Chapter 15

[_Last Grooves._]

_Table, Chairs, Writing Materials._

_Whitehall. LADY CROMWELL, R. and FLORENCE, L. Discovered coming forward._

_Lady Crom._ R. No! There is not one of us he would hear save Elizabeth, and since the day before yesterday, as I tell you, she hath been in a raging fever, and delirious; and, to-morrow, you tell me, it is fixed that your cousin dies. Will not the Protector see you?

_Flor._ L. He will not!

_Lady Crom._ Alas! poor maid. I know not what to do.

_Flor._ Madam, where doth your daughter lie!--

_Lady Crom._ In my room, this way--why, you look sadly yourself--pale as a corpse.

_Flor._ Do I?--I would have it so. Think you it is an easy death when the heart bleeds inwardly?

_Lady Crom._ Hush! cease talking so, child!

_Flor._ I do remember, journeying hither once, On horseback, that I saw a poor lad, slain In some sad skirmish of these cruel wars; There seem'd no wound, and so I stay'd by him, Thinking he might live still. But, ever, whilst I stretch'd to reach some trifling thing for aid, His sullen head would slip from off my knee, And his damp hair to earth would wander down, Till I grew frighten'd thus to challenge Death, And with the king of terrors idly play.-- Yet those pale lips deserted not the smile Of froward, gay defiance, lingering there, Like a tir'd truant's sleeping on the grass, Mid the stray sun-beams of unsadden'd hope, Dreaming of one perpetual holiday.

_Lady Crom._ And was he dead?--Tell me what came of him.

_Flor._ The silent marches of the stars had clos'd The slow retreat of that calm summer noon, Ere I compos'd his gentle limbs to rest, And left him where he lay. No crimson wound, No dark ensanguin'd stain did sully him: Yet had some fatal missile reach'd his heart, That bled, as mine does now, within, within!

_Lady Crom._ How sad a tale; yet; all will still be well. Yield not to this wild burst of agony.

_Flor._ O, I was happy and I knew it not, But jested with the heart that lov'd me well. The sickening echo of each foolish word I said to pain him comes to torture me--

_Lady Crom._ Cease, cease! Indeed my heart is sad enough. My daughter needs us.

_Flor._ O forgive me, Madam! My grief seem'd thoughtless of another's woe, And I that love her so?--I'll go with you This instant, watch by her, and pray for all This most unhappy world. Come, let us seek her-- Haste! Will she know me, think you? Lean on me, You are fatigued with watching. I am strong.

[_Exeunt, U.E.R._]

_Enter CROMWELL alone, R._

_Crom._ How well he died, that liv'd not well--his words Strike cold here. Kings have died ere now, whose lives Were needless, hurtful to their people's good, But none so meek as this. O Cromwell! Cromwell! Hast thou done well! O could an angel light The deepest corner of thy secret mind, And tell thee thou'rt not damned to Hell for this, The avenging act of horror--or that, inspir'd, Thou wert the minister of Heaven's decree, And that ambition drugg'd not thy design With soul-consuming poison! I, this I, Have done it--for what!--Which is't? To live and reign? Or crown the smiling land with good? Well, both! If I have sinn'd, it was at least for all. The puny stripling calls not his love, lust: The passions that we have in us may blend With noble purpose and with high design; Else men who saw the world had gone astray Would only wish it better--and lie down, In vain regret to perish.-- How his head Roll'd on the platform with deep, hollow sound! Methinks I hear it now, and through my brain It vibrates like the storm's accusing knell, Making the guilty quake. I am not guilty! It was the nation's voice, the headsman's axe. Why drums it then within my throbbing ear?-- I slew him not!

_Enter PEARSON, L._

_Pear._ My Lord! there is one here Would speak with you--

_Crom._ Admit him. Am I not The servant of this country, to see all That come to me?--

[_PEARSON goes out, and returns with BASIL. PEARSON retires, L._]

_Basil._ Health to the General!

_Crom._ Good Master Basil, welcome. I am griev'd, Most griev'd in spirit for your brother; yet I must not pardon him. I have receiv'd Your protestation--

_Basil._ I have done much service, Good service to the state; I ask his life, Not liberty.

_Crom._ It cannot be, and yet I lov'd him well myself. It must not be, [_Pause._] Yet you have done good service. I am glad You do insist on it. I had not yielded To any other--but you have a right To ask this thing, and I am bound to grant it; I am glad it comes from you, his brother, here--

[_Signs a paper and hands it to BASIL._]

What will you do with him?

