Locrine: A Tragedy Part 19

Enter GUENDOLEN and MADAN.

GUENDOLEN.

Come close, and look upon me. Child or man, - I know not how to call thee, being my child, Who know not how myself am called, nor can - G.o.d witness--tell thee what should she be styled Who bears the brand and burden set on her That man hath set on me--the lands are wild Whence late I bade thee hither, swift of spur As he that rides to guard his mother's life; Thou hast found nought loathlier there, nought hate-fuller In all the wilds that seethe with fluctuant strife, Than here besets thine advent. Son, if thou Be son of mine, and I thy father's wife -

MADAN.

If heaven be heaven, and G.o.d be G.o.d.

GUENDOLEN.

As now We know not if they be. Give me thine hand.

Thou hast mine eyes beneath thy father's brow, - And therefore bears it not the traitor's brand.

Swear--But I would not bid thee swear in vain Nor bind thee ere thine own soul understand, Ere thine own heart be molten with my pain, To do such work for bitter love of me As haply, knowing my heart, thou wert not fain - Even thou--to take upon thee--bind on thee - Set all thy soul to do or die.

MADAN.

I swear.

GUENDOLEN.

And though thou sworest not, yet the thing should be.

The burden found for me so sore to bear Why should I lay on any hand but mine, Or bid thine own take part therein, and wear A father's blood upon it--here--for sign?

Ay, now thou pluck'st it forth of hers to whom Thou sworest and gavest it plighted. O Locrine, Thy seed it was that sprang within my womb, Thine, and none other--traitor born and liar, False-faced, false-tongued--the fire of h.e.l.l consume Me, thee, and him for ever!

MADAN.

Hath my sire Wronged thee?

GUENDOLEN.

Thy sire? my lord? the flower of men?

How?

MADAN.

For thy tongue was tipped but now with fire - With fire of h.e.l.l--against him.

GUENDOLEN.

Now, and then, Are twain; thou knowest not women, how their tongue Takes fire, and straight learns patience: Guendolen Is there no more than crownless woman, wrung At heart with anguish, and in utterance mad As even the meanest whom a snake hath stung So near the heart that all the pulse it had Grows palpitating poison. Wilt thou know Whence?

MADAN.

Could I heal it, then mine own were glad.

GUENDOLEN.

What think'st thou were the bitterest wrong, the woe Least bearable by woman, worst of all That man might lay upon her? Nay, thou art slow: Speak: though thou speak but folly. Silent? Call To mind whatso thou hast ever heard of ill Most monstrous, that should turn to fire and gall The milk and blood of maid or mother--still Thou shalt not find, I think, what he hath done - What I endure, and die not. For my will It is that holds me yet alive, O son, Till all my wrong be wroken, here to keep Fast watch, a living soul before the sun, Anhungered and athirst for night and sleep, That will not slake the ravin of her thirst Nor quench her fire of hunger, till she reap The harvest loved of all men, last as first - Vengeance.

MADAN.

What wrong is this he hath done thee? Words Are edgeless weapons: live we blest or curst, No jot the more of evil or good engirds The life with bitterest curses compa.s.sed round Or girt about with blessing. Hinds and herds Wage threats and brawl and wrangle: wind and sound Suffice their souls for vengeance: we require Deeds, and till place for these and time be found Silence. What bids thee bid me slay my sire?

GUENDOLEN.

I praise the G.o.ds that gave me thee: thine heart Is none of his, no changeling's in desire, No coward's as who begat thee: mine thou art All, and mine only. Lend me now thine ear: Thou knowest -

MADAN.

What anguish holds thy lips apart And strikes thee silent? Am I bound to hear What thou to speak art bound not?

GUENDOLEN.

How my lord, Our lord, thy sire--the king whose throne is here Imperial--smote and drove the wolf-like horde That raged against us from the raging east, And how their chief sank in the unsounded ford He thought to traverse, till the floods increased Against him, and he perished: and Locrine Found in his camp for sovereign spoil to feast The sense of power with l.u.s.tier joy than wine A woman--Dost thou mock me?

MADAN.

And a fair Woman, if all men lie not, mother mine - I have heard so much. And then?

GUENDOLEN.

Thou dost not dare Mock me?

MADAN.

I know not what should make thee mad Though this and worse, howbeit it irk thee, were.

Art thou discrowned, dethroned, disrobed, unclad Of empire? art thou powerless, bloodless, old?

This were some hurt: but now--thou shouldst be glad To take this chance upon thee, and to hold So large a lordly happiness in hand As when my father's and thy lord's is cold Shall leave in thine the sway of all this land.

GUENDOLEN.

And thou? no she-wolf whelps upon the wold Whose brood is like thy mother's.

MADAN.

Nay--I stand A man thy son before thee.

GUENDOLEN.

And a bold Man: is thine heart flesh, or a burning brand Lit to burn up and turn for thee to gold The kings.h.i.+p of thy sire?

MADAN.

Why, blessed or banned, We thrive alike--thou knowest it--why, but now I said so,--scarce the gla.s.s has dropped one sand - And thou didst smile on me--and all thy brow Smiled.

GUENDOLEN.