Scene I edit
A HOUSE NEAR WHITEHALL.
(As in Act I. Scene I.)
The same Party enters confusedly; among the first, the younger VANE
and RUDYARD.
RUDYARD.
Twelve subsidies!
VANE.
O Rudyard, do not laugh
At least!
RUDYARD.
True: Strafford called the Parliament—
'Tis he should laugh!
A PURITAN (entering).
—Out of the serpent's root
Comes forth a cockatrice.
FIENNES (entering).
—A stinging one,
If that's the Parliament: twelve subsidies!
A stinging one! but, brother, where's your word
For Strafford's other nest-egg—the Scot's War?
THE PURITAN.
His fruit shall be a fiery flying serpent.
FIENNES.
Shall be? It chips the shell, man; peeps abroad:
Twelve subsidies!—
Why, how now Vane?
RUDYARD.
Hush, Fiennes!
FIENNES.
Ah? . . . but he was not more a dupe than I,
Or you, or any here the day that Pym
Returned with the good news. Look up, dear Vane!
We all believed that Strafford meant us well
In summoning the Parliament . . .
(HAMPDEN enters.)
VANE (starting up).
Now, Hampden,
Clear me! I would have leave to sleep again!
I'd look the People in the face again!
Clear me from having, from the first, hoped, dreamed
Better of Strafford! Fool!
HAMPDEN.
You'll grow one day
A steadfast light to England, Vane!
RUDYARD.
Ay, Fiennes,
Strafford revived our Parliaments: before,
War was but talked of; there's an army, now:
Still, we've a Parliament. Poor Ireland bears
Another wrench (she dies the hardest death!)
Why . . . speak of it in Parliament! and, lo,
'Tis spoken!—and console yourselves.
FIENNES.
The jest!
We clamoured, I suppose, thus long, to win
The privilege of laying on ourselves
A sorer burthen than the King dares lay!
RUDYARD.
Mark now: we meet at length: complaints pour in
From every county: all the land cries out
On loans and levies, curses ship-money,
Calls vengeance on the Star-chamber: we lend
An ear: "ay, lend them all the ears you have,"
Puts in the King; "my subjects, as you find,
Are fretful, and conceive great things of you:
Just listen to them, friends: you'll sanction me
The measures they most wince at, make them yours
Instead of mine, I know: and, to begin,
They say my levies pinch them,—raise me straight
Twelve subsidies!"
FIENNES and others.
All England cannot furnish
Twelve subsidies!
HOLLIS.
But Strafford, just returned
From Ireland . . what has he to do with that?
How could he speak his mind? He left before
The Parliament assembled: Rudyard, friends,
He could not speak his mind! and Pym, who knows
Strafford . . .
RUDYARD.
Would I were sure we know ourselves!
What is for good, what, bad—who friend, who foe!
HOLLIS.
Do you count Parliaments no gain?
RUDYARD.
A gain?
While the King's creatures overbalance us?
—There's going on, beside, among ourselves
A quiet, slow, but most effectual course
Of buying over, sapping, . .
A PURITAN.
. . Leavening
The lump till all is leaven.
A VOICE.
Glanville's gone.
RUDYARD.
I'll put a case; had not the Court declared
That no sum short of just twelve subsidies
Will be accepted by the King—our House
Would have consented to that wretched offer
To let us buy off Ship-money?
HOLLIS.
Most like,
If . . . say six subsidies, will buy it off,
The House. . . .
RUDYARD.
. . Will grant them! Hampden, do you hear?
Oh, I congratulate you that the King
Has gained his point at last . . our own assent
To that detested tax! all's over then!
There's no more taking refuge in this room
And saying, "Let the King do what he will,
We, England, are no party to our shame,—
Our day will come!" Congratulate with me!
(PYM enters.)
VANE.
Pym, Strafford called this Parliament, 'tis like—
But we'll not have our Parliaments like those
In Ireland, Pym!
RUDYARD.
Let him stand forth, that Strafford!
One doubtful act hides far too many sins;
It can be stretched no more—and, to my mind,
Begins to drop from those it covers.
OTHER VOICES.
Pym,
Let him avow himself! No fitter time!
We wait thus long for you!
RUDYARD.
Perhaps, too long!
