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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 
 
American Dramatists Series 
 
 MELMOTH 
 THE WANDERER 
 
 A Play in Five Acts 
 
 BY 
 
 GUSTAV DAVIDSON 
 
 M 
 
 and 
 JOSEPH KOVEN 
 
 BOSTON: THE POET LORE COMPANY 
 
 TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED 
 
Copyright, 1915, by Gustav Davidson and Joseph Koven 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 
 The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 
 
 JAN 17 |9it> 
 
 DCI.D 4 ST 7 6 
 
Affectionately dedicated to 
 MAX DAVIDSON 
 
MELMOTH 
 THE WANDERER 
 
Prologue 
 Satan. 
 
 Melmoth, a Monk. 
 Two other Monks. 
 
THE PLAY 
 
 Satan. 
 
 Melmoth, King of Elsmere. 
 
 Kemlss, the "Old Duke" 
 
 Esmund, his son. 
 
 Fellas, the Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 St. Francis, his son (Later, Marquis of Lode.) 
 
 Toussan, a confederate of St. Francis*. 
 
 John, known as "The Pretender" rightful heir to 
 
 the throne. 
 Royce, Dohlgrin, Brabant, Berkeley, Officers in the 
 
 King's Army, and friends to John. 
 Splinters. 
 
 Steele, De Forest, Edwin, Courtiers. 
 A Poet. 
 A Painter. 
 A Jeweler. 
 Another Jeweler. 
 A Physician. 
 
 Dolor a, daughter of the "Old Duke." 
 Cedrielle, her companion. 
 Margaret, a waiting-maid. 
 Mickle. 
 
 Spirit of Satan, Ambassadors from foreign parts, 
 lords, ladies, courtiers, masqueraders, soldiers, mes- 
 sengers, guards, attendants, musicians, commoners. 
 
 Scene of Prologue — Monastery. 
 Scene of Play — Elsmere. 
 Time — Eighteenth Century. 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 Bells toll the fifth hour before rising of the 
 curtain. Then discovered a high Gothic Chamber, 
 hexagonal in shape, in a Monastery of St. Bene- 
 dict. To back of stage, on the hypothenuse, two 
 long stained glass windows open on vertical hinges; 
 they afford a view of the heavens, which is of the 
 after-sunset glow, and darkens as scene progresses. 
 Rude furniture. Walls adorned with dusty old 
 paintings of religious character. To right, down 
 stage, is a stand with a bible open upon it. To left, 
 in line with it, is a long narrow table upon zuhich 
 there are several tapers, a number of odd volumes 
 and manuscripts. Two Monks are discovered. First 
 Monk, wth a lighted taper in his hand, is before a 
 shelf of books set up in a dark corner to the right, up 
 stage. Second Monk is in the act of lighting candles 
 on the table to left. 
 
 First Monk. Tell me, brother, what is the word 
 of the Lord against those who betray their office 
 in the Church? 
 
 Second Monk. Betray their office in the Church? 
 Why, is there any cause that you do ask me this? 
 
 First Monk. I fear me much there is. 
 
 Second Monk. What do you mean? 
 
 First Monk. You know, brother, there are those 
 in the lap of the Mother Church who make nothing 
 of the observances of the most solemn rites — 
 
8 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Second Monk. Well?— 
 
 First Monk. Who question the soundest prin- 
 ciples of religion; whose faith's grown so sick, 
 they've thrust aside the holy word of God and 
 turned to doubt and argument. {Pause.) One 
 of such a mood, brother, is there among us ! 
 
 Second Monk. You say, "among us?" 
 
 First Monk. Ay. 
 
 Second Monk. But who is he? I'll speak soft. 
 Tell me, who is he? 
 
 First Monk. Have you then not observed — ? 
 
 Second Monk. Brother Melmoth? 
 
 First Monk. Thou hast it there! Men have 
 wandered from the sight of God, but none so far as 
 he. 
 
 Second Monk. I have observed him. What you 
 tell me is confirmation of my suspicions of him 
 lately. There is indeed a terrible change come over 
 him. His face has taken on the color of his doubis; 
 it is pale. I remember being near him to-day at 
 matins. He did not join us in prayer, nor did I 
 fail to note how tight he had his lips compressed, 
 and how he looked down upon the assembled 
 brotherhood with that full and deliberate scorn that 
 shouJd make us tremble for his soul. Last night 
 he failed to vespers. 
 
 First Monk. Ay, why was that, tell me? 
 
 Second Monk. Was he not sick? That was his 
 answer, no? 
 
 First Monk. Sick, ay, in the spirit — not in the 
 flesh. When I repaired to his cell I found open 
 before him certain forbidden readings wherein he 
 was engrossed. I addressed him, and attempted to 
 divert his attention from them ; but he turned upon 
 
PROLOGUE 9 
 
 me angrily and would have struck me. It pained 
 me mightily to see him so abandoned. He needs 
 prayer and penance. 
 
 Second Monk. Proof more than prayer, brother ; 
 and that he'll find in himself, not through us. Rea- 
 son cannot create our faith: it only sustains the 
 faith already in us. Melmoth is a wise man, but 
 one who looks not to that depth where simplicity 
 resides and reflects the grand spirit of God. There 
 he is now. 
 
 {Enter Melmoth.) 
 
 Melmoth. Heh, they speak of me. Always 
 they speak of me; I wot, in faith, not well. 
 They hate me. They are jealous of me. They fear 
 my learning, yet do they admire that fault in me 
 which they dare not themselves possess. Heigh ho, 
 brothers! Good faith! {To First Monk.) What 
 is on your mind that is not upon your face? Heh, 
 I can read your visage so, I pity you. {To Second 
 Monk.) And you, you have lips, use them to ad- 
 vantage. Speak not of me ever. Use your lips for 
 prayer. 
 
 First Monk. Thou hast more need for prayer, 
 Melmoth. 
 
 Melmoth. Not I, upon my soul, not I ! To pray 
 is to beg, to flatter, to lean against, and that hath 
 a selfish end to it. 
 
 First Monk. Why art thou not grateful for 
 what thou hast? 
 
 Melmoth. {Contemptibly.) What have I? 
 What thou hast! Satisfaction therein would be sin. 
 Pooh! You are asleep, asleep! I ask nothing — 
 nothing of Him. Whatever I crave, I seek to get 
 without His aid ; if he would deny me, let Him, let 
 
io MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Him! 
 
 Both Monks. O, words unbecoming and grace- 
 less! Where is your faith, Melmoth? Or are you 
 lost to reason? 
 
 Melmoth. Nay, won to reason. And faith? 
 Fled with the coming of reason. Where's tyranny 
 greater than the tyranny of faith? This stops up 
 the peep-hole to understanding; this makes us small, 
 weak, humble, when we should be mighty in the 
 glory and consciousness of self; afraid, when we 
 should be bold; slack, when the energies of this uni- 
 verse are ours to use or to neglect; dependent, when 
 we have it in ourselves to wipe out the total im- 
 press of reality and make creation a blank! Why 
 are we here, eh? To break up the monotony of 
 His eternal time, tell me! Nor are we given to 
 know what fools he makes of us. Were He not 
 happy in man's perversity, He would not have 
 fashioned us so imperfect, so remiss. He toys with 
 us; creates temptations and then sets His Canon 
 against them; frightens us to make us fear Him; 
 blinds us to make us worship Him. He gives and 
 scorns our pleasures, for seldom is it that the last 
 tear shed at great happiness is not the first to fall at 
 great sorrow. Why do you stare at me with mouths 
 open like choked cats? You are alarmed at the 
 truth? Know you not we are nothing better than 
 monkeys dancing to a fool's fife? 
 
 First Monk. O sacrilege! 
 
 Second Monk. Good brother, question not the 
 wisdom of the Lord. The work of His hand is 
 beyond imitation and the work of His mind beyond 
 our ken. 
 
 Melmoth. Excellent, upon my soul! 
 
PROLOGUE ii 
 
 Second Monk. The Lord it is whose righteous- 
 ness endureth. 
 He alone can judge us in our ways. 
 All which is, is right, for He ensureth 
 Truth and Justice to th' eternal days. 
 Melmoth. {Sarcastically.) Amen! amen! that's 
 perfect assurance ! — 
 
 Wherein see you the judgment of the Lord 
 That's held to be unerring and forever, 
 When right's still at the mercy of the sword, 
 And wrong prevaileth mightier then ever? 
 Nay, where's this grand and everlasting Master 
 Who'd keep us bound in ignorance and fear; 
 Who'd make us blind to make the struggle vaster 
 And never bring the resurrection near? 
 Where is this God you speak of? Above, below, 
 within, without, — where ? 
 
 First Monk. Mother of Christ, defend us! 
 Melmoth. — Nowhere, nothing! 
 Second Monk. God's within ourselves, that's 
 all the story. 
 Man forsaking Him, forsakes himself; 
 He that looks to Heaven sees the Glory. 
 He that looks to Hell sees hell itself. 
 
 (Bells toll) 
 Come, brother, here's vespers. 
 
 Melmoth. Take to your prayers and trash! 
 First Monk. Heaven keep him. 
 Melmoth. Ay, there's light and glory above us, 
 but 'tis not for Man. Why does that selfish God 
 who means to share Heaven for aye, give us a 
 glimpse of that Heaven to make us discontented 
 here on earth? (Exeunt both Monks.) Unreal are 
 thy dreams, oh man! And what is thy life — the 
 
12 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 profit of thy being? — A shuttle, a shuttle, and a 
 broken weft-thread. {Pause.) 
 
 For me the light of life is o'er. 
 
 The world itself and all the world can yield 
 
 Holds out not anything my senses crave. 
 
 The bonds of sympathy that make us one 
 
 With th' incorporeal spirit o' the earth 
 
 And win us into the circle of the universe 
 
 Have dropped from me. The thought of pleasure's 
 
 palled. 
 And even melancholy, sweet self-torturer, 
 Intellect's most cherished campanion, (Approaches 
 Brings no longer solace. I am lost window.) 
 
 Beyond a faltering thought, beyond recall, 
 To faith in life and life's availing ends. (Looks out) 
 
 Ye stars! Ye everlasting orbs and circling worlds 
 That cluster round in mystic constellation 
 And string out to the last echo of infinity, — 
 What are ye? — 
 
 Unknowing and unknowable? Alike 
 Denied that deep and all-inquiring gaze 
 Which questions why of One who will not say 
 And scorns in very silence? (Star shoots across the 
 Oh! And what art thou, sky.) 
 
 Showing for a moment like a thought 
 Caught up in a dream, then off again 
 Into the staggering space of endlessness 
 From whence thou hast arisen? 
 Art thou the emblem of a fate encompassed? 
 Does thy light now vanished speak of worlds eclipsed 
 And worlds new born, with days on days and 
 morrows 
 
PROLOGUE 13 
 
 Upon morrows, snatching up the thread of time 
 And spinning it unwearily unto 
 Everlastingness ? Oh me! Oh thought! 
 
 {A moment overcome.) 
 
 If I could wring the riddle of the spheres 
 And know of all — the wherefore and the why! 
 If, from star to star, from, world to world, 
 In but a single moment I could fly, 
 Encompassing the thought beyond our thought — 
 The vision beyond our now-imperfect one — 
 I'd yield my soul! {Pause.) 
 Alluring dream, canst thou be realized? 
 Perhaps in countless eons yet to come 
 1 he mists will rise, but then of me will be 
 Dust, Death, Oblivion, — harrowing spectres 
 That sit and wait at life's fantastic feast. 
 
 {Takes dagger from garment.) 
 There is a sleep, as soundless as secure, 
 That locks out life's dramatic naughts once only. 
 But . . . shall this be now — 
 
 {Regarding dagger.) 
 With life in the fullest sum of living? 
 Once nearer and then the end. {Pause.) The end 
 
 to what? — 
 The here and hereafter? Ay; but be there 
 A beginning elsewhere that cannot matter — 
 That cannot make us pause. 
 It is not death or what's beyond this death 
 We tear, so much, as life's surcease. 
 The dread of being not is ten times o'er 
 Louder than the threat of judgment. 
 Yet come thou sovereign instrument and rend 
 This threadbare go-between of birth and death 
 
i 4 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 That hangs wavering and web-like across the bridge 
 Linking the eternities. {Suddenly.) 
 
 Who's there? 
 
 What phantom's this that comes so freely upon me? 
 
 Speak! (Satan begins to appear.) 
 
 Are you real? Have you substance? Form? 
 
 Or are you conjured up by my imaginings 
 
 Grown wild with longing? Is this madness? Say! 
 
 You weigh upon the unsubstantial air 
 
 Like a stifling smoke! 
 
 Satan. What, Melmoth, afraid of phantoms? 
 
 Melmothj Who are you, speak! 
 
 Satan. Be composed. It is only I, and I am one 
 that should not frighten you. 
 
 Melmoth. (Recovering.) Nay, you have not. It 
 was the old fear of something sudden to the impres- 
 sion of the senses that affected me, not thou, nay, 
 not thou! Why should you, eh? But who are you, 
 at that? What business have you here? Had I 
 any faith in old wives' tales or legends of the 
 church, I'd claim to know you. 
 
 Satan. The faith of your own eyes — 
 
 Melmoth. Come, what shall I call thee? 
 
 Satan. Thine own name, Melmoth. 
 
 Melmoth. Is thine so terrible that you debate 
 its utterance? 
 
 Satan. Rather, it is so common there's little re- 
 spect in telling it. 
 
 Melmoth. Heh, I know thee now! 
 
 Satan. As well as thou knowest thyself. But, 
 what matters it who I am, so long as I can grant 
 you your desires? 
 
 Melmoth. Eh — ? You know them then! 
 
PROLOGUE 15 
 
 Satan. Thoroughly. 
 
 Melmoth. And how is it that you know them? 
 
 Satan. To the two Eternals, knowledge is the 
 only burden. 
 
 Melmoth. {Eagerly.) And would you grant 
 me my desires? 
 
 Satan. I would. 
 
 Melmoth. (Increduously.) The utmost of 
 them? 
 
 Satan. The greatest as readily as the least. 
 
 Melmoth. (Sceptically.) That would be kind- 
 ness from an evil source. 
 
 Satan. A common enough thing in this little 
 merry-go-round. 
 
 Melmoth. But in his transactions, the Devil in- 
 sures an earned premium, giving this for that and 
 nothing gratis. 
 
 Satan. True! True! How well we understand 
 each other, Melmoth. And knowing this, would 
 you not deal with me? 
 