_Basil._ I fear, my Lord, There is such treason prov'd--the colonies--

_Crom._ Nay! Let him where he will; but not to stay In England for his head--he dies, if found here Two days hence--

_Basil._ Thanks, my Lord, it shall be seen to. A brother's thanks--farewell-- [_He goes out, L._]

_Crom._ How different is The aspect of these brethren, most unlike The soul of each to his face--The brow of Arthur So open and so clear, and yet a traitor. Indeed, methinks the countenance, which oft Is the mask fitted to the character Of gross and eager sensualists, is but A lying index to the subtle souls Of villains more acute. Come hither, Pearson! Thou know'st me well. Speak, wherefore doubting thus I feel my soul aghast at its own being? Methought just now all Hell did cry aloud, "Conscience can give no peace, the liar Conscience, That knows not what she prates"--Out, out on Conscience! She that did whisper peace unto my soul, But now, before the fearful shadow came That since my boyhood often visits me, And with dark musings fills my brain perturb'd; Making the current of my life-blood stagnate, My heart the semblance of a muffled bell, Within my ribs, its tomb; my flesh creep like The prickly writhings of a new-slough'd snake; Each several moment as the awaken'd glare Of the doom'd felon starting from his sleep, While the slow, hideous meaning of his cell Grows on him like an incubus, until The truth shoots like an ice-bolt to his brain From his dull eyeball; then, from brain to heart Flashes in sickening tumult of despair-- As in this bosom.

_Pear._ 'Tis black Melancholy! I've read of such, my Lord; it hath no part With what men think, or do;--'tis physical-- A holy preacher feels the self-same thing, That ne'er outstepp'd his sacred village round; 'Tis often nurs'd of this damp, noxious climate: Most excellent men have suffer'd it-- Thou know'st I have seen bloody deeds beneath the sun Upon the Spanish main, when I was young.

_Crom._ What of them, say?--I thought thou loved'st not To speak thyself a pirate--

_Pear._ 'Twas, my Lord, Ere I knew grace, or my most honour'd master.

_Crom._ I trust thou art forgiven.

_Pear._ I'd not speak Of deed of mine, my Lord. I did but think That in the sunlit tropics I had known The wantonness of cruelty; and seen Aged men grown grey in crime, whose hair thus blanch'd Show'd white, like sugar by hot blood refin'd.

_Crom._ What of this!--Tell me what thou knew'st of them.

_Pear._ I never knew desponding doubt or fear Curdle the healthy current of their veins; They never shudder'd at a blood-red kerchief, But on their shining knife-blades, as they smok'd On deck through the long summer noon, would show The dents and notches to their younger fellows, As thus--"This cut a Spanish merchant's throat, With wealthy ingots laden; this the rib-bone Of his lean Rib, that clutch'd an emerald brooch Too eagerly, hath rasp'd--and here, d'ye see a chip? This paid the reckoning of a skin-flint purser."

_Crom._ What meanest thou by this?--

_Pear._ I mean, my Lord, The frequent gloom that clouds thy noble spirit, Is born of humours natural to thy body; And, as foul vapours blur the honest sun, Hangs o'er the face of the high enterprize, That hath enrich'd thy name, not harm'd thy soul.

_Enter a Servant, L._

_Ser._ My Lord, good Master Milton waits without, Desiring presence of you.--

_Crom._ Pearson, go. I would see him alone. Perchance his words [_Exit PEARSON, L. Servant follows._] May ease my tortur'd breast. [_Rings a small bell. Enter a Servant, L._] Ask quickly, how My daughter fares, if she be better-- [_Servant crosses behind and exit, R._] Lo! If I should lose her. Nay! it cannot be. My thoughts seem driven like the wind-vex'd leaves That eddy round in vain: fy, fy upon me! Was not Saul doom'd? but David slew him not, Yet Heaven led him through the winding cave, Sealing the watchers' lids, and to his hand Gave the bright two-edg'd blade, that in his eyes Looked with cold meaning, bloodless it remain'd-- Would it were so now!

_Servant re-enters, R._

_Ser._ She is worse, my Lord, And raves incessantly; the doctors shook Their heads when I did ask, and bade me tell you There is no hope--

_Crom._ [_Motions him to go._] Why comes not Master Milton?