Since nothing but the madness of the Court
In thus unmasking its designs at once
Had saved us from betraying England. Stay—
This Parliament is Strafford's: let us vote
Our list of grievances too black by far
To suffer talk of subsidies: or best—
That Ship-money's disposed of long ago
By England; any vote that's broad enough:
And then let Strafford, for the love of it,
Support his Parliament!
VANE.
And vote as well
No war's to be with Scotland! Hear you, Pym?
We'll vote, no War! No part nor lot in it
For England!
MANY VOICES.
Vote, no War! Stop the new levies!
No Bishop's War! At once! When next we meet!
PYM.
Much more when next we meet!
—Friends, which of you
Since first the course of Strafford was in doubt
Has fallen the most away in soul from me?
VANE.
I sate apart, even now, under God's eye,
Pondering the words that should denounce you, Pym,
In presence of us all, as one at league
With England's enemy!
PYM.
You are a good
And gallant spirit, Henry! Take my hand
And say you pardon me for all the pain
Till now! Strafford is wholly ours.
MANY VOICES.
'Tis sure?
PYM.
Most sure—for Charles dissolves the Parliament
While I speak here! . . . (Great emotion in the assembly.)
. . And I must speak, friends, now!
Strafford is ours! The King detects the change,
Casts Strafford off for ever, and resumes
His ancient path: no Parliament for us—
No Strafford for the King!
Come all of you
To bid the King farewell, predict success
To his Scots expedition, and receive
Strafford, our comrade now! The next will be
Indeed a Parliament!
VANE.
Forgive me, Pym!
VOICES.
This looks like truth—Strafford can have, indeed,
No choice!
PYM.
Friends, follow me! he's with the King:
Come Hampden, and come Rudyard, and come Vane—
This is no sullen day for England, Vane!
Strafford shall tell you!
VOICES.
To Whitehall then! Come! (Exeunt omnes.)
Scene II edit
WHITEHALL.
CHARLES seated, STRAFFORD standing beside a table covered with maps, &c.
CHARLES.
Strafford . . .
STRAFFORD.
Is it a dream? my papers, here—
Thus—as I left them—all the plans you found
So happy—(look! The track you pressed my hand
For pointing out!)—and in this very room
Over these very plans, you tell me, Sire,
With the same face, too,—tell me just one thing
That ruins them! How's this? what may this mean?
Sire, who has done this?
CHARLES.
Strafford, none but I!
You bade me put the rest away—indeed
You are alone!
STRAFFORD.
Alone—and like to be!
No fear, when some unworthy scheme's grown ripe,
Of those who hatched it leaving you to loose
The mischief on the world! Laud hatches war,
Falls to his prayers, and leaves the rest to me—
And I'm alone!
CHARLES.
At least, you knew as much
When first you undertook the war.
STRAFFORD.
My liege,
Is this the way? I said, since Laud would lap
A little blood, 'twere best to hurry o'er
The loathsome business—not to be whole months
At slaughter—one blow—only one—then, peace—
Save for the dreams! I said, to please you both
I'd lead an Irish Army to the West,
While in the South the English . . . . . but you look
As though you had not told me fifty times
'Twas a brave plan! My Army is all raised—
I am prepared to join it . . .
CHARLES.
Hear me, Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
. . . When, for some little thing, my whole design
Is set aside—(where is the wretched paper?)
I am to lead—(ay, here it is)—to lead
This English Army: why? Northumberland
That I appointed, chooses to be sick—
Is frightened: and, meanwhile, who answers for
The Irish Parliament? or Army, either?
Is this my plan? I say, is this my plan?
CHARLES.
You are disrespectful, Sir!
STRAFFORD.
Do not believe—
My liege, do not believe it! I am yours—
Yours ever—'tis too late to think about—
To the death, yours! Elsewhere, this untoward step
Shall pass for mine—the world shall think it mine—
But, here! But, here! I am so seldom here!
Seldom with you, my King! I—soon to rush
Alone—upon a Giant—in the dark!
CHARLES.
My Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
(Seats himself at the table; examines papers awhile; then,
breaking off)
. . "Seize the passes of the Tyne" . . .
But don't you see—see all I say is true?
My plan was sure to prosper,—so, no cause
To ask the Parliament for help; whereas
We need them—frightfully . . .
CHARLES.
Need this Parliament?
STRAFFORD.
—Now, for God's sake, mind—not one error more!
We can afford no error—we draw, now,
Upon our last resource—this Parliament
Must help us!
CHARLES.
I've undone you, Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
Nay—
Nay—don't despond—Sire—'tis not come to that!