 Melmoth. So, so; if your conditions are accept- 
 able. 
 
 Satan. Oh we shall come to terms, be thou as- 
 sured. I'm a pleasant partner in a deal. 
 
 Melmoth. That is excellent on your extreme. 
 But dealings with the Devil, 'tis known, tho they 
 be auspicious of the fairest consequence, meet with 
 high disaster in the end. 
 
 Satan. Who has not ventured has not won. 
 
 Melmoth. Or lost. 
 
 Satan. If so he may. 
 
 Melmoth. I am lost before I have begun. 
 . Satan. If that were so I were not here. 
 
 Melmoth. Nay, you are here because 'tis so. 
 
16 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 You are Satan, the Master-Mind, the Turn-Head 
 of mortals, and that. is something! 
 
 Satan. 'Tis plain your will is nurseling to your 
 fears. You would be great, and yet, when the goal 
 is in your arm-length reach, you would not grasp 
 the means to come by it. Call me not Satan. 'Tis 
 the name you balk at. Let us say that I am air; 
 that I am an abstraction, real to your imaginings 
 alone. Well then, would you not accept of air, of 
 anything, that which you so madly crave, and say 
 it was yourself that granted it? Be bold with me, 
 Melmoth; your own reason shall win me to your 
 confidence. Look upon me as the spirit of your 
 desires; soliloquize with it; question it; ask it what 
 you will ; you yourself will know the proper answer. 
 You yourself would give up twice the promises you 
 set at naught for that which is in my power to grant 
 you. Oh, how much greater is the light you crave 
 than your conception of it. What is this world to 
 you — to men of compass! What are its delights, 
 its ambitions, its entire attractions, but a dreary 
 contemplation — a dry and bootless study? See how 
 your soul is flapping with its eager wings against the 
 prison-bars of your own casting! See how it pants 
 for liberty that it may breathe the rarer air of 
 heaven, its native atmosphere! Come now, give 
 me an answer worthy of the intellect and of the 
 man before me. You hesitate. {Pause.) No? 
 'Tis just as well. {Satan begins to go.) H'm. 
 Thus it is that little man, confronted with the thing 
 he thought himself above, falls flat before it; and 
 thus it is, that in a moment, courage and resolves of 
 many years' fermenting, are dismissed. I leave you. 
 
 Melmoth. {Aside.) Heh, what now? There 
 
PROLOGUE 17 
 
 is the substance of my only hope, but now re-animat- 
 ed, now dissolving. Stay! Self-destruction makes 
 an end and forfeits all; in light there's chance. 
 Satan, stay! 
 
 Satan. You bid me pause? 
 
 Melmoth. Yes — 
 
 Satan. To bid me go again? 
 
 Melmoth. No — 
 
 Satan. Then what? I am impatient. Are you 
 still without determination? 
 
 Melmoth. {Hesitating.) Satan — 
 
 Satan. Yes ? — 
 
 Melmoth. Make me all-knowing and all-power- 
 ful ! Give me the key to the great Invisible ! Open 
 up to me the mystery of the world, that everything 
 shall be as clear to me as the crystal of the Magi! 
 If so you do, I'll give thee all thy asking, I'll barter 
 away my soul ! 
 
 Satan. Ah! There is strength and passion in 
 your speech, Melmoth. Now you are earnest — 
 sincere — intent ! 
 
 Melmoth. Satan knows I am. 
 
 Satan. That is well, my friend, and were so 
 well if other things, which I now bethink me I've 
 neglected to discover to you, stood not in the way. 
 Who would not, tell me, — and I'll fling this chal- 
 lenge into the teeth of the world — who would not 
 surrender his soul for the glory of Knowledge and 
 Power? There are thousands, Melmoth, that have 
 mightily aspired to the like, and as many mightily 
 failed. Who is it, therefore, that shall qualify? 
 
 Melmoth. "Qualify?" What mean you, Satan? 
 
 Satan. As men of the world qualify for station, 
 advancement, and degrees in office, so must one 
 
1 8 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 qualify for this advancement, the most super- 
 lative. First one must chart the depths, the shal- 
 lows and the flats; the calms and storm-centers of 
 the world. Then, if having known and survived 
 them, he can cry out in all the sureness of sin- 
 cerity: "All sympathy between the world and me 
 has ceased" — 
 
 Melmoth. {Repeating.) "All sympathy be- 
 tween me and the world has ceased." — You need 
 not go further, Satan. Speak it in words of thun- 
 der ! Write it in letters of flame ! I cry it out now ! 
 
 Satan. That you cannot. 
 
 Melm o th . Cannot ? 
 
 Satan. No, for sympathies for the world are 
 still clinging to you. 
 
 Melmoth. Nay, nay, Satan, you mistake me. I 
 am alone. I am indifferent to all this sphere of 
 sorrow and servility. I tell you I am alone — com- 
 pletely alone. 
 
 Satan. I doubt me, Melmoth, that you are. 
 
 Melmoth. You err, Satan, you purposely err; 
 or is it that you do not understand me? I have 
 nothing in common with men. Long ago I've turn- 
 ed my back upon the vanities of the world; I've 
 ripped the Earth Spirit from my breast, and stand 
 aside, not only not an actor, but lacking even the 
 interest to be a spectator. 
 
 Satan. Well said but better proved. I am scep- 
 tical. 
 
 Melmoth. Then how shall it be determined? 
 Say you, Satan, say you. 
 
 Satan. By a test. 
 
 Melmoth. A test? 
 
 Satan. Ay. 
 
PROLOGUE 19 
 
 Melmoth. And that test — ? 
 
 Satan. Shall lie in this; I'll thrust you into the 
 ebb and flow of life; create you monarch of a 
 mighty realm, and place at your disposal the means 
 of tasting of all things, — to yield to, or to sur- 
 mount. Wars will be waged; worlds will whirl 
 about you to have or to destroy; a thousand pas- 
 sions will assail you; crime and probity, good and 
 evil, love and hate will be the easy gifts of your 
 heart and hand. If no sympathies for the world are 
 awakened when thus brought in contact with it, 
 you have triumphed, and attain the high light of 
 your desires. But if, in the course of the trial, 
 you realize that there are bonds so imperishable 
 within you that you cannot deny them, nor fight 
 against them, then have you failed. Whatever the 
 outcome of this test, the forfeit is the same. What 
 say you to it? 
 
 Melmoth. I understand — 
 
 Satan. And understanding me, are you resolved? 
 
 Melmoth. (Slowly.) I am resolved. 
 
 Satan. The tests upon you, then. Now 'tis an 
 even tide; you know the hazard and 'tis all-in-all! 
 In your most need I'll come to you, either when you 
 are on the other bank arrived or sucked into an 
 eddy of your own. 
 
 (Stage grows dark until Melmoth and Satan are 
 swallowed up. Bells toll, and there is a sound as of 
 prayer. ) 
 
 Curtain 
 
ACT I 
 
 Scene i — The Throne Room in the Palace of 
 Elsmere. The Throne is to the extreme left. Room 
 is set out in the most elegant style. Rich tapestries 
 and hangings adorn the walls. The floor is covered 
 with heavy carpets and oriental rugs. Statuettes, 
 pedestals, divans and other furnishings. 
 
 Enter De Forest, Edwin and Steele, as Palace- 
 Guards. 
 
 Steele. I'll lay down my arms, gentlemen, and 
 go spin wool ! 
 
 Edwin. How now, what's the matter? 
 
 Steele. This is duty fit for rheum and palsy. 
 And we are neither old, crabbed nor crippled. Our 
 place, gentlemen, should be upon the battlefield, at 
 the king's side, fighting. 
 
 De Forest. Rather with the Prince, for he, being 
 our friend and sometime sympathizer in our frolics, 
 hath sooner claim upon our affection than Melmoth. 
 
 Edwin. De Forest, forget not, we are subjects. 
 
 De Forest. True; but there's a better bond than 
 that what's sworn to. 
 
 Edwin. But not stronger. 
 
 De Forest. Even stronger; for friendship goes 
 beyond allegiance, as touching the heart earlier than 
 the mind. {Enter messenger.) 
 
 Edwin. Here comes a messenger from the field. 
 
 Steele. Intercept his news. There's much will 
 come of it. 
 
 Edwin. Fellow, what's tidings abroad? 
 
 Messenger. Where's the Lord Chamberlain? 
 20 
 
ACT I 21 
 
 All. What's news abroad? Come now! 
 Messenger. I'll not tell it twice. Where's the 
 Lord Chamberlain! 
 
 Edwin. That need not concern thee much ! Tell 
 us the news and we'll convey the intelligence our- 
 selves. 
 
 Messenger. Pray, sirs, do not delay me. I've 
 fought hard and ridden long. Where's His Lord- 
 ship! Will you lead me to him or no? 
 Edwin. No. 
 
 Messenger. Then, sir, I'll seek him myself. 
 {Aloud.) My good Lord Pellas! My good Lord 
 Pellas! 
 
 Steele. Peace! peace! sirrah! Thou'lt raise the 
 castle by thy clamor! 
 
 Messenger. (Aloud.) My good Lord Pellas! 
 De Forest. Come, thou saucy fellow, we'll lead 
 thee to him. (All go out.) 
 
 Scene 2 — The same. 
 Enter Royce and Dohlgrin. 
 Dohlgrin. Royce, I misgive the whole. 
 
 Our prince was ill-prepared and too precipi- 
 tate 
 For the encounter; the more the reason, 
 Since so much depends upon the outcome. 
 If by an unlucky chance, by some 
 Odd, indelicate trick of fate which makes 
 A bubble of great expectations, 
 Esmund should fail to lend his favored arm 
 Unto the prince, or, as I apprehend, 
 Be discovered in the rendering, 
 Then, — then — 
 Royce. Then, what? 
 
22 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Dohlgrin. We shall be like the builders in Alad- 
 din 
 
 With the fabric of our structure, floated 
 away. 
 Royce. Dohlgrin, do not let it fret you. What- 
 ever follows from 
 
 This day's contention, we must stern our- 
 selves 
 
 T' accepting. If unhappy, then to study 
 out 
 
 The policy those of us in union with the 
 Prince 
 
 Are to hold in the juncture. 
 
 And this for comfort: 
 
 There's no misfortune but hath a reconciling 
 grain 
 
 Of hope in it; we'll worm that out. 
 
 If Melmoth wins, 
 
 Be fortified until the very break 
 
 Of courage. 
 
 Failure's nothing when the spirit's firm — 
 
 It fans, not cools. And 'tis not strange to 
 you 
 
 That Fortune follows those who scorn her 
 frowns, 
 
 And balks at those too timid of her favors. 
 Dohlgrin. But victory were more nearly con- 
 formable 
 
 To our purpose. 
 Royce. That's so indeed. I spoke of failure as 
 contingent. 
 
 Victory's as possible. Oft times alone, 
 
 Strength of purpose, dominated by 
 
 Wild earnestness and confidence of arms, 
 
ACT I 23 
 
 Has triumphed over numbers. 
 Dohlgrin. (Pause.) Is there yet no information 
 
 from the field? 
 Royce. No. 
 
 Dohlgrin. I wonder there is not. 
 Royce. The messengers are tardy. I cannot ac- 
 count for it else. 
 Dohlgrin. Oh, I would the outcome of the fray 
 were known 
 
 So that suspense, 
 
 More trying than the knowledge of defeat, 
 
 Might sooner be relieved. Even as I speak, 
 
 Our Prince, 
 
 Free to the chance of every venturing ar- 
 row, 
 
 And bold to the edge and thrust of traitor- 
 swords, 
 
 May learn the fierceness of encounter, and 
 by't 
 
 Lose the lesson. 
 Royce. Not that, Dohlgrin, not that! You speak 
 unwell. 
 
 We cannot afford this fear. 
 
 John must live, for there's no thinking oth- 
 erwise. 
 
 Pray, do not worry o'er the moment so, 
 
 Nor trim it with such sad fancies of the 
 mind 
 
 As torture us into pale suggestions, 
 
 And play with our desires. Be rich with 
 hope, 
 
 And stand firm in the thought that Right, 
 
 Delayed awhile in her composition, 
 
 Triumphs finally. 
 
24 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Dohlgrin. But this Melmoth, they say, 
 Is so singly fashioned in his nature, 
 So iron-mighty in his mastery, 
 He's strange to failure. 
 
 Royce. 'Tis nothing, Dohlgrin, but our dread of 
 him 
 Makes him huge. We, made weak 
 By want of confidence, irresolution, 
 Loss of spirits, slavery to fear, 
 See only the Colossus we have reared 
 And forget the man himself. 
 Nay, be he as terrible as Typhoeus 
 And thrice-forbidding, 
 There still are thunderbolts to quell him. 
 But here's news in haste. 
 
 {Enter Fellas, Kemiss, Messenger and Cour- 
 tiers). 
 
 Dohlgrin. There's triumph in their eyes; my 
 heart sinks. 
 
 Pellas. (To messenger.) Half our anxious fears, 
 by these fair words : 
 "Melmoth lives", and what rejoiceth us 
 Even equally, "Is mettle to the fray", 
 Have been allayed. 
 
 The other half, urged by the quickening spur 
 Of imperfect knowledge of the encounter 
 Hangs upon the temper of your speech. 
 Proceed then with the intelligence. 
 
 Royce. (Aside.) Dohlgrin, be calm; there's 
 space for hope. 
 
 Messenger. We came upon the rebels ere the sun 
 Had quite described the quarter of his arc 
 Across the sky. 
 It was near Devon on the farther side 
 
ACT I 25 
 
 We joined in battle. Full equal to our num- 
 bers 
 
 The traitor-villains, like avenging fiends 
 
 Dedicated to destruction, 
 
 Told back blow for blow, and all the while 
 
 The fateful contest held without a tide 
 
 To force an either current. 
 
 Then our most valiant Melmoth pressed to 
 the front, 
 
 And by the action, prompted similar among 
 our men. 
 
 The brunt of battle weighed against his 
 shield. 
 
 He, like one possessed, with tireless sword, 
 
 Flew amongst the foe and cleaved the lines. 
 
 The coward slaves did shrink before his mien 
 
 And called to God when they beheld his 
 plume 
 
 Waving like Death above them. Tho' set 
 about 
 
 With many a spear presuming towards his 
 heart, 
 
 He scorned all steel, being himself invulner- 
 able. 
 