[_Servant crosses behind to L. sees Milton._]

_Ser._ My Lord, he waits without for aid to enter.

[_Exit Servant, L. and re-enters leading MILTON._]

_Crom._ Good Milton, I am sick at heart. Think you the world Will judge me very harshly?--

_Mil._ Sir, believe By far the nobler half of England's hearts Will be yours, when long centuries have nurs'd The troubles of these frantic times to rest; The feverish strife, the hate and prejudice Of these days, soon shall fly, and leave great acts The landmarks of men's thoughts, who then shall see In these events that shake the world with awe, But a great subject, and a base bad king Interpreted aright.

_Crom._ [_Aside._] My child! my child! She is dying, and condemns me--[_to Milton_] Thou art wise, Prudent, and skill'd in learned rhetorick-- Think'st thou 'twere sad to gaze upon the look, That sudden on the harlot's painted features, Set in the stale attraction of forc'd smiles, Darkens so wildly--that, like one amaz'd, From the crack'd glass she staggers, to her brow Lifts her wan, jewell'd finger--tries to think? The wanton provocation of her features Chang'd all to sickly twilight, blank dismay-- And when thought comes, to see the poor wretch quiver, Her eyes' fire turn'd to water--those blue eyes, Where once sweet fancies woven danc'd in fight-- To see the Present, Future, Past, appal her?-- The Spectre of her grown up life arise Ever between her childhood's innocent dawn, And the lost thing, herself--to see her choke Upon her scanty food?--see grim Despair Clutch her polluted bosom?--see her teeth, Pearls that have outliv'd their neglected home, Shine whiter in that ruin?--

_Mil._ 'Twere a sight To bid the palsied heart of Lewdness grieve, Youth grow a hermit, Age old vices leave!

_Crom._ Yet hast thou ne'er beheld the thing, I say?-- Thou answerest me not. I know thy life; 'Twas ever pure; still thou art of this world, And so hast read their living epitaph, Whose souls being buried in lust's grave, at night Their mortal frames walk forth--reversing death. I ask thee, then, dost thou not know the thing That I have painted?

_Mil._ [_Aside._] Is his mind distraught? [_Aloud._] I have seen this, and more. What of it?

_Crom._ Thus! Shall he that caus'd it suffer?

_Mil._ On his Mood Vampires should batten--

_Crom._ Yet, 'tis like she met His guilty thought half-way; 'twas in the course Of nature, when the blood is hot. Contention Led both to the encounter. When youth sins, Reason flies daunted--to return with arms Poison'd and terrible.--

_Mil._ The lean excuse Of whirlwind Passion's victims. Homicide, Murder, theft, rapine, plead it--

_Crom._ Think you then, Should one array'd in reasoning manhood's arms Have done this? Were the victim bright and good, Round whose young heart sweet household fancies play'd, Each natural thought of her enthusiast mind Pure as the snow that softly veils the earth 'Tween Christide eve and morning white-enrob'd; And yet her sum of suffering were great As that, which I have painted for the child Of sin and misery--her silken cheek Defil'd by ashen trace of furrowing tears, Her sinless eye dim as a Magdalen's; And he that caus'd it lov'd her as a father, Knowing no fiery passion, unchaste thought, To rob him of his brain, his heart, and then--

_Mil._ There's no such thing!

_Crom._ There is, I say, here! here!

_Mil._ Lord General, I stand amazed!

_Crom._ Judgment! The Judgment! my good Milton. O my child! My best belov'd, my sweet Elizabeth, Is such a sacrifice. The cause how different, But the effect the same. Thou think'st it strange To pluck such image from remembrance forth-- And use it thus. There is a chain unseen, Linking the human beggar to the king, Virtue to vice; whereon doth sympathy Like lightning play between the two extremes, And so connect them. There is none can say "I am not as that man in anything." I spoke of one that was a woman, one That died repentant, one perchance in Heaven! My daughter's face, I tell thee, grows like her's. Reason not on it. O! The fault is here Why she lies stricken thus. [_Touches his breast._] Her tender frame Pines day and night, her young life breeding, sapp'd, Curs'd in the tainted thought of my ambition-- And she will die and sink into the grave, Prey'd on by doubt and horror of her father! Ere Hampden's death had seal'd the bond of strife, Thou knowest not, how oft to quit these shores With angel fervour she entreated me, And girt by true hearts--all my soul held dear-- To seek a home in that far western clime-- Nay, start not at the name--America!* Where boundless forests whisper Liberty With all their million-musick'd leaves, and blue lakes Murmur it, and great cataracts, that light With flash of whirling foam the tempest's scowl, To souls untam'd as they, roar Freedom! [_Crosses the Stage._] Ay! Thus to escape remorse-- Leaving this work to God and to His will, That I perchance too rashly made mine own, And noble hearts had follow'd and I had sav'd Her, so soon lost for ever! Is not this A thought had madden'd Brutus, though all Rome Did hail him saviour, while the Capitol Rock'd, like a soul-stirr'd Titan, to its base With their free acclamation?--