I have not hurt you? Sire—what have I said
To hurt you? I'll unsay it! Don't despond!
Sire, do you turn from me?
CHARLES.
My friend of friends!
STRAFFORD (after a pause).
We'll make a shift! Leave me the Parliament!
They help us ne'er so little but I'll make
A vast deal out of it. We'll speak them fair:
They're sitting: that's one great thing: that half gives
Their sanction to us: that's much: don't despond!
Why, let them keep their money, at the worst!
The reputation of the People's help
Is all we want: we'll make shift yet!
CHARLES.
Dear Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
But meantime, let the sum be ne'er so small
They offer, we'll accept it: any sum—
For the look of it: the least grant tells the Scots
The Parliament is ours . . their staunch ally
Is ours: that told, there's scarce a blow to strike!
What will the grant be? What does Glanville think?
CHARLES.
Alas . . .
STRAFFORD.
My liege?
CHARLES.
Strafford . . .
STRAFFORD.
But answer me!
Have they . . . O surely not refused us all?
All the twelve subsidies? We never looked
For all of them! How many do they give?
CHARLES.
You have not heard . . .
STRAFFORD.
(What has he done?)—Heard what?
But speak at once, Sire—this grows terrible!
(The King continuing silent.)
You have dissolved them!—I'll not leave this man.
CHARLES.
'Twas Vane—his ill-judged vehemence that . . .
STRAFFORD.
Vane?
CHARLES.
He told them, as they were about to vote
The half, that nothing short of all the twelve
Would serve our turn, or be accepted.
STRAFFORD.
Vane!
Vane! and you promised me that very Vane . . .
O God, to have it gone, quite gone from me
The one last hope—I that despair, my hope—
That I should reach his heart one day, and cure
All bitterness one day, be proud again
And young again, care for the sunshine too,
And never think of Eliot any more,—
God, and to toil for this, go far for this,
Get nearer, and still nearer, reach this heart—
And find Vane there!
(Suddenly taking up a paper, and continuing with a forced
calmness.) Northumberland is sick:
Well then, I take the Army: Wilmot leads
The Horse, and he with Conway must secure
The passes of the Tyne: Ormond supplies
My place in Ireland. Here, we'll try the City:
If they refuse a loan . . . debase the coin
And seize the bullion! we've no other choice.
Herbert . . .
(Flinging down the paper.) And this while I am here! with you!
And there are hosts such, hosts like Vane! I go,—
And, I once gone, they'll close around you, Sire,
When the least pique, pettiest mistrust, is sure
To ruin me—and you along with me!
Do you see that? And you along with me!
—Sire, you'll not ever listen to these men,
And I away, fighting your battle? Sire,
If they—if She—charge me—no matter what—
You say, "At any time when he returns
His head is mine." Don't stop me there! You know
My head is yours . . only, don't stop me there!
CHARLES.
Too shameful, Strafford! You advised the war,
And . . .
STRAFFORD.
I! I! that was never spoken with
Till it was entered on! That loathe the war!
That say it is the maddest, wickedest . . .
Do you know, Charles, I think, within my heart,
That you would say I did advise the war;
And if, thro' your own weakness, falsehood, Charles,
These Scots, with God to help them, drive me back . . .
You will not step between the raging People
And me, to say . . .
I knew you! from the first
I knew you! Never was so cold a heart!
Remember that I said it—that I never
Believed you for a moment!
—And, you loved me?
You thought your perfidy profoundly hid
Because I could not share your whisperings
With Vane? With Savile? But your hideous heart—
I had your heart to see, Charles! Oh, to have
A heart of stone—of smooth, cold, frightful stone!
Ay, call them! Shall I call for you? The Scots
Goaded to madness? Or the English—Pym—
Shall I call Pym, your subject? Oh, you think
I'll leave them in the dark about it all?
They shall not know you? Hampden, Pym shall not . . . .
(Enter PYM, HAMPDEN, VANE, &c.)
(Dropping on his knee.) Thus favoured with your gracious countenance
What shall a rebel League avail against
Your servant, utterly and ever yours?
(To the rest) So, Gentlemen, the King's not even left
The privilege of bidding me farewell
Who haste to save the People—that you style
Your People—from the mercies of the Scots
And France their friend?
(To CHARLES) Pym's grave grey eyes are fixed
Upon you, Sire!
(To the rest) Your pleasure, Gentlemen?