 Thus broke he through the vanguard of se- 
 cure suspense, 
 
 And caused the enemy, fly. 
 Royce. (Eagerly.) But thus it ended not? 
 Messenger. No. (Dohlgrin looks to Royce.) 
 
 For seeing John to charge our strongest 
 lance 
 
 And battle on, unpersuaded by the panic, 
 
 His men beat back the palsying ghouls of 
 fear 
 
26 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 And rallied to the fight, and once again 
 The fate of victory hung but on a cast, — 
 So closely gambled Triumph and Defeat, 
 The fickle strumpets! 
 Thrice did we urge upon them, thrice drew 
 
 back ; 
 And every onslaught yielded neither gain, 
 But robbed the ranks of many an earnest 
 arm. 
 Fellas. Of what duration was this changing fit? 
 Dohlgrin. What then ensued, say on? 
 Messenger. The conflict slackened at the hour 
 of noon, 
 When man and beast, nigh spent with brazen 
 
 toil 
 Did labor more through habit than through 
 
 art. 
 Thus did I leave them. 
 Fellas. And this was noon? 
 Messenger. Ay. 
 Royce. 'Tis two now. 
 Fellas. Is't two? 
 Kemiss. I take 'tis more. 
 
 Dohlgrin. What many things may chance have 
 wrought the while 
 To give the tale an unfamiliar face! 
 Kemiss. (To Fellas.) How fare our sons, my 
 
 Lord? 
 Royce. (To messenger.) This news by now is 
 stale and profitless. 
 How came you to be late? 
 Messenger. (Evasively.) My lords, I have 
 
 more news — 
 Royce. Impart it quickly! Stand not on the 
 
ACT I 27 
 
 word! 
 Dohlgrin. (To Royce.) Royce, here is the 
 
 worst ! 
 Messenger. They spoke of treason in the ranks — 
 All What! "Treason!" 
 Messenger. Ay; and of no inconsequence. 
 Royce. Treason, alas! 
 Dohlgrin. (To Royce.) He must have been 
 
 betrayed. 
 Royce (To Dohlgrin.) There is no doubt; 
 
 few knew our purpose. 
 Pellas. (To Messenger.) Who is he that bears 
 this brand of guilt? 
 Or are there many more than one concerned ? 
 Messenger. Of this am I ignorant. So much is 
 known : 
 A plot to annex some certain cohorts 
 To the Prince's, and trip our own armies 
 In their first manoeuvres, 
 Was discovered to His Royal Majesty 
 In time to thwart the whole; 
 Else 'twould have worked disaster to our men 
 And made sure defeat. 
 No further knowledge of the matter, sirs, 
 Do I entertain. 
 Kemiss. Alas for Elsmere, when continued strife 
 Shakes her from that dear tranquillity 
 Which was her pride. When treason, 
 Sprung from th' unhealthy womb of dis- 
 content, 
 Which instructs us to rebellion, 
 Makes pale the name of honor to her sons! 
 Pellas. (To Mes'senger.) On this report we 
 rest more hope than anything. 
 
28 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Would you had brought us more apprising 
 
 news 
 And fortified our trust in triumph! 
 Royce. But whatever befall, the State must be 
 insured 
 Against encroaching might of monarclry. 
 Kemiss. If peace could join with might! — 
 Dohlgrin. And might with clemency! — 
 Fellas. The time's not now to speak of such far 
 things. 
 The present is fast enough. {Enter Second 
 Messenger. ) 
 First Messenger. Here is one that shall decide 
 our doubts. 
 Comrade, good cheer! 
 Let thy words commend thy presence here. 
 All. Speak, sir, what news? 
 Second Messenger. The victory is ours. Mel- 
 moth comes in triumph from the field. 
 Royce and Dohlgrin. {Breathlessly.) And what 
 
 of John? — Is he fallen? 
 Second Messenger. The base pretender with a 
 meagre force 
 Has sought safety in flight, — 
 Dohlgrin. {To Royce.) Unhappy man! 
 Second Messenger. And Esmund — 
 Royce and Dohlgrin. Ay, and what of him? 
 Second Messenger. Complicated in a most griev- 
 ous charge 
 Is to the Tower sent. 
 All. {But Royce and Dohlgrin.) Esmund! 
 Kemiss. Recall yourself, do you speak soothe? 
 Second Messenger. 'Tis even as I say. 
 Kemiss. Why, for what offence? I pray you! 
 
ACT I 29 
 
 First Messenger. I have spoken it already. 
 Second Messenger. Treason, sir. 
 Kemiss. Sirs, do you say 'treason?' 
 Second Messenger. I do. 
 
 Kemiss. Oh God, give me strength to bear it 
 all! 
 Yet I should ha'e known that such a thing 
 
 might be. 
 Love for the prince did overrun his vows 
 Even as a stream, 
 Contained by an artificial might, 
 Will overrun its dam. 
 Lead me hence, good friends. 
 Fellas. (To Kemiss.) My lord, I'm sorry for 
 
 your sake. 
 Royce. (To Kemiss.) Be of brave cheer, my 
 lord, my lord. 
 Often treason hath an honor in it 
 Loyalty may lack. 
 
 (Exeunt Kemiss and several Courtiers.) 
 Fellas. Did Francis bear him well? 
 Second Messenger. With so much valor, sir, 
 that he gained at once the King's high 
 favor. 
 Royce. (Aside.) Hear that, Dohlgrin! 
 Second Messenger. He is a soldier, sir. 
 Fellas. In that he is all. It does my heart 
 great joy; 
 He's doubly paid in gratitude and affection. 
 (Sound of trumpets and drums.) 
 The King's arrived, my lords. Prepare to 
 welcome him. 
 
 (Enter Melmoth, as king; St. Francis, 
 Berkeley, Brabant, Toussan, Splinters 
 
3 o MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 and soldiers — some of whom go over the 
 stage and exeunt.) 
 All. All hail! All hail! All hail! ' 
 Melmoth. {Sarcastically.) Victory over life is 
 still master of tribute! 
 Heh, I could almost be flattered at this re- 
 ception ! 
 Acclaim us better, my lords, better! We 
 have drawn first blood. 
 All. All hail! All hail! 
 Melmoth. {Abruptly.) Pellas! 
 Fellas. My gracious lord? 
 Melmoth. Where is the Old Duke Kemiss? 
 
 Why came he not forth to greet us? 
 Pellas. He is to his chambers gone, my lord. 
 He is unwell. The report of his son's 
 behaviour broke his spirit, and — 
 Melmoth. That's an indulgence of the old man, 
 tell me! Him we wanted most. We 
 have much to command of him. {Aloud.) 
 But for the stain upon our victory's crest 
 Which now occasions a regretful shift 
 To what has been, 
 We were whole-honored in the war, 
 And our triumph, perfect as the cause 
 That occasioned it — eh, my lord ? 
 A Lord. Ay, my lord — 
 
 Melmoth. Ay, what — ? You know not what. 
 A Lord. {Confused.) Indeed, my lord — 
 Melmoth. {Continuing.) But every joy is 
 sweeter for the grain 
 Of bitterness mixed therein. Were there no 
 treason 
 To give the edge to conflict, then the struggle 
 
ACT I 31 
 
 Were less genuine; the victory less cher- 
 ished. 
 
 Yet the fault, 
 
 Like the haze upon a crystal, dulls the thing. 
 
 He that's guilty, 
 
 And all that had a say in bending him 
 
 To such a following, must answer 
 
 For the shame that's ours. And there are 
 those, 
 
 I promise, though secret in their doings, 
 
 Shall be forced, 
 
 Into self-condemning eloquence. ( To Royce 
 and Dohlgrin.) You, sirs, 
 
 Go seek old Kemiss out. 
 
 Bring him promptly to our presence here, 
 
 That we may speak to him and so, perchance, 
 
 Discover where the spring and fountain- 
 s head 
 
 Of this most inelegant turn, lies. 
 (Melmoth seats himself on the throne). 
 Splinters. Thou hast him guilty, king, ere thou 
 hast him at all. Listen, Splinters. Who'll 
 listen to a fool but a wise man ? Yet, me- 
 thinks, rather the unprejudiced judgment 
 of a fool than the bias of a king. 
 Fellas. My lord, I say it without motive or of- 
 fense: 
 
 The Old Duke stands high above suspicion. 
 
 He was nothing knowing of the matter 
 
 Until 'twas common. That I can vouch- 
 safe. 
 
 I stood by him when the intelligence was 
 brought; 
 
 I marked his mien, and if the duke be guilty, 
 
32 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 And guilt can put on such an innocence, 
 Then is guilt none. 
 Melmoth. What, Pellas, do you defend him? 
 Pellas. I tell my Lord the truth. 
 Melmoth. I asked not for it. Now, sirs — (To 
 
 Royce and Dohlgrin.) 
 Splinters. Old men and fools are no distant rela- 
 tives; and fools have not the wisdom to 
 lie. Therefore believe him, king. 
 Royce. In all respect of office, Most High Sov- 
 ereign, 
 We would be spared this uncongenial duty 
 That makes us slack in the performance o't. 
 Kemiss is not well, and this last piece, 
 His son's delinquency, as it appears, 
 Added to the infirmities of age, 
 Have forced him to his bed. 
 Any such exertion on his part 
 As that you now demand of him, is done 
 On penalty of health, which doth forfend it — 
 Melmoth. We'll not be won by idle sentiment! 
 {To Royce.) What, sir, 
 Wouldst teach me reason? Wouldst occupy 
 
 my throne? 
 I'll not implore that I may be obeyed ! 
 Go at once and bring the old man here. 
 You need not speak again. (Exeunt Royce 
 and Dohlgrin.) 
 Splinters. Such kindness in a man makes record 
 in Heaven and jubilee in Hell. The 
 world's grown better, la! 
 Melmoth. That which treason loses in the er- 
 • ring, 
 Loyalty doth gain. St. Francis, stand you 
 
ACT I 33 
 
 forth. 
 
 (Francis comes forth). 
 For the many and divers services 
 Well and worthily conceived the state — 
 As too most faithfully performed — 
 In consciousness of duty and allegiance, 
 To you I transfer all of the domains, 
 Offices and titles appurtenant 
 To the late Marquis of Lode, Old Kemiss' 
 
 son; 
 Whom, in his stead, 
 Here publicly I do create you. This day 
 
 hence 
 You come into possession of those titles 
 Now observed. 
 Berkeley. (To Brabant.) Oh, this smells rank! 
 Splinters. These are trappings too heavy for an 
 honest man, but they are high strings to 
 hang by. King, you make an enemy now. 
 Gratitude is a virtue of the great; the 
 small whistle it, like an old song, and for- 
 get. How's your load, Marquis? See 
 to bear it well. Nor for a "copia ver- 
 borum". 
 St. Francis. My most dear lord, there is a time 
 when words 
 From bountiness of gratitude, run over 
 One another and fail their utterance. 
 Had I the eloquence to plead my thanks, 
 And art to work words into fashion, 
 Yet would my speech be all too insufficient 
 To do my feelings justice. Not for my 
 
 words, therefore, 
 But for my sentiments, which stay still 
 
34 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 unconveyed, 
 Believe me to be earnest in all things 
 That point to Elsmere's weal, above the 
 
 thought 
 Of recompense. 
 Splinters, I'll eat grass if that were more than 
 
 words ! 
 Melmoth. Heh, that was well spoken, sir. 
 Let us trust you'll wear your offices 
 With the same dignity that marked you 
 of late. 
 Splinters. Power even the noblest must abuse; 
 but who's noble now that hath an honor? 
 St. Francis (Kneeling). I'm ever your humble 
 
 servant, sir. 
 Splinters. Until I become your master, sir. De- 
 pend on it, there's no fool like a great fool. 
 Listen to wisdom, King, and you'll need 
 no ears. 
 (Enter Kemiss between Dohlgrin and Royce) 
 There comes sincerity which is too old- 
 fashioned to be tolerated here. 
 Melmoth. Here, Kemiss. 
 Kemiss. My Lord. 
 
 Melmoth. Stand you before us and relate your 
 part. 
 
 In that grave cause which summons you now 
 To our presence. Of your son's indiscretion 
 You know, and 'tis no matter to persuade me, 
 Knew too well. Your sympathies are else- 
 part 
 Than with us. That need not deny, old 
 
 man. 
 Yourself reveal the truth. 
 
ACT I 35 
 
 Not that part which oft contrives to shield 
 The wrong, but the perfect whole of it. 
 
 {Pause) 
 And know, if you will not tell of him 
 That, mirror-like, reflects on you and all 
 Your strain the blemish of his treason, 
 Then shall I hold your reluctance 
 As a sign of acquiescence in his deed; 
 Or better still, if this have more the truth, 
 As I suspect, — of participation. 
 
 Splinters. Angels marry him or he'll bag Old 
 Scratch himself. 
 
 Kemiss. See, there is no harder stroke than this 
 To bend me sooner to my grave. He, 
 Whom we ever cherished as the son of promise 
 To his country and his line, has cheated 
 Expectation of her due, and shown himself 
 Eccentric in life's orbit. 
 Yet he loved the Prince. That was genuine ; 
 And tended stronger than his pledge to serve 
 His King. Then let us say that love, 
 Than which there is no more exalted bond, 
 Taught him a greater duty. Which way he 
 
 bent, 
 Though failing of allegiance, 'twas done in 
 
 honour ; 
 I should not call it guilt. 
 
 Melmoth. Had you then no knowledge of the 
 thought 
 Which shaped itself so ugly? Come, old man, 
 Confess, and I shall hold thee light. 
 
 Kemiss. I knew nothing, sir. 
 
 Melmoth. Let not thy tongue slur the truth, 
 Kemiss ! 
 
36 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Kemiss. Nay, King, not all your emphasis, 
 Can tempt me to avow to that 
 Which I, in all my senses, am guiltless of. 
 If thou wilt urge me to the crack, why, — 
 I swear to God my innocence. 
 Melmoth. What, so old and yet so unreproved? 
 Hast no respect for thy gray hairs 
 Which must remind thee of a reckoning? 
 Kemiss. (To the Lords.) Why have you 
 brought me here, my lords? 
 To go the wrath and vengeance of this mon- 
 arch? 
 To be the butt and shot of his contumely? 
 Once again, King, I cry my innocence. 
 If thou thinkst still to mock at my exclaims, 
 Oh king, thou liest! 
 Splinters. Go it, old boy! Let it froth! Con- 
 flict's the yeast of Life. 
 Melmoth. Hey, what? "Liest!" 
 
