Locrine: A Tragedy

SCENE I.—_Troynovant_. _A Room in the Palace_.

_Enter_ LOCRINE _and_ DEBON.

Locrine. Thou knowest not what she knows or dreams of? why Her face is dark and wan, her lip and eye Restless and red as fever? Hast thou kept Faith?

Debon. Has my master found my faith a lie Once all these years through? have I strayed or slept Once, when he bade me watch? what proof has leapt At last to light against me?

Locrine. Surely, none. Weep not.

Debon. My lord’s grey vassal hath not wept Once, even since darkness covered from the sun The woman’s face—the sole sweet wifelike one— Whose memory holds his heart yet fast: but now Tears, were old age not poor in tears, might run Free as the words that bid his stricken brow Burn and bow down to hear them.

Locrine. Hast not thou Held counsel—played the talebearer whose tales Bear plague abroad and poison, knowing not how— Not with my wife nor brother?

Debon. Nought avails Falsehood: and truth it is, the king of Wales So plied me, sir, with force of craft and threat—

Locrine. That thou, whose faith swerves never, flags nor fails Nor falters, being as stars are loyal, yet Wast found as those that fall from heaven, forget Their station, shoot and shudder down to death Deep as the pit of hell? What snares were set To take thy soul—what mist of treasonous breath Made blind in thee the sense that quickeneth In true men’s inward eyesight, when they know And know not how they know the word it saith, The warning word that whispers loud or low— I ask not: be it enough these things are so. Thou hast played me false.

Debon. Nay, now this long time since We have seen the queen’s face wan with wrath and woe— Have seen her lip writhe and her eyelid wince To take men’s homage—proof that might convince Of grief inexpiable and insatiate shame Her spirit in all men’s judgment.

Locrine. But the prince— My brother, whom thou knowest by proof, not fame, A coward whose heart is all a flickering flame That fain would burn and dares not—whence had he The poison that he gave her? Speak: this came By chance—mishap—most haplessly for thee Who hadst my heart in thine, and madest of me No more than might for folly’s sake or fear’s Be bared for even such eyes as his to see? Old friend that wast, I would not see thy tears. God comfort thy dishonour!

Debon. All these years Have I not served thee?

Yea. So cheer thee now.

Debon. Cheered be the traitor, whom the true man cheers? Nay, smite me: God can be not such as thou, And will not damn me with forgiveness. How Hast thou such heart, to comfort such as me? God’s thunder were less fearful than the brow That frowns not on thy friend found false to thee. Thy friend—thou said’st—thy friend. Strange friends are we. Nay, slay me then—nay, slay me rather.

Locrine. Friend, Take comfort. God’s wide-reaching will shall be Here as of old accomplished, though it blend All good with ill that none may mar or mend. Thy works and mine are ripples on the sea. Take heart, I say: we know not yet their end.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE II.—_Gardens of the Palace_.

_Enter_ CAMBER _and_ MADAN.

Camber. Hath no man seen thee?

Madan. Had he seen, and spoken, His head should lose its tongue. I am far away In Cornwall.

Camber. Where the front of war is broken By the onset of thy force—the rebel fray Shattered. Had no man—canst thou surely say?— Knowledge betimes, to give us knowledge here— Us babblers, tongues made quick with fraud and fear— That thou wast bound from Cornwall hither?

Madan. None, I think, who knowing of steel and fire and cord That they can smite and burn and strangle one Would loose without leave of his parting lord The tongue that else were sharper than a sword To cut the throat it sprang from.

Camber. Nephew mine, I have ever loved thee—not thy sire Locrine More—and for very and only love of thee Have I desired, or ever even thy mother Beheld thee, here to know of thee and me Which loves her best—her and thy sire my brother.

Madan. He being away, far hence—and so none other— Not he—should share the knowledge?

Camber. Surely not He. Knowest thou whither hence he went?

Madan. God wot, No: haply toward some hidden paramour.

