Chapter 8

_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— God 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 God be God.

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 hell 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 hell—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 compassed 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 gods 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 lustier 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 kingship of thy sire?

MADAN.

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

GUENDOLEN.

Thou dost love then, thou, thy mother yet— Me, dost thou love a little? None but thou There is to love me; for the gods forget— Nor shall one hear of me a prayer again; Yea, none of all whose thrones in heaven are set Shall hear, nor one of all the sons of men.

MADAN.

What wouldst thou have?

GUENDOLEN.

Thou knowest.

MADAN.

I know not. Speak.

GUENDOLEN.

Have I kept silence all this while?

MADAN.

What then? What boots it though thy word, thine eye, thy cheek, Seem all one fire together, if that fire Sink, and thy face change, and thine heart wax weak, To hear what deed should slake thy sore desire And satiate thee with healing? This alone— Except thine heart be softer toward my sire Still than a maid’s who hears a wood-dove moan And weeps for pity—this should comfort thee: His death.

GUENDOLEN.

And sight of Madan on his throne?

MADAN.

What ailed thy wits, mother, to send for me?

GUENDOLEN.

Yet shalt thou not go back.

MADAN.

Why, what should I Do here, where vengeance has not heart to be And wrath dies out in weeping? Let it die— And let me go.

GUENDOLEN.

I did not bid thee spare.

MADAN.

Speak then, and bid me smite.

GUENDOLEN.

Thy father?

MADAN.

Ay— If thus it please my mother.

GUENDOLEN.

Dost thou dare This?

MADAN.

Nay, I lust not after empire so That for mine own hand I should haply care To take this deed upon it: but the blow, Thou sayest, that speeds my father forth of life, Speeds too my mother forth of living woe That till he dies may die not. If his wife Set in his son’s right hand the sword to slay— No poison brewed of hell, no treasonous knife— The sword that walks and shines and smites by day, Not on his hand who takes the sword shall cleave The blood that clings on hers who gives it.

GUENDOLEN.

Yea— So be it. What levies wilt thou raise, to heave Thy father from his seat?

MADAN.

Let that be nought Of all thy care: do thou but trust—believe Thy son’s right hand no feebler than thy thought, If that be strong to smite—and thou shalt see Vengeance.

GUENDOLEN.

I will. But were thy musters brought Whence now thou art come to cheer me, this should be A sign for us of comfort.

MADAN.

Dost thou fear Signs?

GUENDOLEN.

Nay, child, nay—thou art harsh as heaven to me— I would but have of thee a word of cheer.

MADAN.

I am weak in words: my tongue can match not thine, Mother. Voices within] The king!

GUENDOLEN.

Hearst thou? Voices within.] The king!

MADAN.

I hear.

Enter LOCRINE.

LOCRINE.

How fares my queen?

GUENDOLEN.

Well. And this child of mine— How he may fare concerns not thee to know?

LOCRINE.

Why, well I see my boy fares well.

GUENDOLEN.

Locrine, Thou art welcome as the sun to fields of snow.

LOCRINE.

But hardly would they hail the sun whose face Dissolves them deathward. Was thy meaning so?

GUENDOLEN.

Make answer for me, Madan.

LOCRINE.

In thy place? The boy’s is not beside thee.

GUENDOLEN.

Speak, I say.

MADAN.

God guard my lord and father with his grace!

LOCRINE.

Well prayed, my child.

GUENDOLEN.

Children—who can but pray— Pray better, if my sense not err, than we. The God whom all the gods of heaven obey Should hear them rather, seeing—as gods may see— How pure of purpose is their perfect prayer.

LOCRINE.

I think not else—the better then for me. But ours—what manner of child is this? the hair Buds flowerwise round his darkening lips and chin, This hand’s young hardening palm knows how to bear The sword-hilt’s poise that late I laid therein— Ha? doth not it?

GUENDOLEN.

Thine enemies know that well.

MADAN.

I make no boast of battles that have been; But, so God help me, days unborn shall tell What manner of heart my father gave me.

LOCRINE.

Good. I doubt thee not.

GUENDOLEN.

In Cornwall they that fell So found it, that of all their large-limbed brood No bulk is left to brave thee.

LOCRINE.

Yea, I know Our son hath given the wolf our foes for food And won him worthy praise from friend or foe; And heartier praise and trustier thanks from none, Boy, than thy father pays thee.

GUENDOLEN.