 You've urged your own doom upon you, 
 
 man! 
 Your words have put you beyond the reach 
 
 or hope 
 Of any sympathy that could, with reason, 
 Be extended you. 
 Kemiss. I awaited none. Let out your spleen! 
 I am reconciled 
 
 To whatever fate you'll measure out to me. 
 Melmoth. Then, old Kemiss, before the Court, 
 I say it: 
 You, and any in the line that hold your 
 
 name, 
 And claim your lineage, are this day forth — 
 And 'twill be futile to appeal the word — 
 
ACT I 3? 
 
 Banished from the kingdom! 
 Splinters. Too much charity ruins the giver. 
 Smile at thy release, old man. The rest's 
 heaven. 
 Dohlgrin. Surely this is not in seriousness said? 
 Royce. Let me beseech the king to hear me once. 
 Old age misses art to fashion things un- 
 familiar. 
 They only toy with truth that sphere the 
 
 tricks 
 Of life, not those beyond them. Believe 
 
 him, my lord. 
 There's that much truth we measure by his 
 
 words, 
 How much more is in his heart! 
 Mehnoth. Enough! Not in your power is it 
 to affect me! 
 Nor all the world, should it combine to 
 
 plead 
 For him, can make me change, or teach me 
 
 clemency 
 Where I'm not so leaned. 
 Fellas. My gracious Lord, in our Duke's be- 
 half— 
 Melmoth. What, thou too! Now then be 
 silent all! 
 And let no voice be raised above mine own 
 In this decision ! Who'll presume among you 
 Let him look to him ! 
 De Forest. My Lord — 
 Melmoth. Shut your damned lips, I'll none of 
 
 you! 
 Berkeley. Yet, my Lord — 
 Melmoth. Did I not say enough? 
 
38 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Do hi grin. Hear me — 
 
 Melmoth. (Rising from the throne.) What! 
 I'll shake you like a rat! 
 
 Now, begone, or I'll din hell into you, thou 
 trash! (Enter Dolora.) 
 
 Dolora. Where is my father? (Goes to Kemiss.) 
 Melmoth. (Looking after Dolora.) 
 
 Why does she come that has no fitness here? 
 
 Of all earth's creatures, these I most abhor. 
 
 They resolve my hate into a steam of pas- 
 sion 
 
 Which leaves me weak. Madam, do you 
 know your place ? — 
 
 The offence of entrance pricks us not so 
 much 
 
 As the knowing 'tis forbidden here, and yet 
 
 Neglecting it. But they are unreasoning, 
 
 Strange beings of a still unperished age. 
 Dolora. Banished! Banished! 
 Melmoth. Madam, do you know your place? 
 Dolora. I do beseech your pardon, my lord — 
 Melmoth. There is no pardon! 
 Dolora. I crave your mercy, then. 
 Kemiss. Do not, daughter. There is one that 
 
 knows it not. 
 
 Nor plead with him; 'tis vain to seek to 
 change 
 
 The imperial word. What he has spoken 
 
 We shall with resignation follow out. 
 
 I would the punishment were mine alone, 
 
 Not thine to share in. 
 Dolora. But I must speak, even as much in duty 
 
 As in justice. 
 Melmoth. Who is it that must speak? 
 
ACT I 39 
 
 Dolora. My gracious Lord — 
 Melmoth. Nay, nay, who is it that must speak? 
 Dolora. Most grand sovereign, give grace unto 
 my speech 
 And suffer me but these poor protestations. 
 Melmoth. Siren, I'll make thy song uncited ! 
 
 I'll stuff up mine ears. 
 Dolora. Look upon the old man thou wouldst 
 banish. 
 His white hairs plead a softer attitude 
 Than that of severity. Be ruled by kind- 
 ness ; 
 And if you have not that especial mercy in 
 
 you 
 Then reflect it from those radiant about you ; 
 They have it in that full abundance, you 
 
 seem not to. 
 But I am confident, 
 The spirit that shines from the eye must 
 
 betray 
 The goodness of the heart, tho o'er the face 
 
 is set 
 The mask of stern indifference. 
 Be ruled by kindness; 
 Yet towards his truth be stricter than thou 
 
 wilt ; 
 Towards his words, be lenient; towards his 
 
 years 
 Be thou merciful. Judge him evenly, 
 For I know not when my father 's love for 
 
 truth 
 Was less than love for life. 
 Melmoth. No! No! No! I have spoken! 
 Dolora. Then must you speak again. 
 
40 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Melmoth. Mock not at me, lady! Mock not 
 
 at me! 
 Dolora. There is no judgment that is absolute, 
 
 Except it be Above. For here on earth, 
 
 Perfection being lost, we cannot claim it. 
 
 Oh bear thine office well and worthily! 
 
 Let it not deceive thee. Let not thy scep- 
 tre — 
 
 The temporary grant of heaven — 
 
 Be a spear to hurt, but a wand to heal. 
 
 Thou art most clear when thou art most for- 
 bearing ; 
 
 I kneel in supplication. (Kneels.) 
 Melmoth. Away! Away! Come not near me! 
 Hold aloof! What, Circe, you will have 
 me tricked? Feed acorns to the hogs, I am 
 Ulysses, I! 
 Dolora. I have no charm, great king, no talis- 
 man, 
 
 To persuade thee to revoke thy word, 
 
 But the truth and the plea for mercy. 
 
 Be merciful, oh sire! I kiss your hand. 
 
 Melmoth. Drive her from me, Pellas! Ho! 
 
 Francis ! Guards ! Take her away ! 
 
 (Rises from his throne.) She has come here 
 to infuriate my passions — to subvert my 
 reason. Where will she lead me? Where? 
 
 To the white wastes of the moon ? Take her 
 away! She makes me mad! Now I can- 
 not speak or do. Stand away! (to Do- 
 lora) Will you touch me with your lips 
 
 again? Ha! You make me mad! 
 (Exit Melmoth followed by officers and several 
 courtiers,) 
 
ACT I 41 
 
 Courtiers Mercy on us all! 
 
 Royce. (To Dolora) Madam, I take this well. 
 
 Dolora. Oh, I know not what to think. I have 
 
 moved him so! And yet — 
 St. Francis. I have great fear his word cannot be 
 
 changed. His majesty's too absolute. 
 Fellas. That's to be discovered. Meanwhile 
 friends, good cheer; 
 To-morrow is another day. 
 (Exeunt all but Dohlgrin, Berkeley, and Bra- 
 bant). 
 Dohlgrin. What do you make of it all, gentle- 
 men? 
 Brabant. Of Francis and his newly-borrowed 
 
 robes ? 
 Dohlgrin. No — and what of that? 
 Brabant. I have many doubts assailing me just 
 
 now. 
 Berkeley. I'll go beyond and say I know the 
 truth. Conviction gives character to my 
 suspicions. Francis has betrayed Esmund! 
 Dohlgrin. Can we be sure of it? 
 Berkeley. Proof before conviction. 
 Brabant. What is to be done? 
 Dohlgrin. This: Go you, my lords, and discov- 
 er the retreat of our fugitive Prince. Report to him 
 the state of all that has transpired. I'll to Royce 
 and learn his mind. Together we will to Esmund. 
 Now friends, farewell. 
 Brabant. Farewell. 
 
 Dohlgrin. When you do pass the Tower, forget 
 not to deliver this to Walden, Lieutenant of the 
 Tower, who is one of us. It speaks of our intent 
 to visit Esmund to-night, incognito. 
 
42 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 {Dohlgrin gives note to Brabant), 
 
 Berkeley. Well ; good-night. 
 
 Dohlgrin. Good night. Greet our Prince in all 
 affection. Bid him take comfort. When once our 
 way is clear from out this maze, we'll strike, and 
 this time win for him, by God's grace. {They go 
 out). 
 
 FORE-CURTAIN. THE SAME. 
 
 Enter St. Francis and Toussan. 
 
 St. Francis. We have manoeuvered well, Tous- 
 san. 
 
 Toussan. Merry, my lord, we have! The early 
 tide is caught. 'Tis now but to trim our sails and 
 head for the golden fleece. 
 
 St. Francis. Counsel, Toussan, Counsel! The 
 others must be answered. There's Royce, there's — 
 
 Toussan. And they shall be answered, my sweet 
 lord! Mark me: We must play both hands as we 
 have never played them before. Yet if we are trapped, 
 merry, my sweet lord, we'll not be scotched. To 
 trip us on one leg is to make us stand firmer on the 
 other. Go to them to-night. You'll find them in 
 the Tower with Esmund or I'll take to writing 
 Scriptures. 
 
 St. Francis. "Go to them!" How, Toussan, "go 
 to them?" 
 
 Toussan. That's the logic. That will be the 
 smart thing. That will be the — 
 
 St. Francis. But, "go to them!" 
 
 Toussan. Go to! Go to them. That's my ex- 
 pression. Ay, go to them. Thou'lt cozen them by 
 thy appearance amongst them and thou'lt bait them 
 
ACT I 
 
 43 
 
 by thy easy manner. Come, I'll teach thee what. 
 Curtain 
 
 Scene 3 — Room in the Castle. 
 
 Enter Servant to Dolor a. 
 Well, is his majesty about? 
 
 He is, madam, in his orchard. 
 Are any with him? 
 
 None. 
 
 Is it his wont to keep him there this 
 
 Ay, madam, the length of an half- 
 
 Dolora. 
 
 Servant. 
 
 Dolor a. 
 
 Servant. 
 
 Dolor a. 
 time? 
 
 Servant. 
 hour. 
 
 Dolora. Then shall I seek him in the palace. 
 
 For this I am much beholden unto you. {Servant 
 goes.) — Pray you, a while. Didst take in his mien? 
 
 Servant. Not surely, madam. Yet, by the heav- 
 iness of his glance, methinks he has missed the 
 night. 
 
 Dolora. Indeed! Then he was fretful? 
 
 Servant. No — 
 
 Dolora. Untoward? 
 
 Servant. Neither; he was more — abstracted. 
 {Enter Cedrielle.) 
 
 Dolora. I thank you, sir, I thank you. 
 
 Cedrielle. Astir so early, madam? {Exit Ser- 
 vant.) 
 
 Dolora. Could I sleep, I were not surely. 
 
 Cedrielle. And were you asleep you could not 
 truly. But, madam, your mirror is out with you 
 this morning. You look weary. {Approaching her.) 
 Nay, you have not slept! 
 
 Dolora. To the heart of many cares there is no 
 
44 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 rest. And when night disjoins itself from sleep, 
 nature's assailed. 
 
 Cedrielle. In all good faith, sweet madam, you 
 do yourself hurt to let things take hold on you so. 
 
 Dolor a. When these sad matters shall adjust 
 themselves, I'll be myself again. But, Cedrielle, 
 make ready my attire and spare no effort to see me 
 pleasing fair. I must to the king. 
 
 Cedrielle. What, madam, now? 
 
 Dolor a. Now — with half the day given over to 
 preparation. 
 
 Cedrielle. You jest seriously, madam. 
 
 Dolora. Ah, Cedrielle, there is no time more 
 darkling than the present. Come. 
 
 Cedrielle. We'll see our duty done. You can- 
 not want assurance; your purpose itself must make 
 you rich with it. 
 
 Dolora. Heaven intercede for us. 
 
 Cedrielle. Ay, madam. {They go out.) 
 
 Scene 4 — Same as Scene 1. 
 
 Traders, Merchants, Poets, Painters, Men of 
 Profession discovered in groups, awaiting Melmoth. 
 Enter Jeweler. 
 
 Jeweler. Masters, good fortune. His majesty 
 shall attend us presently. He is even now without. 
 
 Merchant. Gentlemen, your good will. My 
 business with the king is of such immediate na- 
 ture, it begs special address. 
 
 Second Merchant. By your leave, dear sir, I 
 have tarried here — 
 
 Third Merchant. Your pardon both; my mat- 
 ter is urgent. Allow me priority. {All begin press- 
 
ACT I 45 
 
 ing forward.) 
 
 Some. Nay, press not so upon us. 
 Merchant. Gentlemen, see to your demeanor. 
 Others. We know our place, sir. 
 (Enter Melmoth, St. Francis, Splinters, Cour- 
 tiers and retainers.) 
 
 Jeweler. (Kneeling.) My gracious lord — 
 First Merchant. (Kneeling.) Most high sov- 
 ereign — 
 Second Merchant. (Kneeling.) My royal liege! 
 St. Francis. Make room; stand away! 
 Splinters. Go to the rear, chapmen, the fore- 
 castle's swamped. 
 Melmoth. They crowd about me like bees about 
 the promise of a flower. 
 Francis, we'll hear you anon. (To Mer- 
 chants.) 
 Give space, will you? ( To Courtiers.) My 
 
 lords, be greeted. 
 If there is no favor to seek of me to-day, 
 or yours to give, indulge me here. 
 De Forest. The favor, my lord, is in your com- 
 pany. Indeed, 'tis all — 
 Melmoth. (As many do him homage.) Did I 
 not swear against it — 
 Flaunt not your periwigs in my face! Who 
 bends the knee's a slave! Up, I say! Or 
 shall I step upon you? (Merchants rise.) 
 Splinters. Step upon him, King, and thou'lt exalt 
 him; or spit upon him and thou'lt make a braggart 
 of him for the rest of his life ; he'll write thy mem- 
 oirs for it, with a preface. (Melmoth is seated.) 
 First Jeweler. I claim your patience, my liege. 
 Splinters. You mean his gold. 
 