Camber. And that should set not, for thy mother’s sake, And thine, the heart in thee on fire?

Madan. An hour Is less than even the time wherein we take Breath to let loose the word that fain would break, And cannot, even for passion,—if we set An hour against the length of life: and yet Less in account of life should be those hours— Should be? should be not, live not, be not known, Not thought of, not remembered even as ours,— Whereon the flesh or fancy bears alone Rule that the soul repudiates for its own, Rejects and mocks and mourns for, and reclaims Its nature, none the ignobler for the shames That were but shadows on it—shed but shade And perished. If thy brother and king, my sire—

Camber. No king of mine is he—we are equal, weighed Aright in state, though here his throne stand higher.

Madan. So be it. I say, if even some earth-born fire Have ever lured the loftiest head that earth Sees royal, toward a charm of baser birth And force less godlike than the sacred spell That links with him my mother, what were this To her or me?

Camber. To her no more than hell To souls cast forth who hear all hell-fire hiss All round them, and who feel the red worm’s kiss Shoot mortal poison through the heart that rests Immortal: serpents suckled at her breasts, Fire feeding on her limbs, less pain should be Than sense of pride laid waste and love laid low, If she be queen or woman: and to thee—

Madan. To me that wax not woman though I know This, what shall hap or hap not?

Camber. Were it so, It should not irk thee, she being wronged alone; Thy mother’s bed, and not thy father’s throne, Being soiled with usurpation. Ay? but say That now mine uncle and her sire lies dead And helpless now to help her, or affray The heart wherein her ruin and thine were bred, Not she were cast forth only from his bed, But thou, loathed issue of a contract loathed Since first their hands were joined not but betrothed, Wert cast forth out of kingship? stripped of state, Unmade his son, unseated, unallowed, Discrowned, disorbed, discrested—thou, but late Prince, and of all men’s throats acclaimed aloud, Of all men’s hearts accepted and avowed Prince, now proclaimed for some sweet bastard’s sake Peasant?

Madan. Thy sire was sure less man than snake, Though mine miscall thee brother.

Camber. Coward or mad? Which might one call thee rather, whose harsh heart Envenoms so thy tongue toward one that had No thought less kindly—toward even thee that art Kindless—than best beseems a kinsman’s part?

Madan. Lay not on me thine own foul shame, whose tongue Would turn my blood to poison, while it stung Thy brother’s fame to death. I know my sire As shame knows thee—and better no man knows Aught.

Camber. Have thy will, then: take thy full desire: Drink dry the draught of ruin: bid all blows Welcome: being harsh with friends, be mild with foes, And give shame thanks for buffets. Yet I thought— But how should help avail where heart is nought?

Madan. Yet—thou didst think to help me?

Camber. Kinsman, ay. My hand had held the field beside thine own, And all wild hills that know my rallying cry Had poured forth war for heart’s pure love alone To help thee—wouldst thou heed me—to thy throne.

Madan. For pure heart’s love? what wage holds love in fee? Might half my kingdom serve? Nay, mock not me, Fair uncle: should I cleave the crown in twain And gird thy temples with the goodlier half, Think’st thou my debt might so be paid again— Thy sceptre made a more imperial staff Than sways as now thy hill-folk?

Camber. Dost thou laugh? Were this too much for kings to give and take? If warrior Wales do battle for thy sake, Should I that kept thy crown for thee be held Worth less than royal guerdon?

Madan. Keep thine own, And let the loud fierce knaves thy brethren quelled Ward off the wolves whose hides should line thy throne, Wert thou no coward, no recreant to the bone, No liar in spirit and soul and heartless heart, No slave, no traitor—nought of all thou art. A thing like thee, made big with braggart breath, Whose tongue shoots fire, whose promise poisons trust, Would cast a shieldless soldier forth to death And wreck three realms to sate his rancorous lust With ruin of them who have weighed and found him dust. Get thee to Wales: there strut in speech and swell: And thence betimes God speed thee safe to hell.

[_Exeunt severally_.