HAMPDEN.
The King dissolved us—'tis the King we seek
And not Lord Strafford.
STRAFFORD.
. . . . Strafford, guilty too
Of counselling the measure: (To CHARLES) (Hush . . you know . .
You have forgotten . . Sire, I counselled it!)
—(Aloud) A heinous matter, truly! But the King
Will yet see cause to thank me for a course
Which now, perchance . . (Sire, tell them so!) . . he blames.
Well, choose some fitter time to make your charge—
I shall be with the Scots—you understand?—
Then yelp at me!
Meanwhile, your Majesty
Binds me, by this fresh token of your trust . . .
(Under the pretence of an earnest farewell, STRAFFORD
conducts CHARLES to the door, in such a manner as to hide his
agitation from the rest: VANE and others gazing at them: as the
King disappears, they turn as by one impulse to PYM, who has not
changed his original posture of surprise.)
HAMPDEN.
Leave we this arrogant strong wicked man!
VANE and others.
Dear Pym! Come out of this unworthy place
To our old room again! Come, dearest Pym!
(STRAFFORD just about to follow the King, looks back.)
PYM.
(To STRAFFORD) Keep tryst! the old appointment's made anew:
Forget not we shall meet again!
STRAFFORD.
Be it so!
And if an Army follows me?
VANE.
His friends
Will entertain your Army!
PYM.
I'll not say
You have misreckoned, Strafford: time will . . . .
Perish
Body and spirit! Fool to feign a doubt—
Pretend the scrupulous and nice reserve
Of one whose prowess is to do the feat!
What share have I in it? Shall I affect
To see no dismal sign above your head
When God suspends his ruinous thunder there?
Strafford is doomed!—Touch him no one of you!
(Exeunt PYM, HAMPDEN, &c.)
STRAFFORD.
Pym we shall meet again!
(Enter CARLISLE.)
You here, girl?
CARLISLE.
Hush—
I know it all—hush, dearest Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
Ah?
Well. I shall make a sorry soldier, Lucy!
All Knights begin their enterprise, you know,
Under the best of auspices; 'tis morn—
The Lady girds his sword upon the Youth—
(He's always very young)—the trumpets sound—
Cups pledge him, and . . . and . . . the King blesses him—
You need not turn a page of the Romance
To learn the Dreadful Giant's fate! Indeed
We've the fair Lady here; but she apart,—
A poor man, never having handled lance,
And rather old, weary, and far from sure
His Squires are not the Giant's friends: well—well—
Let us go forth!
CARLISLE.
Go forth?
STRAFFORD.
What matters it?
We shall die gloriously—as the book says.
CARLISLE.
To Scotland? not to Scotland?
Am I sick
Like your good brother, brave Northumberland?
Beside the walls seem falling on me!
CARLISLE.
Strafford,
The wind that saps these walls can undermine
Your camp in Scotland, too! Whence creeps the wind?
Have you no eyes except for Pym? Look here!
A breed of silken creatures lurk and thrive
In your contempt; you'll vanquish Pym? Friend, Vane
Can vanquish you! And Vane you think to fly?—
Rush on the Scots! Do nobly! Vane's slight sneer
Shall test success—adjust the praise—suggest
The faint result: Vane's sneer shall reach you there!
—You do not listen!
STRAFFORD.
Oh . . I give that up—
There's fate in it—I give all here quite up.
Care not what Vane does or what Holland does
Against me! 'Tis so idle to withstand them—
In no case tell me what they do!
CARLISLE.
But Strafford. . . .
STRAFFORD.
I want a little strife, beside—real strife:
This petty, palace-warfare does me harm:
I shall feel better, fairly out of it.
CARLISLE.
Why do you smile?
STRAFFORD.
I got to fear them, girl!
I could have torn his throat at first, that Vane,
As he leered at me on his stealthy way
To the Queen's closet, Lucy—but of late
I often found it in my heart to say
"Vane—don't traduce me to her!"
CARLISLE.
But the King . . .
STRAFFORD.
The King stood there, 'tis not so long ago,
—There, and the whisper, Lucy, "Be my friend
Of friends!"—My King! I would have . . .
CARLISLE.
. . . Died for him?
STRAFFORD.
. . Sworn him true, Lucy: I will die for him.
CARLISLE.
(Aside.) What can he mean? You'd say he loved him still!