46 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 First Jeweler. This gem, my lord, prefer to 
 gaze upon it; 
 It boasts of history as varied as the nations. 
 It was the crown-jewel — 
 Second Jeweler. This, my lord, you sought for. 
 See, it is as bright as the eye of the Prophet! 
 It teaches splendor to the sun. 
 No star of heaven shines with this undecked. 
 It was stolen from the caves of the giddy sea 
 Beyond the zone. Accept it, your grace. 
 Melmoth. What value do you set upon this? 
 Second Jeweler. Ten thousand liras, most — 
 Melmoth. Ten thousand liras! By Mammon, 
 royal figures truly! And this? (Regard- 
 ing the other gem.) 
 First Jeweler. His majesty may himself de- 
 termine. 
 Splinters. Nothing then, and farewell. Fools 
 buy and ninnies sell — that's trade. (Exit 
 Splinters. ) 
 Melmoth. As trafficers, you appraise your cus- 
 toms well. 
 (Holding up ge?n.) How many centuries 
 
 were lost in thy pursuit, 
 Thou mean object of madness and longing! 
 I have thee now. What is thy worth ? And 
 
 thine? (Regarding other gems.) 
 Ten thousand lives? Or more? Thou art 
 
 history ! 
 Intellectual man, that lets this be his chron- 
 icler ! 
 Most valuable wert thou when thou didst lie 
 Concealed beneath the waves, far from the 
 delving 
 
ACT I 47 
 
 And omnivorous eye of man! — 
 Who's the fool that would possess thee now? 
 Take it — thou! {Hands it to a courtier.) 
 Sell it to the honest men. 
 Send it on its round once more and groan 
 At the wake of ruin it leaves behind it. 
 Merchants. Here, my lord — 
 Second Merchant. This, my gracious — 
 Third Merchant. Will you look upon this — ? 
 (Each Merchant offers his special ware.) 
 Melmoth. {To the Painter, ignoring Mer- 
 chants.) What's that you have there? 
 Whose lily face is this! 
 (Painter has exposed painting of Melmoth.) 
 Painter. My lord; good, my lord — 
 Melmoth. False protestor of thine art, — 
 Painter. Hear me, sire — 
 
 Melmoth. My spirit's writ upon my face! — 
 peace ! 
 Where's the greedy eye, the sensuous mouth ; 
 The lines of prejudice, pride, and scorn 
 That show up the imperfections of my soul? 
 Peace ! Where are they ? Art thou an artist ? 
 Canst copy nature and paint a naked wall? 
 Thou canst not, flatterer; thou canst not, 
 
 tradesman ; 
 Thou canst not do so simple thing as that 
 Till thou hast separated man from man, 
 And earth from heaven! 
 
 (Painter retires.) 
 Poet. Magnanimous sire! 
 
 Melmoth. Ah! What wouldst thou, thou care- 
 worn figure of a man? Art thou a poet? Or art 
 thou merely clinging to the tail of Pegasus? Come, 
 
48 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 show thy talent. Rhyme me a jingle on nothing. 
 No? Speak. {Poet pauses.) Is it so difficult then? 
 You do this days out of the week and your dreams 
 are many times nothing. Rhyme me a jingle on 
 something. That's a task for a poet! Or midway 
 between something and nothing; rhyme me anything. 
 What, not anything? Not something? Not even 
 nothing ? 
 
 Poet. Be graciously disposed, my lord. Here is 
 that which Fame 
 On its tip-toe waits to acknowledge. 
 Thine's the first eye that's given to linger 
 
 over 
 And adorn it. {Proffers the Manuscript.) 
 
 Melmoth. {Regarding Manuscript.) "The 
 
 Pleasures of Life." A fable, eh, a fable? Ha! — ha! 
 Poor man, what dreams here are dreamed in vain! 
 Now thou hast a conscience to plague thee, for 
 thou hast created, — and we create in order to de- 
 stroy ! Do you not know that thus has God, self-will- 
 ed, in his creation sinned? I'll save thee, poet, the 
 sadness of knowing it will perish. {Tears manu- 
 script. ) 
 
 Poet. Oh, spare it, great Prince! {Kneeling.) 
 The rose of my dearest fancy! The extreme effort 
 of my genius! The work of twenty years! {Pick- 
 ing up fragments.) Oh, it is ruined, ruined! 
 
 Melmoth. Fool, smile rather and be contented. 
 Take thy measure of gold and fare thee well. What 
 in this world is lasting? Know you not that all 
 must pass away like a season? Time, himself, the 
 great eternal monarch of decay, wrecks his own 
 kingdom! How long thinkst thou to have lived? 
 An hundred years? Five hundred years? A thou- 
 
ACT I 49 
 
 sand years? Others will rise to smile at your cru- 
 dities; to wonder at your innocence; to triumph at 
 your failure; and raise alike an unendurable man- 
 sion, upon the ashes of your fondest dreams! (Mer- 
 chants begin offering their wares again.) Enough! 
 Enough! Depart! (They begin to go out.) 
 Nearness of all great objects of desire 
 Makes them trifling. 
 
 To know that every mortal thing's available 
 Satisfies the craving for it. 
 What is here on earth to be desired? 
 Bring me that which cannot be acquired! 
 (To Courtiers.) For a while, my lords, eh? 
 (Exeunt all but Melmoth and St. Francis.) 
 St. Francis. Well now, my lord, will you hear 
 me further? — (Enter Pellas.) 
 
 Melmoth. Stay. We'll hear your father first. 
 What is it, Pellas? 
 
 Pellas. My lord, the ambassadors from Austria 
 are most eager to commend themselves to your grace. 
 Melmoth. What's their commission? Tis often 
 trifles fret our weary pillow when matters signal of 
 high consequence find us secure in unconcerned re- 
 pose. 
 
 Pellas. Immediate trifles, my liege, take their 
 precedence over gravest issues, more removed. 
 Melmoth. Therein are you wrong, old man. 
 Pellas. I beg— 
 
 Melmoth. Come, we'll not argue. What have 
 my lords from Austria to say? 
 
 Pellas. In eager application of our mutual in- 
 terest, they would find favor with his majesty to 
 solicit a renewal of the treaty made nine years back 
 and binding yet some time. And too, they seek the 
 
50 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 countenance of Elsmere in their embroil with the 
 nations of the north. 
 
 Melmoth. Heh, each would find a guardian 
 goose-wing for his head ! 
 
 Fellas, Good, my lord, I pray you give them pa- 
 tient audience, as all matters indicate to Elsmere's 
 weal. 
 
 Melmoth. Elsmere! The name is like a knell! 
 'Tis hung about my neck to weary me! 
 Fellas. How, my lord? 
 
 Melmoth. {Abstracted) I could have done with- 
 out it, but that he whose purposes are as fixed as the 
 gates of Hell, and as forbidding, may resolve an end. 
 But I'll not sleep. He'll catch me hundred-eyed, 
 and every eye awake. 
 
 Fellas. My gracious lord — 
 Melmoth. What, Pellas! I'll not receive them! 
 Fellas. But the state, my lord ! 
 Melmoth. What of that? 
 Fellas. Think on it, my lord. Here in this liv- 
 ing world, the merest act drags with it a lengthening 
 chain of consequences. And when the happiness 
 of a nation is suspended in the balance of one man's 
 "yea" or "nay" — pardon, my lord, — that one should 
 be more centred in his trust. Once more, my liege, 
 I do entreat you, think upon the state. 
 Melmoth. Pellas, hear me: 
 
 Kings and empires, men and purposes, 
 Are as the fashions which I contemplate, 
 Out of season. These royal messengers 
 On something bent, have teased me out of 
 
 humor. 
 Yet we'll endure them for the part we play ; 
 As many men make forfeit of the 'would', 
 
ACT I 51 
 
 When to the 'must' they bring self-sacrifice, 
 Cheating them both. — Bid them to my closet, 
 
 Pellas; 
 I'll attend them presently. 
 
 Pellas. Thank you, my lord. {Exit Pellas.) 
 
 St. Francis. Well, my lord? 
 
 Melmoth. Well? 
 
 St. Francis. Well?— 
 
 Melmoth. You tell me so. 
 
 St. Francis. 'Tis so, 'tis so, my lord! Believe 
 me, for thine own use, I tell thee so. Esmund was 
 but the small finger of the conspiracy; be sure, for 
 I know it. And besides, the hand's already healed 
 and again feeling for the sceptre. 
 
 Melmoth. Oh, pish! 
 
 St. Francis. Oh, pish! 
 
 Melmoth. What's that? 
 
 St. Francis. Nothing — sir. 
 
 Melmoth. Nothing? — Nothing. (Melmoth 
 walks off.) 
 
 St. Francis. Oh, let me be believed! Am I un- 
 deserving of good faith? Wherein, my king, have 
 I merited your displeasure? 
 
 Melmoth (indifferently). What do you tell me? 
 
 St. Francis. I tell, my lord, what's stale, eh? 
 What's without ground, without truth? I tell thee 
 all that! 
 
 Melmoth. Francis, what will you have? 
 
 St. Francis. My lord's own caution for himself. 
 To be ruler now is to have the sword of Damocles 
 suspended above him. Had I the voice and power 
 to enforce it, I'd well know whom, and how soon, 
 to silence. 
 
 Melmoth. Doubtless, doubtless. But tell me, is 
 
52 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 it immediate, — the danger, is it immediate? 
 
 St. Francis. Not quite, my lord. 
 
 Melmoth. Have they planned an action? 
 
 St. Francis. No, my lord, but — 
 
 Melmoth. Are their armies consorted? 
 
 St. Francis. They are not, my lord? 
 
 Melmoth. (Rising in temper.) Is then the 
 Prince enforced, the spirit general, the thing at all? 
 
 St. Francis. Oh, my king — 
 
 Melmoth. (Impatiently.) I tell thee what, 
 Francis, we'll speak of this again. That were best. 
 
 St. Francis. I marvel much — 
 
 Melmoth. (Fiercely.) Nay, that were best. 
 
 St. Francis. Ay, my lord, but — 
 
 Melmoth. I tell thee, that were best! (Exit 
 Francis). (Enter Servant). 
 
 Servant. Your Majesty. 
 
 Melmoth. What, knave? 
 
 Servant. My liege, the lady Dolora who attends 
 without, bade me commend her thus to your grace: 
 your word of yesterday with special drift of the 
 banishment of the duke, her father, having had no 
 determinate conclusion, she begs his majesty — 
 
 Melmoth. I have no grant to make! Tell her 
 "No!" I will not speak to her; (aside) I dare 
 not, lest her firmness force mine to give way. (To 
 servant) Slave, why do you linger? Did I not say — 
 
 Servant. What, my lord? I do not know your 
 answer. 
 
 Melmoth. The villain perplexes me! Tell her 
 — (Hesitates.) 
 You say she waits without ? 
 
 Servant. Ay. 
 
 Melmoth. There, there, I know not what to 
 
ACT I 53 
 
 say! (Pauses.) 
 Go, bid her enter. (Exit Servant.) 
 I'll emphasize the letter of my charge; 
 Yet had I not spoken it, I would not now. 
 But having, — need remain. They shall be 
 
 banished ; 
 She with all the rest, guilty or guiltless. 
 'Tis more regard for safety, than desire 
 Which hurries me on to this extremity of 
 
 action. 
 I must be cruel, that the spectre of my weak- 
 er self 
 May not point at me, accusingly. (Enter 
 
 Dolor a.) 
 Madam, — you are careless of the hour. 
 Dolora. I am sorry, my lord. 
 Melmoth. Hum. 
 
 Dolora. Shall I leave his Majesty for a better 
 while when time shall be less his concern ? 
 
 Melmoth. Heh? I like that! You have come, 
 madam, have you not? And to your coming there's 
 a purpose. What sham policy is it then, that you ask 
 to leave? 
 
 Dolora. Believe me, my lord, to be sincere. If it 
 please you to have me go, however my purpose be 
 direct and importunate, I'll not remain to vex you. 
 Melmoth. What is your business with me ? 
 Dolora. You know right well, my lord. . . . 
 Melmoth. I know nothing . . . nothing . 
 . . Well? Now what? Ha! Ha! 
 Dolora. Oh, my lord, that's not possible. You 
 cannot have so soon forgot. Nor is it well to as- 
 sume that in so light a manner you have dismissed 
 from your mind, the strength and consequence of 
 
54 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 your words that have made us night-weary and 
 heart-sore. Yesterday I could not be sure that you 
 had meant for the decree to be recalled. Today I 
 come to be told; to know whether you have nobly 
 re-considered, or otherwise sustained your judg- 
 ment. What word shall it be given me to hear? 
 
 Melmoth. I have, madam. 
 
 Dolora. 'Have,' what? Oh, what, my lord? 
 
 Melmoth. What ? What ? I say I have. That 
 is sufficient. 
 
 Dolora. Realized how largely it would wrong 
 us, and wrong yourself? Say it is so. Say "ay", my 
 lord, and you will occasion more happiness by that 
 word, than grief by the other. (Approaching him.) 
 'Twill be double atonement. Say "ay." (Melmoth 
 regards her blankly.) 
 
 Melmoth. I do not know — I cannot — my senses 
 are asleep — 
 
 Dolora. Melmoth! 
 
 Melmoth. And I say it. Ha! Ha! Let the 
 winds bruit my weakness about the earth ; I change 
 my oath at a woman's bidding. 
 
 Dolora. Thanks; thanks. 
 
 Melmoth. And let the Kingdom of my Soul- 
 Might confess to the beginning of its decline. Oh, 
 why have you come at all, Dolora? You must tell 
 me that! (Grasps her hand.) Are you conspired 
 with the genius of the world ? Are you sent in this 
 unlikely form to bewilder me in my effort ; to trip 
 me in the great event, and make me beware thee? 
 Why have you come ? 
 
 Dolora. My lord — 
 
 Melmoth. Why have you come? To study out 
 my inabilities, and so subvert me? Ha? 
 
ACT I 55 
 
 Dolor a. My father — 
 
 Melmoth. Nay, why have you come? Con- 
 fess it to me. — 
 Oh, this poisons all too soon, and all too 
 
 sure, 
 The wholesomeness of thought. This frets 
 
 the mind 
 Out of its velvet security, 
 Choking it full of raw and dreary doubts. 
 Leave me now. Your presence is tortur- 
 ing. 
 I cannot tell what it is, or what 
 It may arrive to, but portentous 
 It must be. I have yielded to you — that's 
 
 wearying. 
 What rare charm are you weaving about 
 
 me? 
 Better go. Ay, go. Go, Dolora. 
 Dolor a. I go, Melmoth. Forgive me. I will 
 not weary you. Farewell. You will. . . . 
 Melmoth. . . . you will not think of me, nor 
 shall I haunt you — in your — dreams. (Going.) 
 
 Melmoth. Ha! what do you say? What do 
 you say, Dolora? 
 
 Dolora. Even, Melmoth, even — as you — haunt 
 mine. 
 
 (Melmoth staggers as a terrible truth dawns upon 
 him.) 
 
 Curtain 
 
ACT II 
 
 Scene i — Grounds leading to the Palace, Palace 
 is seen in the background, half hidden by tall trees 
 and luxuriant plants. Marble seats between the 
 trees are found along the path. Statuaries. Fan- 
 tastiques. 
 
 Time — Late in the afternoon. Grows darker as 
 scene progresses. 
 
 Discovered: Splinters and Mickle. 
 
 Mickle. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. 
 