Wouldst thou show Thy love, thy thanks, thy fatherhood in one, Thy perfect honour—yea, thy right to stand Crowned, and lift up thine eyes against the sun As one so pure in heart, so clean of hand, So loyal and so royal, none might cast A word against thee burning like a brand, A sound that withers honour, and makes fast The bondage of a recreant soul to shame— Thou shouldst, or ever an hour be overpast, Slay him.

LOCRINE.

Thou art mad.

GUENDOLEN.

What, is not then thy name Locrine? and hath this boy done ill to thee? Hath he not won him for thy love’s sake fame? Hath he not served thee loyally? is he So much thy son, so little son of mine, That men might call him traitor? May they see The brand across his brow that reddens thine? How shouldst thou dare—how dream—to let him live? Is he not loyal? art not thou Locrine? What less than death for guerdon shouldst thou give My son who hath done thee service? Me thou hast given— Who hast found me truer than falsehood can forgive— Shame for my guerdon: yea, my heart is riven With shame that once I loved thee.

LOCRINE.

Guendolen, A woman’s wrath should rest not unforgiven Save of the slightest of the sons of men: And no such slight and shameful thing am I As would not yield thee pardon.

GUENDOLEN.

Slay me then.

LOCRINE.

Thee, or thy son? but now thou bad’st him die.

GUENDOLEN.

Thou liest: I bade thee slay him.

LOCRINE.

Art thou mad Indeed?

GUENDOLEN.

O liar, is all the world a lie? I bade thee, knowing thee what thou art—I bade My lord and king and traitor slay my son— A heartless hand that lacks the power it had Smite one whose stroke shall leave it strengthless—one Whose loyal loathing of his shame in thee Shall cast it out of eyeshot of the sun.

LOCRINE.

Thou bad’st me slay him that he might—he, slay me?

GUENDOLEN.

Thou hast said—and yet thou hast lied not.

LOCRINE.

Hell’s own hate Brought never forth such fruit as thine.

GUENDOLEN.

But he Is the issue of thy love and mine, by fate Made one to no good issue. Didst thou trust That grief should give to men disconsolate Comfort, and treason bring forth truth, and dust Blossom? What love, what reverence, what regard, Shouldst thou desire, if God or man be just, Of this thy son, or me more evil-starred, Whom scorn salutes his mother?

LOCRINE.

How should scorn Draw near thee, girt about with power for guard, Power and good fame? unless reproach be born Of these thy violent vanities of mood That fight against thine honour.

GUENDOLEN.

Dost thou mourn For that? Too careful art thou for my good, Too tender and too true to me and mine, For shame to make my heart or thine his food Or scorn lay hold upon my fame or thine. Art thou not pure as honour’s perfect heart— Not treason-cankered like my lord Locrine, Whose likeness shows thee fairer than thou art And falser than thy loving care of me Would bid my faith believe thee?

LOCRINE.

What strange part Is this that changing passion plays in thee? Know’st thou me not?

GUENDOLEN.

Yea—witness heaven and hell, And all the lights that lighten earth and sea, And all that wrings my heart, I know thee well. How should I love and hate and know thee not?

LOCRINE.

Thy voice is as the sound of dead love’s knell.

GUENDOLEN.

Long since my heart has tolled it—and forgot All save the cause that bade the death-bell sound And cease and bring forth silence.

LOCRINE.

Is thy lot Less fair and royal, girt with power and crowned,— Than might fulfil the loftiest heart’s desire?

GUENDOLEN.

Not air but fire it is that rings me round— Thy voice makes all my brain a wheel of fire. Man, what have I to do with pride of power? Such pride perchance it was that moved my sire To bid me wed—woe worth the woful hour!— His brother’s son, the brother’s born above Him as above me thou, the crown and flower Of Britain, gentler-hearted than the dove And mightier than the sunward eagle’s wing: But nought moved me save one thing only—love.

LOCRINE.

I know it.

GUENDOLEN.

Thou knowest? but this thou knowest not, king, How near of kin are bitter love and hate— Nor which of these may be the deadlier thing.

LOCRINE.

What wouldst thou?

GUENDOLEN.

Death. Would God my heart were great! Then would I slay myself.

LOCRINE.

I dare not fear That heaven hath marked for thee no fairer fate.

GUENDOLEN.

Ay! wilt thou slay me then—and slay me here?

LOCRINE.

Mock not thy wrath and me. No hair of thine Would I—thou knowest it—hurt; nor vex thine ear With answering wrath more vain than fumes of wine. I have wronged and yet not wronged thee. Whence or when Strange whispers rose that turned thy heart from mine I would not know for shame’s sake, Guendolen, And honour’s that I bear thee.