_Mil._ Was there not Another Brutus?--

_Crom._ Tell me not of Rome! Why speak not of the warriors of the forest Where I had gone, but for black destiny! They triumph in the torture of their kind, Their grinning honour must be stain'd with blood; 'Tis their religion to be feelingless. Why dost not lead me through yon corridor To gaze upon some hawk-nos'd effigy, And say, "This Roman slew his friend, his brother, His daughter--'Twas a great soul, and he liv'd A thousand years ago, and this is reason For thy warm daughter's death--that breathes and speaks With dainty actions nestling round thy heart, Woven in thine existence"--her, I priz'd More than the rest, whose gentle voice was as The harp of David to my gloomy soul-- Go! thou art wise; but here thy skill is folly!

_Mil._ I little dreamt, my lord! to hear you speak So wildly and so sadly of the course Of your most virtuous and ennobling deeds. Think not I do not mourn the angel light That beam'd upon your path, soon haply fled, Flushing the sky with rosy winnowings Of dove-like wings, a Spirit, to the God Who gave her thee, and so recalls. She is A pure devoted woman, and thy child-- Thus far I understand thy soul's repinings. But so to start as shaken by a dream From an unquiet couch, to grope in night And wailing darkness, thus to storm and rave, To mock the God of battles and thy might; To let the rod that scourg'd the pestilent land Fall from thy tender hold--I had not thought Of this, and I had rather died than see it. True thou wert less than father, more than man To bear no sorrow. Yet should England soar Far, far above the sad domestic grave Of Cromwell's dearest love of kin or kind; And the big tear, that in the eye will gather, In him should only halo freedom's sun With brighter lustre, holier radiance.

_Crom._ Speak on, the passion passes. Yet be kind, Read not thy lesson sternly; for in grief There is much tumult and forgetfulness. When my son died 'twas different; though his death Went to my heart, indeed it did, a son That might have wielded England's destinies; And now I cannot look beyond the night Of mine own day (it is late evening with me Already) for a soul to guide this people. How bravely bare I his young, glorious death, And when one died at Marston afterward, I wrote his father bidding him rejoice, And something boasted of mine own bereavement, I said, "Forget your private sorrow, sir, In this late public mercy, victory Unto the saints." O bitter fool, to chide A father so, when I might lose my daughter!

[_A trumpet is heard without._]

Hear'st thou? [_Walks up and down a moment._] 'Tis Harrison. News from the camp Forget this, honour'd friend! [_To Milton._]

_Mil._ I will, I do!

_Crom._ Now I could hew my way Amidst a thousand. Give me my steel cap, My sword and iron greaves, my vant-braces: I will array in proof. What is the shock Of living squadrons to the armed thoughts, Whose dark battalions I have just now quell'd? I would the clouds of battle roll'd around This moment. Lo! my spirit is reviv'd Like Samson's, when he drank at Ramath-lehi--

_Enter IRETON and IRONSIDES, L._

What is it?

_Ire._ Mutiny! The soldiers swear That they will have their right--

_Crom._ Their _right_, said'st thou? Come, Ireton, you and I will give them it; But, by the Lord, they'll wish for wrong again Ere I have done with them.

_Ire._ 'Twere best to take Your faithful guard--

_Crom._ I'll take _none_. What! They are Mine own. I'll deal with them. If thou dost fear, Son Ireton, stay behind. What! be afraid Of my own rascals I have drill'd and led So frequently?

Come on, I did but need This pretty farce to stir me. Mutiny! I'll strike the leaders' heads off, at the head Each of his column--

Follow me, son Ireton! No other--

[_Exit CROMWELL and IRETON, L. The guard look amazed._]

_Mil._ Who thus seeing him, shall say, This man is not Heaven's chosen instrument? [_Exit. L._]

[_The Ironsides follow Milton._]