 Splinters. Mickle, if thou'lt take the earnest 
 judgment of a friend, thou'rt beautiful. Thy per- 
 son may be wanting of the fine points of symmetry, 
 but its the totality, Mickle, the totality, and there's 
 the difference. But, put powder on your nose and 
 thou'lt be more fair. The world cares not so much 
 for what thou art, as for what thou seemest. There- 
 fore, put powder on your nose. The ladies of the 
 court all do it, and they are counted fine. Even 
 though, in the present hub, virtue is not so much 
 honored, as honorable, I tell thee, Mickle, on the 
 score of morality, rather be spouseless than spouse- 
 ful ; rather the butt of all men's scorn, than the ob- 
 ject of one man's lust. But an thou wilt, put 
 powder on your nose, and hold it high. Pretention 
 is oft crown'd with approval, and 'tis an easy 
 thing to wheedle the world for it will be wheedled. 
 Now, farewell. There come the masters of little 
 issue. Be satisfied, Mickle, there's security in pov- 
 erty; greatness in humility. Farewell Mickle. Fare- 
 well in haste. (Exit Mickle.) 
 56 
 
ACT II 57 
 
 Enter Courtiers 
 
 De Forest. Good even, fool. 
 
 Splinters. Good even, fool. 
 
 De Forest. Where's my Lord Chamberlain, 
 fool? 
 
 Splinters. What's your trade with him, fool? 
 
 De Forest. To hang all the fools in the king- 
 dom. 
 
 Splinters. Then fly to save your neck, sir, for 
 thou'lt be the first to kick from a halter. But 
 verily, to find him, best remain here. He is with 
 his son, sirs. 
 
 Steele. St. Francis? 
 
 Splinters. So do men call him; others call him 
 the Marquis of Lode. 
 
 Edwin. A worthy gentleman. 
 
 Splinters. As my mistress Lady Finger is a 
 worthy dame. He's a Turk, he's a weasel, he's 
 a leech. 
 
 De Forest. How a Turk? 
 
 Edwin. Why a weasel? 
 
 Steele. Wherefore a leech? 
 
 Splinters. Nay, now that you question it, I am 
 certain of it. A thousand times a Turk, a weasel 
 and a leech ; and between the hearing and the telling 
 he must be an equivocating drag horse to span him- 
 self into such a load. And my grandam used to tell 
 me, when I was in the vegetable age of my wit, 
 that another's load is heaviest and drags soonest 
 to hell. And this marquis being, as I said, a Turk, 
 a weasel, and a leech, will tumble to it faster than 
 a friar to a frail sister. 
 
 Edwin. What dost thou know of such matters? 
 
 Splinters. Knowing, I'll not tell you. 
 
58 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Edwin. Then art thou a lying rascal. 
 Splinters. Then art thou a knave; a scurvy plack- 
 et-player; a hirsuite, crooked, black-livered, foul- 
 mouthed, leather-faced villain! If that were'nt his 
 lordship entering I'd tell thee what thou art. 
 
 (Exit.) 
 Enter Pellas and St. Francis, and Courtiers who 
 pass over the stage. 
 
 De Forest. My lord, you desired to see us? 
 Pellas. Well arrived, gentlemen, we have need 
 of you. The envoys from the several provinces 
 leave tomorrow by sunrise. Be pleased to accept 
 the commission of their escort and see them safely 
 conveyed. 
 
 De Forest. Thanks, my lord, our duty shall be 
 faithfully performed. 
 
 Pellas. Be courteous, sirs, above the discretion 
 of silence, but not too forward in matters of the 
 state. You understand. 
 De Forest. We do. 
 
 Pellas. Then, good-night. (Exeunt courtiers.) 
 Francis, I cared not give exception to your 
 
 mien 
 Within the lords' particularity. 
 Speak then; you have grown of late, 
 So lost in speculation of yourself; 
 So altered in your bearing as in glance, 
 That I can scarce remind you as the same 
 Of but a fortnight past. Unfold yourself, 
 
 sir; 
 You have no reason to lock your motives 
 From my better gaze. 
 St. Francis. I have none. If you've remarked 
 me so 
 
ACT II 59 
 
 You are not all deceived. There are things, 
 
 sire, 
 Which carry us beyond the limits of the 
 
 moment 
 However instant, and leave us stranded 
 
 there. 
 So is it presently with me. 
 And being so, I cannot find myself 
 Able against it. If you would know the 
 
 cause, 
 Then it is that great one which conspires 
 The whole world into confederacy. 
 Fellas. I understand you. Nor does what you 
 
 say 
 Break in on me unexpectedly. 
 Yet it grieves me, sir, 
 
 That tho' your cause be honorable enough 
 I yet must conjure you, 
 If you would still maintain your place and 
 
 power, 
 Honor and regard at home and abroad, 
 And still enjoy the favor of the King, — 
 Fling away thy love, — forget Dolora. 
 Leave her to the purposes of Melmoth. 
 He loves her. 
 
 And that you may be certain of this last 
 Mine eyes held proof enough. As for you, 
 
 Francis, 
 You can best be noble thru great sacrifice; 
 For love that denies itself, is love indeed. 
 St. Francis. My sire, you do mistake my habit. 
 Not for nothing have I attained this hour, 
 That art and effort staked in fortune's lot- 
 tery 
 
60 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Should draw a blank. Nor shall I 
 So easily throw up my ambition 
 Because you would deny it me in this. 
 Pellets. I deny! Hear! Hear! 
 St. Francis. Why should I to the preference of 
 Melmoth 
 Yield this chance-hope of my happiness? 
 Much would I do for him, but hardly the 
 
 over-much 
 Which serves unhappiness to good intent. 
 You argue he is king and I his vassal, 
 And therefore should distress my own de- 
 sires ; 
 But love, like death, ignores the grades of 
 
 rank ; 
 That's satisfaction. 
 Nay, sire, I will go as I have gone 
 And do what I will do, regardless of all. 
 Fellas. ( irritated. ) Thou art rash, Francis ; per- 
 haps a fool. These words, 
 In the emphasis of their utterance and mean- 
 ing, 
 Can portend no good. 'Tis not a virtue 
 To cross his majesty, I tell you, 
 For he is like a Cerberus asleep 
 Only in that his eyes are shut. But, 
 
 enough ! 
 I leave you to your own purposes. 
 Revolve yet in your mind my counsel. 
 Even do you not respect it, give it heed. 
 If you would sacrifice all which is 
 And all which may be for the following 
 Of a mad fancy, do forget my warning, 
 And take my words as the senseless gabble 
 
ACT II 61 
 
 Of a dotard. (Exit.) 
 
 St. Francis. Oh, I know it well, this world of 
 dominoes ! 
 I've discovered it quite in time to set me 
 
 smooth. 
 Nor need one play it fair to win it wisely. 
 'Tis a chance game where the least may 
 
 gain the most; 
 An exchange, a fortune store, 
 Where circumvention and cunning draw 
 The better lot. — Farewell, father; your 
 
 morals 
 Have made you what you are; mine, what 
 I shall be. 
 
 {Enter Cedrielle) 
 Cedrielle ? 
 Cedrielle. Dear sir, has my mistress gone this 
 way? 
 
 St. Francis. No, sweet; what is the matter of 
 your haste? 
 
 Cedrielle. I bring her news from the physician. 
 St. Francis. Is it immediate? 
 Cedrielle. I don't know. 
 St. Francis. The Duke, her father, is well? 
 Cedrille. Little better, my lord. 
 St. Francis. Then tarry, sweet lady. Ill news 
 together with its bearer is hardly ever welcome. 
 
 Cedrielle. Truly, my lord, it is as you say. But, 
 nevertheless, I must hurry. 
 
 St. Francis. Go then, go then, you are unkind. 
 Cedrielle. (Hesitating.) Unkind, my lord ? Un- 
 kind? 
 
 St. Francis. Will you not stay then? 
 Cedrielle. If it is your wish. 
 
62 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 St. Francis. My pleasure. Hark, Cedrielle. 
 
 Cedrielle. What, my lord? (She comes for- 
 ward. ) 
 
 St. Francis. Dost thou value thy qualities in the 
 measure of their worth? 
 
 Cedrielle. Ay; and therefore little. 
 
 St. Francis. Tell me, sweet, hast ever paid thy 
 mirror the tribute it deserves? 
 
 Cedrielle. I've scolded it; I've mocked at it; I've 
 stuck out my tongue at it, often enough, like this, 
 see, my lord ? 
 
 St. Francis. Pretty tongue that speaks such pret- 
 ty things. Let me be thy mirror, Cedrielle. 
 
 Cedrielle. Nay, then you'll cast reflections on 
 me too often. 
 
 St. Francis. Happy reflections, Cedrielle. Tell 
 me something. 
 
 Cedrielle. What shall I say? 
 
 St. Francis. Anything thy precious lips would 
 feign. Something sweet, something pretty, some- 
 thing like thyself. 
 
 Cedrielle. (Coquettishly.) I don't know. 
 
 St. Francis. (Approaches her.) Hark then, 
 thou. 
 
 Cedrielle. I do, my lord. 
 
 St. Francis. Once, in the country of the Otto- 
 mans, I stood upon a pretty bank that overhangs 
 the Sainted Galilee — 
 
 Cedrielle. Yes—? 
 
 St. Francis. And even as I gazed there rose 
 above the surface of the charmed waters, like a 
 vision in a dream, a woman rarely given to behold; 
 and her hair, lustrous-black, unbraided to the joy 
 of the amorous breezes, was not more beautiful 
 
ACT II 63 
 
 than thine! 
 
 Cedrielle. (Secretly pleased). Pooh! Pooh! 
 
 St. Francis. She beckoned to me guilefully — 
 temptingly. I could not stay myself. Without 
 withhold I stepped into the sea, and "mirabile 
 dictu!" — I found the water unyielding to my feet. 
 Together we floated evenly, my arm clasped about 
 her bosom, so . . . which was not gentler than 
 thine! Then she spoke, and rich pearls dropped 
 from lips, surely — not sweeter than these! (Kisses 
 her.) 
 
 Cedrielle. Oh, sir, my lord! A pretty tale for- 
 sooth! Better a dream whence all sweet fancies 
 rise. 
 
 St. Francis. A fancy worth all dreams, sweet 
 Cedrielle. But that is not the end — 
 
 Cedrielle. What, more dreams? 
 
 St. Francis. More dreams, dear chuck, since 
 they content you. Wouldst not more? 
 
 Cedrielle. (Naively.) I don't know. 
 
 St. Francis. (Continuing.) It was not long 
 before we found her grot beneath the sea ; and there, 
 with most delicious whisperings, she charmed me to 
 her couch, whose night of love was ending without 
 end. Come, chuck, I'll lead thee there. 
 
 Cedrielle. Oh, where? 
 
 St. Francis. There! 
 
 Cedrielle. Where ? 
 
 St. Francis. To thy mistress, sweet innocence. 
 
 (Exeunt both.) 
 
 Scene 2 — The same. 
 
 It becomes darker. Stars show faintly. 
 
64 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Enter Melmoth. 
 Melmoth. Now is it to beware her! 
 
 Now is it to pit my soul against its vaunt- 
 ing. 
 
 These moments of effeminate emotions, 
 
 Once overcome, will come more rare 
 
 And then cease together. 
 
 Yet near her I must fail. 'Tis a fatality 
 
 That warns the reason, and fastens on the 
 heart 
 
 A sense of hopelessness. 
 
 'Forget her!' Else there is no sureness here 
 
 Nor hereafter. But how? Hold aloof? 
 
 Nay; the knowledge of her, near, must pre- 
 vent. 
 
 Then, send her away, as far from the hope 
 of the eye 
 
 As distance can secure. Do else — and 
 fail; 
 
 That else must never be ! 
 
 Nor all her words, however persuasive; 
 
 Nor her silence, dangerous as her speech; 
 
 Nor sighs, nor tears, nor prayers, nor any- 
 thing, 
 
 Shall move me once. I'll send her away; 
 
 'Twill root out doubt and make me whole 
 again, 
 
 And chase away 
 
 What sick fantasies I would not near me. 
 
 I'll make night the mirror of my mind, 
 
 And so divorce her image from my sight 
 
 That memory, like a tomb once well in- 
 scribed, 
 
 Which time has rendered smooth, 
 
ACT II 65 
 
 Will lose her record, and living she'll be 
 dead. 
 
 Enter Splinters 
 
 Splinters. Did ever a fool have so rare a chase 
 after another? There is my asteroid, so blinded by 
 his own light that he cannot see me. I tell thee, 
 King, thou art a poor calculator for all thy neck- 
 strainings o' heaven. If thou thinkst to lose me by 
 hiding in this cabbage-patch, thou'lt have to turn 
 into a jimson-weed and make me hold my nose 
 and run away. Go to a fool and say "teach me" 
 for I tell thee a fool's thy best go-along. He'll 
 keep thee from jaundice as a string of camphor or 
 witch-root from disease. Retain me and thou'lt not 
 be seldom of a laugh. And by all the rules, laugh- 
 ter seasons sorrow as a fool's wit regulates a wise 
 man's wisdom. Follow me, Monarch. Wink when 
 I smile and call it night when I yawn. I'll blow 
 wisdom in thine ear if the wind sits not at thine 
 elbow. But my heart is very much killed to hear 
 my oracle mumbling to the stars. 
 
 Melmoth. Idiot, avaunt! Thou'lt drive me to 
 extremes ! 
 
 Splinters. Oh, King, thou drivest to extremes 
 those that love thee most, and tak'st to thy bosom 
 those that mean thee ill. Thou shouldst not do it. 
 
 Melmoth. Speakst thou of love, poor fool? 
 
 Splinters. I do, poor King. Language hath no 
 business otherwise. 
 
 Melmoth. How canst thou love, thou misshapen 
 thing? 
 
 Splinters. He loves that lives, and lives that 
 loves. 
 
 Melmoth. Lovest thou anyone, poor fool? 
 
66 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Splinters. The whole world, poor king, — I love 
 thee. 
 
 Melmoth. The whole world . . . the 
 whole world . . . 
 
 Splinters. Much better than thou lovest thy- 
 self. 
 
 Melmoth. Hast thou a mind to assert the 
 honesty of thy word? 
 
 Splinters. Command me, king. Bid me swal- 
 low myself; I'll do't. Say anything. Say "Splint- 
 ers, make nothing of thyself". Say "Splinters, go 
 hang thyself;" I'll do't, by my scab! 
 
 Melmoth. Do it, then, fool. 
 
