenkin, her maid Cicely, her Coachman, and three Carters

  ANNE. Bid my coach stay! Why should I ride in state,

  Being hurled so low down by the hand of fate?

  A seat like to my fortunes let me have,

  Earth for my chair, and for my bed a grave!

  JEN. Comfort, good mistress; you have watered your coach with tears already. You have but two miles now to go to your manor. A man cannot say by my old master Frankford as he may say by me, that he wants manors; for he hath three or four, of which this is one that we are going to now.

  CIC. Good mistress, be of good cheer! Sorrow, you see, hurts you, but helps you not; we all mourn to see you so sad.

  CARTER. Mistress, I see some of my landlord’s men

  Come riding post: ’tis like be brings some news.

  ANNE. Comes he from Master Frankford, he is welcome;

  So is his news, because they come from him.

  Enter Nicholas

  NICK. There!

  ANNE. I know the lute. Oft have I sung to thee;

  We both are out of tune, both out of time.

  NICK. Would that had been the worst instrument that e’er you played on! My master commends him unto ye; there’s all he can find was ever yours; he hath nothing left that ever you could lay claim to but his own heart,—and he could afford you that! All that I have to deliver you is this: he prays you to forget him; and so he bids you farewell.

  ANNE. I thank him; he is kind, and ever was.

  All you that have true feeling of my grief,

  That know my loss, and have relenting hearts,

  Gird me about, and help me with your tears

  To wash my spotted sins! My lute shall groan;

  It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan.

  Enter Wendoll [behind]98

  WEN. Pursued with horror of a guilty soul,

  And with the sharp scourge of repentance lashed,

  I fly from mine own shadow. O my stars!

  What have my parents in their lives deserved,

  That you should lay this penance on their son?

  When I but think of Master Frankford’s love,

  And lay it to my treason, or compare

  My murdering him for his relieving me,

  It strikes a terror like a lightning’s flash,

  To scorch my blood up. Thus I, like the owl,

  Ashamed of day, live in these shadowy woods,

  Afraid of every leaf or murm’ring blast,

  Yet longing to receive some perfect knowledge

  How he hath dealt with her.

  [Seeing Mistress Frankford]

  O my sad fate!

  Here, and so far from home, and thus attended!

  O, God! I have divorced the truest turtles

  That ever lived together, and being divided,

  In several places make their several moan;

  She in the fields laments, and he at home.

  So poets write that Orpheus made the trees

  And stones to dance to his melodious harp,

  Meaning the rustic and the barbarous hinds,

  That had no understanding part in them.

  So she from these rude carters tears extracts,

  Making their flinty hearts with grief to rise,

  And draw down rivers from their rocky eyes.

  ANNE. [To Nicholas] If you return unto your master, say

  (Though not from me, for I am all unworthy

  To blast his name so with a strumpet’s tongue)

  That you have seen me weep, wish myself dead!

  Nay, you may say, too (for my vow is past),99

  Last night you saw me eat and drink my last.

  This to your master you may say and swear;

  For it is writ in heaven, and decreèd here.

  NICK. I’ll say you wept; I’ll swear you made me sad.

  Why, how now, eyes? What now? What’s here to do?

  I’m gone, or I shall straight turn baby too.

  WEN. I cannot weep, my heart is all on fire.

  Curs’d be the fruits of my unchaste desire!

  ANNE. Go, break this lute upon my coach’s wheel,

  As the last music that I e’er shall make,—

  Not as my husband’s gift, but my farewell

  To all earth’s joy; and so your master tell!

  NICK. If I can for crying.

  WEN. Grief, have done,

  Or, like a madman, I shall frantic run.

  ANNE. You have beheld the wofull’st wretch on earth,—

  A woman made of tears; would you had words

  To express but what you see! My inward grief

  No tongue can utter; yet unto your power

  You may describe my sorrow, and disclose

  To thy sad master my abundant woes.

  NICK. I’ll do your commendations.

  ANNE. O, no!

  I dare not so presume; nor to my children!

  I am disclaimed in both; alas! I am.

  O, never teach them, when they come to speak,

  To name the name of mother: chide their tongue,

  If they by chance light on that hated
word;

  Tell them ’tis naught;100 for when that word they name,

  Poor, pretty souls! they harp on their own shame.

  WEN. To recompense her wrongs, what canst thou do?

  Thou hast made her husbandless, and childless too.

  ANNE. I have no more to say.—Speak not for me;

  Yet you may tell your master what you see.

  NICK. I’ll do’t.

  Exit

  WEN. I’ll speak to her, and comfort her in grief.

  O, but her wound cannot be cured with words!

  No matter, though; I’ll do my best good will

  To work a cure on her whom I did kill.

  ANNE. So, now unto my coach, then to my home,

  So to my death-bed; for from this sad hour,

  I never will nor eat, nor drink, nor taste

  Of any cates101 that may preserve my life.

  I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor rest;

  But when my tears have washed my black soul white,

  Sweet Saviour, to thy hands I yield my sprite.

  WEN. [Coming forward] O, Mistress Frankford!

  ANNE. O, for God’s sake, fly!

  The devil doth come to tempt me, ere I die.

  My coach!—This sin, that with an angel’s face

  Conjured mine honor, till be sought my wrack,102

  In my repentant eye seems ugly black.

  Exeunt all [except Wendoll and Jenkin;] the Carters whistling

  JEN. What, my young master, that fled in his shirt! How come you by your clothes again? You have made our house in a sweet pickle, ha’ ye not, think you? What, shall I serve you still, or cleave to the house?

  WEN. Hence, slave! Away, with thy unseasoned mirth!

  Unless thou canst shed tears, and sigh, and howl,

  Curse thy sad fortunes, and exclaim on fate,

  Thou art not for my turn.

  JEN. Marry, an you will not, another will! farewell, and be hanged!

  Would you had never come to have kept this coil103 within our doors!

  We shall ha’ you run away like a sprite again.

  Exit

  WEN. She’s gone to death; I live to want and woe,

  Her life, her sins, and all upon my head.

  And I must now go wander, like a Cain,

  In foreign countries and remoted climes,

  Where the report of my ingratitude

  Cannot be heard. I’ll over first to France,

  And so to Germany and Italy;

  Where, when I have recovered, and by travel

  Gotten those perfect tongues, and that these rumors

  May in their height abate, I will return:

  And I divine (however now dejected),

  My worth and parts being by some great man praised,

  At my return I may in court be raised.

  Exit