GUENDOLEN.

Didst thou deem I would outlive with thee the scorn of men, A slave enthroned beside a traitor? Seem These eyes and lips and hands of mine a slave’s Uplift for mercy toward thee? Such a dream Sets realms on fire, and turns their fields to graves.

LOCRINE.

No dream is mine that does thee less than right: Albeit thy words be wild as warring waves, I know thee higher of heart than shame could smite And queenlier than thy queenship.

GUENDOLEN.

Dost the know What day records to day and night to night— How he whose wrath was rained as hail or snow On Troy’s adulterous towers, when treacherous flame Devoured them, and our fathers’ roofs lay low, And all their praise was turned to fire and shame— All-righteous God, who herds the stars of heaven As sheep within his sheepfold—God, whose name Compels the wandering clouds to service, given As surely as even the sun’s is—loves or hates Treason? He loved our sires: were they forgiven? Their walls upreared of gods, their sevenfold gates, Might these keep out his justice? What art thou To make thy will more strong and sure than fate’s? Thy fate am I, that falls upon thee now. Wilt thou not slay me yet—and slay thy son? So shall thy fate change, and unbend the brow That now looks mortal on thee.

LOCRINE.

What is done Lies now past help or pleading: nor would I Plead with thee, knowing that love henceforth is none Nor trust between us till the day we die. Yet, if thy name be woman,—if thine heart Be not burnt up with fire of hell, and lie Not wounded even to death—albeit we part, Let there not be between us war, but peace, Though love may be not.

GUENDOLEN.

Peace? The man thou art Craves—and shame bids not breath within him cease— Craves of the woman that thou knowest I am Peace? Ay, take hands at parting, and release Each heart, each hand, each other: shall the lamb, The lamb-like woman, born to cower and bleed, Withstand his will whose choice may save or damn Her days and nights, her word and thought and deed— Take heart to outdare her lord the lion? How Should this be—if the lion’s imperial seed Life not against his sire as brave a brow As frowns upon his mother?—Peace be then Between us: none may stand before thee now: No son of thine keep faith with Guendolen.

MADAN.

I have held my peace perforce, it seems, too long, Being slower of speech than sons of meaner men. But seeing my sire hath done my mother wrong, My hand is hers to serve against my sire.

GUENDOLEN.

And God shall make thine hand against him strong.

LOCRINE.

Ay: when the hearthstead flames, the roof takes fire.

GUENDOLEN.

Woe worth his hand who set the hearth on flame!

LOCRINE.

Curse not our fathers; though thy fierce desire Drive thine own son against his father, shame Should rein thy tongue from speech too shameless.

GUENDOLEN.

Ay! And thou, my holy-hearted lord,—the same Whose hand was laid in mine and bound to lie There fast for ever if faith be found on earth— If truth be true, and shame not wholly die— Hast thou not made thy mockery and thy mirth, Thy laughter and thy scorn, of shame? But we, Thy wife by wedlock, and thy son by birth, Who have no part in spirit and soul with thee, Will bear no part in kingdom nor in life With one who hath put to shame his child and me. Thy true-born son, and I that was thy wife, Will see thee dead or perish. Call thy men About thee; bid them gird their loins for strife More dire than theirs who storm the wild wolf’s den; For if thou dare not slay us here today Thou art dead.

LOCRINE.

Thou knowest I dare not, Guendolen, Dare what the ravenous beasts whose life is prey Dream not of doing, though drunk with bloodshed.

GUENDOLEN.

No: Thou art gentle, and beasts are honest: no such way Lies open toward thy fearful foot: not so Shalt thou find surety from these foes of thine. Woe worth thee therefore! yea, a sevenfold woe Shall God through us rain down on thee, Locrine. Hadst thou the heart God hath not given thee—then Our blood might run before thy feet like wine And wash thy way toward sin in sight of men Smooth, soft, and safe. But if thou shed it not— If Madan live to look on Guendolen Living—I wot not what shall be—I wot What shall not—thou shalt have no joy to live More than have they for whom God’s wrath grows hot.

LOCRINE.

God’s grace is no such gift as thou canst give, Queen, or withhold. Farewell.

GUENDOLEN.

I dare not say Farewell.

LOCRINE.

And why?

GUENDOLEN.

Thou hast not said—Forgive.

LOCRINE.

I say it—I have said. Thou wilt not hear me?

GUENDOLEN.

Nay.

[_Exeunt_.