 Splinters. Forthwith! At once! Directly! If 
 you discover me, king, I'll not be preserved; nor 
 raise a column in my interim. He that hangs him- 
 self gets neither to heaven nor to hell. 
 
 {Exeunt severally.) 
 
 Scene 3 — The same. 
 Evening advanced. 
 
 Enter Dolora, Ladies and Courtiers. 
 
 Dolora. Here let us linger. (Dolora is seated.) 
 A Courtier. How fair is life that wakes to such 
 a night! 
 
 Here could I linger 'til th' unhappy world 
 Creeps in, at dawn, upon my reverie, 
 Dispersing the music from my soul! 
 See how yon starry fire-flies witch to us 
 From the frame of heaven as tho they 
 
 yearned 
 To this sphere as we to theirs. Is not 
 
ACT II 67 
 
 This scene in harmony with things more 
 
 felt 
 Than understood? 
 Lady. A night of poetry and song! 
 Another Lady. Of love, and thoughts of love, 
 
 and memories. 
 Dolora. The night is fair, but let the heart be 
 heavy, 
 Then stars may show most beautifully 
 
 bright, 
 And love may fly to ecstasies of song, 
 And song to love, — it hath no charm. 
 A Courtier. How now, sweet lady? Thou 
 
 art weary. 
 Second Courtier. Or malcontent? 
 Third Courtier. Or loved? 
 Dolora. In sooth, a measure of each and much 
 of none. Pray, friends, stray you some distance 
 farther and return yourselves to the palace. 
 Courtier. But come with us. 
 Dolora. Nay, let me remain. 
 Lady. Then keep you safe the while. 
 Courtier. Madam, we leave you. Good night. 
 All. Good night. 
 
 Dolora. Good night to you all. {Exeunt all 
 but Dolora.) 
 
 Enter Cedrielle 
 Cedrielle. Dolora, you seek to be too much 
 alone of late — 
 
 Dolora. You come from my father? 
 Cedrielle. From his physician, madam; a sprit 
 of a man, whose wife should be a goody-gammer to 
 live with him. 
 
 Dolora. What was his advice? 
 
68 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Cedrielle. Without coaxing he would pass for 
 a mummy. All he had a tongue for was "better, 
 ma'am, better" like a spitting cat. What, does Do- 
 lora sigh so profoundly? Then is the world in 
 love or out of it. Both they say, make us sad 
 and pale, and thin and fretful — 
 
 Dolor a. That I am not gay, there is cause 
 enow. 
 
 Cedrielle. I doubt it not. Yet be not silent 
 overmuch. Such thoughts as you may think on 
 gracing with your speech may in a measure, like 
 tears from the eye, relieve the pain of the heart. 
 Communication of any deep-set woe channels it 
 from us; denied expression, it is but suppressed, 
 not lost; for sorrow must spend itself, else, like 
 flames that still survive in embers, 'twill up again. 
 But let us rather speak of things nearer to our 
 pleasures. There's the marquis, madam. 
 
 Dolor a. My brother Esmund! Ah, me, un- 
 happy ! 
 
 Cedrielle. No, I mean, St. Francis. 
 
 Dolor a. Oh let alone! 
 
 Cedrielle. But, madam, you did favor him once. 
 
 Dolor a. Once, — perhaps. 
 
 Cedrielle. And now? 
 
 Dolora. Now has the advantage of time and 
 discretion. Indeed, Cedrielle, it was a foolish fan- 
 cy of yesterday, which today tutors me from, and 
 tomorrow will make me forget. 
 
 Cedrielle. 'Twill grieve him much to know it, 
 madam. 
 
 Dolora. Wherefore, Cedrielle? Mine was not 
 the word or smile or manner of address to encour- 
 age him. I looked not pleased when he was wont 
 
ACT II 69 
 
 to flatter, nor grieved when he affected, nor fol- 
 lowed him his fashions. 
 
 Cedrielle. Yet why should you thus ignore him? 
 He is deserving of much earnest consideration, be- 
 ing a man of no mean qualities. 
 
 Dolora. If that were so. 
 
 Cedrielle. He is a soldier, madam ; a statesman ; 
 a lover. 
 
 Dolora. Tush. 
 
 Cedrielle. The pink of chivalry ; the choice flow- 
 er of the court. 
 
 Dolora. (Deridingly.) ''Choice flower!" 
 
 Cedrielle. Nor has the promise of his steel cheat- 
 ed itself. 
 
 Dolora. (Suddenly.) Cedrielle, it is plain, you 
 love him! 
 
 Cedrielle. I, madam? 
 
 Dolora. Do you not? 
 
 Cedrielle. I, madam? 
 
 Dolora. Then why do you speak of him to me so 
 approvingly, and of things intrusive to this moment 
 which is one of grief. 
 
 Cedrielle. Indeed, madam, if you are anywise 
 perturbed in spirits I doubt not but the King's to 
 blame! 
 
 Dolora. Cedrielle! 
 
 Cedrielle. Nay, do I speak false? 
 
 Dolora. (Indignant.) If you should speak at 
 all! 
 
 Cedrielle. Dolora, be not vexed. I speak not 
 selfishly in my own concern; only am I jealous 
 of yours. You love the king, madam, do you not? 
 
 Dolora. Cedrielle! 
 
 Cedrielle. Nay, do you not? — frankly, now! 
 
70 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Dolora. What then? What then, Cedrielle? 
 
 Cedrielle. That were well if love were love 
 alone. But here is rank, ambition, policy, wealth, 
 and over it all the world's cruel eye like a Cyclops, 
 looking down inquiringly. And those, it seems, un- 
 tutored in the craft that shields, must suffer for the 
 rest. Dolora, there are courses in the wind that 
 are not free ; then how can we, in choice, with- 
 out injury, expect escaping from an only course to 
 which we are bound. You love the king; then 
 it were well if you could marry him; but that's 
 denied; then — 
 
 Dolora. Then? — 
 
 Cedrielle. Love must find a way to save it- 
 self. Now there's St. Francis hath a passion 
 for you. ,Let us say, even as you do, that he 
 affects you not; but that's no matter. We rare- 
 ly ever marry those we love, and those we love and 
 marry, as a consequence, we find we do not love. 
 'Tis like that something which each of us adds to 
 the reality when it becomes a memory or an ex- 
 pectation. And, in like vein, the bonds that fetter 
 love are those which make them tire. Take Fran- 
 cis for thine honor; be his wife; then will you shut 
 the inquisitive eye of the world ; then may you love 
 the king with best assurance. Marriage is so oft a 
 happy robe behind which we, virtuous women, hide 
 our sweet sins. And besides, husbands never know 
 what fools their wives make of them. 'Tis thus, 
 Dolora, that we, being opposed by fortune, avenge 
 ourselves on life. 
 
 Dolora. Oh, Cedrielle, and do you think I 
 would yield to such dark practices? 
 
 Cedrielle. Why not, when so much happiness 
 
ACT II 71 
 
 depends upon it ? They are dark only when you see 
 them so. Circumstances make things proper or im- 
 proper. 
 
 Dolor a. This blunt reasoning makes you less 
 my sympathizer. 
 
 Cedrielle. Nay, more your friend, Dolora, 
 
 Dolora. Oh, I am sure of it, you do advise me 
 wrongly. 
 
 Cedrielle. But safely, madam. Oh, 'tis fine fol- 
 ly to mistake the world ; there's art and benefit in 
 understanding it. Those that miss it, have for their 
 consolation, shame and misery. 
 
 Dolora. You are cruel, Cedrielle. It cannot 
 be as you say. Indeed, it cannot. 
 
 Cedrielle. Alas, I say but little of so much that 
 can be said ! Oh, friend, I myself have been bitter- 
 ly taught that the awakening to the truth is much 
 more to be dreaded than the long sweet sleep. Love, 
 you must know, is more than roses and soft sighs and 
 starry nights. And the world, Dolora, is not as the 
 saints and angels dream of it, but as man has made 
 it. 
 
 Dolora. Is there then no virtue in the world? 
 No ! No ! Yours must be a false teaching, Ce- 
 drielle. I cannot and dare not follow it. 
 
 Cedrielle. False, perhaps, but necessary. 
 
 Dolora. Cease, I prithee, cease. You make me 
 despair! Oh, I am weary of looking on the strug- 
 gle and crossing threads. 
 
 Enter Royce 
 
 Royce. A fair good evening to you, ladies. How 
 does the Duke, your father? 
 
 Dolora. I thank you; hardly well, my lord. 
 
 Royce. It gives me pain to hear it. 
 
72 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Cedrielle. There is no cause, though, for alarm, 
 God wot. 
 
 Royce. Indeed, there should not be. And 'tis 
 a great happiness, madam, to know that his majesty 
 has recalled his decree. 
 
 Dolora. Do you bring news from Esmund? 
 
 Royce. Ay, madam; he is impatient that you 
 come to him. 
 
 Dolora. Will that be possible? 
 
 Royce. Acquaint us but with the hour and we 
 shall create the opportunity. 
 
 Dolora. Then tomorrow night, this time, God 
 willing. 
 
 Royce. Excellent, madam. 
 
 Enter St. Francis 
 
 St. Francis. Good evening, ladies. You make 
 the beauty of this night complete. Royce? Re- 
 mind me to speak to you of things. Come you 
 from the Duke? How does he fare? 
 
 Royce. I am on my way to visit him. 
 
 St. Francis. I would inquire after his health. 
 
 Cedrielle. The Duke is better, my lord. 
 
 St. Francis. I rejoice to hear it. (To Dolora.) 
 And you, lady? 
 
 Dolora. Indifferently well, sir. 
 
 St. Francis. No better, madam? I am grieved. 
 (Aside to Royce.) You have received news from 
 the Prince? 
 
 Royce. (Aside to Francis.) If we had, then 
 you should know of it. 
 
 St. Francis. True, true, (Aloud.) Eh, shall 
 we to the Duke? 
 
 Royce. Let us go, if you please. 
 
 St. Francis. Ladies, your pardon. 
 
ACT II 73 
 
 {Aside to Royce.) You are not offended? 
 Royce. (Aside to St. Francis.) Wherefore? 
 St. Francis. (Aloud.) I follow you at once, 
 Royce. Convey to the Duke my sentiments. (Exit 
 Royce.) 
 
 ( To Cedrielle. ) Will you give me leave ? 
 Cedrielle. (Withdrawing.) Willingly, my 
 lord. 
 
 Dolora. Cedrielle, be good to remain. 
 St. Francis. I pray, madam, we be alone. My 
 words are of such character, they were best said 
 in confidence of two. 
 
 Dolora. I am sorry, then, that I must be un- 
 kind — 
 
 Cedrielle. But, madam — ! 
 Dolora. This to deny you, sir. 
 Cedrielle. Dolora, if you please — 
 Dolora. Peace. Will you resume your seat? 
 St. Francis. Madam, I am more put out than 
 hurt. 
 And I take it — your present disposition — 
 As a difficulty in the course 
 Of many that are thrown in the way 
 To discourage effort. But I hope, madam, 
 For the time when you will be both pleased 
 And earnest to receive me. 
 Where ambition rests, 'tis hard to tell, 
 But it perches high. — Farewell. (Exit St. 
 Francis.) 
 Dolora. Farewell. Ah, I would 'twere ne'er 
 "good morrow!" Cedrielle, there are very few de- 
 serve the name of man; those that do, we fail to 
 recognize. I cannot love St. Francis; he hath not 
 that quality in him. Rather, he repulses me. 
 
74 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Cedrielle. Why, madam, you'd put a mask on 
 fortune herself. Were Providence so faithful to 
 my needs, I'd be content. 
 
 Dolora. Thou hast said it, Cedrielle; my con- 
 tent is not thine. Each heart must estimate its own. 
 But speak no more of anything. I am so, I would 
 I could depart this beautiful and sorry world, as 
 quietly and gently as a sail sinks below the hori- 
 zon. 
 
 Cedrielle. These are naughty thoughts, Dolora. 
 Will you come in? The night is progressed far, 
 and there's no comfort in the open. 
 
 Dolora. No. Go you in alone. Self-communion 
 awhile will put to rest those tumultuous currents 
 that make each day a maelstrom. 
 
 Cedrielle. Good night, then. Tell not thy se- 
 crets to the stars, for they'll betray thee. These are 
 times we dare not even trust to Heaven. {Exit 
 Cedrielle. ) 
 
 Dolora takes up instrument and begins playing. 
 
 Enter Melmoth. 
 Melmoth. Why does the music so affect my 
 soul 
 That it would be responsive? What spirit 
 
 is'; 
 Which leads me here without my senses' 
 
 will 
 Opposing? Oh, I would break away 
 And cannot. Why is this? and that my 
 
 soul 
 Aspires towards her in all the terror 
 Of its loneliness? Oh, why am I thus! thus! 
 And not as I should be! 
 Dolora. Melmoth! 
 
ACT II 75 
 
 Melmoth. There's the cause! Now yield to it, 
 Melmoth, 
 In that perverseness of your being 
 Which strives against the utmost will; 
 Yield and be dragged down to where 
 Thou fearst to think on. 
 Dolora. Melmoth, I pray you — 
 Melmoth. Oh, what's to do? 
 Dolora. Have you come at last, my lord? 
 Melmoth. Oh, what's to do? 
 