(To STRAFFORD.) But go not, Strafford! . . . But you must renounce
This project on the Scots! Die! wherefore die?
Charles never loved you!
STRAFFORD.
And he will not, now:
He's not of those who care the more for you
That you're unfortunate.
CARLISLE.
Then wherefore die
For such a master?
STRAFFORD.
You that told me first
How good he was—when I must leave true friends
To find a truer friend!—that drew me here
From Ireland,—"I had but to show myself
And Charles would spurn Vane, Savile, and the rest"—
You, girl, to ask me that?
CARLISLE.
(Aside.) If he have set
His heart abidingly on Charles!
(To STRAFFORD.) Dear friend
I shall not see you any more!
STRAFFORD.
Yes, girl—
There's one man here that I shall meet!
CARLISLE.
(Aside.) The King!—
What way to save him from the King?
My soul . .
That lent from its own store the charmed disguise
That clothes the King . . he shall behold my soul!
(To STRAFFORD.) Strafford . . . (I shall speak best if you'll not gaze
Upon me.) . . . You would perish, too! So sure! . . .
Could you but know what 'tis to bear, my Strafford,
One Image stamped within you, turning blank
The else imperial brilliance of your mind,—
A weakness, but most precious,—like a flaw
I' the diamond which should shape forth some sweet face
Yet to create, and meanwhile treasured there
Lest Nature lose her gracious thought for ever! . . .
STRAFFORD.
When could it be? . . . no! . . yet . . was it the day
We waited in the anteroom, till Holland
Should leave the presence-chamber?
CARLISLE.
What?
STRAFFORD.
—That I
Described to you my love for Charles?
CARLISLE.
(Aside.) Ah, no—
One must not lure him from a love like that!
Oh, let him love the King and die! 'Tis past. . . .
I shall not serve him worse for that one brief
And passionate hope . . silent for ever now!
(To STRAFFORD.) And you are really bound for Scotland, then?
I wish you well: you must be very sure
Of the King's faith, for Pym and all his crew
Will not be idle—setting Vane aside!
STRAFFORD.
If Pym is busy,—you may write of Pym.
CARLISLE.
What need when there's your king to take your part?
He may endure Vane's counsel; but for Pym—
Think you he'll suffer Pym to . . .
STRAFFORD.
Girl, your hair
Is glossier than the Queen's!
CARLISLE.
Is that to ask
A curl of me?
STRAFFORD.
Scotland——the weary way!
CARLISLE.
Stay, let me fasten it.
—A rival's, Strafford?
STRAFFORD.
(Showing the George.) He hung it there: twine yours around it, girl!
CARLISLE.
No—no—another time—I trifle so!
And there's a masque on foot: farewell: the Court
Is dull: do something to enliven us
In Scotland; we expect it at your hands.
STRAFFORD.
I shall not fall in Scotland.
CARLISLE.
Prosper—if
You'll think of me sometimes!
STRAFFORD.
How think of him
And not of you? of you—the lingering streak
(A golden one) in my good fortune's eve?
CARLISLE.
Strafford . . . .
Well, when the eve has its last streak
The night has its first star! (Exit.)
STRAFFORD.
That voice of hers . . .
You'd think she had a heart sometimes! His voice
Is soft too.
Only God can save him now.
Be Thou about his bed, about his path! . . .
His path! Where's England's path? Diverging wide,
And not to join again the track my foot
Must follow—whither? All that forlorn way—
Among the tombs! Far—far—till . . . What, they do
Then join again, these paths? For, huge in the dusk,
There's—Pym to face!
Why then I have a Foe
To close with, and a fight to fight at last
That's worth my soul! What—do they beard the King—
And shall the King want Strafford at his need—
My King—at his great need? Am I not here?
. . . . Not in the common blessed market-place
Pressed on by the rough artisans, so proud
To catch a glance from Wentworth! They'll lie down
Hungry and say "Why, it must end some day—
Is he not watching for our sake?"
—Not there!
But in Whitehall—the whited sepulchre—
The . . .
(At the Window, and looking on London.)
Curse nothing to-night! Only one name
They'll curse in all those streets to-night! Whose fault?
Did I make kings—set up, the first, a man
To represent the multitude, receive
All love in right of them—supplanting them
Until you love the man and not the king——
The man with the mild voice and mournful eyes
That send me forth . . .
To breast the bloody sea
That sweeps before me—with one star to guide—
Night has its first supreme forsaken star! (Exit.)