 Sustain the vast, unshouldered globe of 
 
 heaven ? 
 Drag the ancient firmament adown? 
 Confound the 'stablished forces of all na- 
 ture? 
 Rush in amongst them till they turn life to 
 
 chaos ? 
 And if to cry, where then, to heaven or 
 hell? 
 Dolora. Melmoth, hear me! 
 Melmoth. Nay, but hear me! And wretched 
 be thy soul, if thou failst me now. 
 Depart this presence ever, that thine image, 
 Like the shadow o'er my soul which thou 
 Hast hung there, tending to remain, 
 May pass to death. 
 Dolora. Oh, I'll not believe thee, Melmoth. 
 These are words 
 
 Prompted by some drear and dreadful night- 
 mare 
 Of the sense that has thy life enslaved. 
 What is their unholy origin? Tell me. 
 Thou art sick, Melmoth. Thou'rt con- 
 sumed 
 
76 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 By something wild and superstrange 
 That must dispute thy manhood. Surely, 
 This is it. Oh, speak to me, Melmoth ! 
 Hast thou no word to offer me in kind- 
 ness 
 Or in charity? Cast me not thus from your 
 
 true confidence. 
 Let me linger near thee. 
 Melmoth. No, no, stay not to answer me 
 
 (Aside.) Oh, fie, fie! 
 Dolora. I would not stay, Melmoth, if this 
 your wish found echo 
 In your heart. I would go away; 
 Nay, I would seek those distances 
 Where the winds, sweeping another heaven, 
 Kiss not the stars. So far away, 
 So unfamiliar to this hour of time, 
 No thought could follow flight. But I 
 
 know, 
 And clearly is it given me to know, 
 That I am as dearly necessary to thy being 
 As thou art to mine. (Embraces him.) 
 Melmoth. Great resolves, where are you now? 
 And thou 
 Sustaining might with all your curbs and 
 
 checks ? 
 Oh, how weak's the fear of thee, Oh doom, 
 Oh vast and pitiless doom 
 That lasts to everness, against one moment 
 Of this mortal love! 
 Dolora. This is Melmoth, self; the other was 
 not he. 
 Tell me that you love me. 
 Tell me that in your deep heart 
 
ACT II 77 
 
 You have found a love that times and spheres 
 Yet unwritten, will not know to value, 
 Or knowing, not believe! Tell me, Mel- 
 moth, that I may hear and know. 
 Melmoth. So, I love thee. 
 
 And I will kiss thee on these lips of truth, 
 Sweet, sweet, Dolora! 
 For thou, — thou art the echo of my soul 
 Which has no voice without thee. 
 And thou art fair! fair above the thought 
 That can imagine thee; above the love 
 That can be given thee. So I love thee. 
 {They embrace.) 
 Curtain 
 
 Scene 4 — The same. 
 
 Later in the night. 
 
 The Palace is lit up. 
 
 Music heard from within. Sounds of merriment. 
 
 Moonlight. Clouds. 
 
 Enter Brabant and Berkeley. 
 
 Brabant. I had thought to find our friends, 
 Dohlgrin and Royce, before us. 
 
 Berkeley. Very like, they will be here anon. 
 Upon what hour should they expect us here? 
 
 Brabant. About the stroke of eight. 
 
 Berkeley. 'Tis later now. 
 
 Brabant. Didst count the clock? 
 
 Berkeley. Ay, and heard it welcome eight. But 
 'tis a goodly while the even hour was struck. 
 
 Brabant. I did not think the time so much ad- 
 vanced. How the moon rolls to-night, Berkeley. 
 She hath a worried and a wearied countenance. 
 
78 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Berkeley. From looking on this earth she's 
 grown so pale and melancholy. 
 
 Brabant. Or from contemplation of herself. 
 
 Berkeley. What a history is hers! Ah! would 
 we knew more that we might wonder less — 
 
 Brabant. Didst hear of Austria? 
 
 Berkeley. No. How were the Ambassadors re- 
 ceived? Not well? 
 
 Brabant. Neither well nor wisely, but in such 
 a manner as delicately touched their pride. They 
 left in anger and in haste, and Austria rebuked, be- 
 comes the friend to the foes of her enemy. Thereon 
 may we build another hope for John. 
 
 Berkeley. The Prince is not advised? 
 
 Brabant. No. We shall first learn more of the 
 condition of State and then acquaint him of it to- 
 gether with such matters as require communication. 
 But they are not yet come. 
 
 Berkeley. Punctuality's among the lost virtues, 
 it seems. 
 
 Brabant. True. Time is the universal creditor 
 who lends to every man. But those that pass the 
 margin of their debts, and neglect it after, soon 
 find themselves adrift in bankruptcy. 
 
 Berkeley. We'll trust our friends will rise above 
 the tide and float securely. 
 
 Brabant. So let us think. 
 
 Berkeley. What final hopes may we draw from 
 our enterprise? 
 
 Brabant. The hope that justice sits in. Er- 
 ror's temporal. 
 Since Melmoth, thro' his tyranny and reign, 
 Has fallen from the pedestal of favor 
 On which his heroism perched him high, 
 
ACT II 79 
 
 There's confidence takes the place of prom- 
 ise. 
 And if you, and I, and many others 
 Fraternal to the most dear object, 
 Will act in silence and security, 
 And see each day more wealthy than the 
 
 last 
 With earnest effort, we cannot fail. 
 Berkeley. Then have we all to hope for. 
 For none within the Prince's confidence 
 Is anything but conscious of the weight 
 And trust of his position, each ready 
 To sustain his part. 
 Brabant. I am assured 'tis so. Such mettle as 
 our Prince's draws to it only the finer filings. 
 Berkeley. Here are our confederates at last! 
 
 Enter Royce and Dohlgrin. 
 Brabant. You are late, my lords, but we greet 
 you most heartily. 
 
 Royce. Ours is the fault, gentlemen. We missed 
 the hour on the concourse. And we grieve the more 
 to have detained you since the nature of your news 
 must hang upon the clock. 
 Brabant. It does. 
 
 Dohlgrin. This should be news indeed! 
 Berkeley. Here's something to fret our swords: 
 France and Britain have both given pledge to ren- 
 der assistance. 
 
 Royce and Dohlgrin. You give us great joy, 
 friends! 
 
 Brabant. The cohorts are already joining arms. 
 The Prince is now impatient for a fair conception 
 of the strength of Melmoth's forces as opposed to 
 those of faithful promise recorded on this paper here. 
 
80 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Royce. Give it to me. ( Takes paper from Bra- 
 bant.) 
 
 Do hi grin. Come nearer to the light, Royce. 
 
 Royce. There is light enough to read by, here. 
 (Scans paper.) 
 
 Dohlgrin. (To Brabant.) Here are those re- 
 quested by the Prince. (Offers paper.) 
 
 Brabant. Oh! forsooth. 
 
 Dohlgrin. When was it last you saw the Prince? 
 
 Brabant. But two days gone. If you would 
 know his tone, 
 We left him proud and certain of the out- 
 come. 
 
 Dohlgrin. Where's a better word? 
 
 Royce. This paper, as best as I can make out, 
 doth mark a total of twenty thousand . . . 
 
 Brabant. That is but half. Please to observe 
 the other. 
 
 Royce. One record was all you gave me. 
 
 Brabant. Oh pardon, I am much forgetful. 
 (Takes out second paper from bosom.) 
 Here! 
 
 Royce. (After studying both papers.) Even 
 then we number no more than half the ready forces 
 of the kingdom. 
 
 Brabant and Berkeley. No more? 
 
 Dohlgrin. Unless we count on those yet unac- 
 knowledged. Were Esmund free — 
 
 Royce. It has been learned that several cohorts 
 in the line are fast on joining forces with the 
 Prince. 
 
 Dohlgrin. Some of which are doubtful. 
 
 Royce. These with Esmund's liberation, should 
 be won over. 
 
ACT II 81 
 
 The greater part are pledged in the King's 
 
 favor. 
 All things weighed there's no discourage- 
 ment. 
 Berkeley. There were none, even were they less 
 promising. 
 
 Brabant. Royce, several come this way. Shall 
 we be detained? 
 
 Dohlgrin. Stay! But let it not seem that we 
 are in private converse. 
 
 Royce. Best, go! For once suspicion attaches 
 to ourselves, the best designs must suffer. 
 
 Brabant. That's so. Haste, haste, Berkeley! 
 Berkeley. Pass we into the banquet hall. To- 
 morrow we shall further treat of this. 
 
 {Exeunt Berkeley and Brabant.) 
 Royce. The time is come when Esmund must be 
 out. 
 There's holy need of him, dear Dohlgrin. 
 We'll lay our plans to-night. 
 Dohlgrin. Even so. But who are these? 
 
 (Enter De Forest, Steel and Edwin, sing- 
 ing.) 
 "Who loseth his sins is a great gainer; 
 Wine and women work our end; 
 Happy, they say, is the abstainer, — 
 Steele. But who the devil can abstain?" 
 De Forest. Peace, awhile. Who's there? 
 Steele. What, Royce and Dohlgrin? Up, up, 
 for shame! 
 
 Royce. Good even, my lords. I am glad to in- 
 tercept your haste. 
 
 Steele. Do not, dear sir, we're hasting, hurry- 
 ing, hankering, scurrying. 
 
82 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Edwin. Soft, Richard. 
 
 De Forest. What is it you would have of us, 
 my lords? 
 
 Steele. We can give nothing but our good 
 faith, and that's frail. 
 
 Royce. Will you waste a moment in our be- 
 half and relieve us of a care? 
 
 Steele. Hark, hark, sirs! How the glasses 
 chime, sir! Come along, sirs, or let us pass. 
 
 Dohlgrin. We'll not suffer to detain them then. 
 
 De Forest. Oh, hush! Richard! There'll be 
 enough to go you double and carry you home. ( To 
 Royce and Dohlgrin.) We are at your service, my 
 lords. 
 
 Royce. If so it please you, convey our regrets 
 to the King, should he inquire. 
 
 De Forest. Most gladly. We'd do a better ser- 
 vice for the saying. I know your worth, my lords. 
 
 Royce. We thank you. A pleasant time to you, 
 gentlemen. 
 
 De Forest. I'm sorry you will not attend. 
 
 Royce. We have special duties to perform, and 
 must deny ourselves. 
 
 De Forest. I do not doubt it. Well, good 
 night. 
 
 Steele. Ay, good night — to us. We'll pledge 
 you in our cups. (Withdrawing.) 
 
 Edwin. (Singing.) "There's one I love above 
 the stars — " 
 
 Steele. (Singing.) "But not above the wine!" 
 Good night, good night, we'll pledge you 
 in our cups. 
 
 Dohlgrin. Royce, I think — 
 
 Royce. My friends, have we your good will to 
 
ACT II 83 
 
 speak to you again of a certain business? 
 
 De Forest. Ay, what is it, sir? 
 
 Dohlgrin. Not now, eh, Royce? 
 
 Royce. Tomorrow afternoon or evening, sirs — 
 not to-night. 
 
 De Forest. Very well, my lords. Our wish 
 is your pleasure. 
 
 (Exeunt De Forest, Steele and Edwin.) 
 
 Royce. They were one time Esmund's compan- 
 ions, and may assist us in his release. 
 
 Dohlgrin. Well bethought. I know them. 
 They are men, generous of heart, tho' sometimes 
 their freedom overleaps their discretion. But excess 
 teaches moderation; that's a fact. 
 
 Royce. Oh, I have no word of censure. They 
 are, it seems, happier than we, and therefore all the 
 more faithful to life's purpose. In them as in all 
 else we discover truth. The world's one grand 
 and interwoven moral in which all things and deeds 
 are comprehended. One source, one spirit, and one 
 expression! Each of us is caring for his thread, 
 weaving it across to intricate designs and interlacing 
 with a thousand others, like tiny currents that run 
 together finally, creating one mighty stream. ( They 
 are about to go.) 
 
 Dohlgrin. Hark, Royce! Here is one whose 
 cautious step would escape the hearing. See, is it 
 not Dolora? 
 
 Royce. Why, so it is! 
 
 Dohlgrin. I wonder she is here. Will she to 
 the banquet? 
 
 Royce. I'll not think so. Women do not grace 
 the banquets here. 
 
 Enter Dolora 
 
84 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Dohlgrin. There's a paragon of womankind ! For 
 her sake alone, Royce, I could almost wish our pro- 
 ject tardy progress. Her love for him that is our 
 common enemy, improves our own. 
 
 Royce. I do well conceive you. Such worth we 
 cannot estimate by parallel, for then it hath none. 
 (To Dolora.) God save you gracious lady! 
 
 Dolora. Oh, kind gentlemen, dear friends, I 
 thank you. Do you know if his Majesty be within? 
 Dohlgrin. So please you, the sennet has not 
 sounded. 
 
 Dolora. Then they've begun without him? 
 Dohlgrin. I doubt not, but 'twas his wish. 
 Dolora. Then he will pass this way? 
 Royce. We are ignorant, madam. Very like he 
 will. 
 
 Dohlgrin. If he be in his chamber — but here he 
 comes himself. (To Royce.) 'Twould be unpleas- 
 ant to have us encounter. 
 
 (Dolora looks to left.) 
 Royce. (To Dohlgrin.) That's so. Madam, 
 we take our leave. 
 
 Dolora. (Not looking towards them.) Good 
 night. Good night. 
 
 Royce. She loves the king too truly to be happy. 
 
 Her sorrow speaks upon her face. 
 Dohlgrin. Alas! too eloquent. (Exeunt Dohl- 
 grin and Royce.) 
 
 Dolora. He comes like Woden sunken in his 
 dreams, 
 Despairing of the worlds. 
 What Norns have shown him the enchanted 
 
 well 
 Of whose waters he had drunk the drop 
 
ACT II 85 
 
 Fatal of too much knowledge? 
 
 What price was thine to give, unhappy man ? 
 
 Oh, that the mind could comprehend the 
 
 heart — 
 Its vague, yet all too perfect visitations! 
 Melmoth, enters slowly. 
 Melmoth. Rocks be founded as this vault, no 
 earthquake 
 Shall shake you! 
 Dolora. Dear, my lord — 
 
 Melmoth. Spirit of my thought, why art thou 
 here? 
 Hence from my sight! What art thou? 
 
 What's thy skill? 
 What hellish darkness gave thee origin? 
 Tell me what thou art? 
 Dolora. Oh what's upon thee, Melmoth? 
 Who's he that poisons thee to my desires ? 
 Melmoth. Pass and speak not once! 
 Dolora. I'll speak and thou art bound to hear 
 me! 
 'Tis that thou lovest me better than I myself 
 Can adequately tell myself, or thou to me, 
 Which makes me bold to ask, nay, to de- 
 mand, 
 Why thou wilt thus betray thy nobler na- 
 ture. 
 Some deep impossible hold upon thy soul 
 Drives thee from thyself. Then let me 
 
 know ; 
 For I am thine, more than this mortal ves- 
 ture 
 Will let reveal. I am thine! thine! 
 Melmoth. Oh, begone! This torture cannot 
 
86 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 much the more endure; 
 Or else, I'll not. 
 Dolora. Melmoth, I must know! 
 
 By our love I conjure you to tell me. 
 And if that tie have not the veritable root — 
 Be not dear enough to claim thee to me, 
 Then indeed, keep silent. 
 Melmoth. Oh, still be great, Dolora! Not, 
 not, exacting! 
 If thou wouldst hurry on the dreadful doom, 
 Stay and be the cause. 
 It cannot be love that cannot die for it, 
 And that I ask not. 
 Dolora. Nay, but ask it and you'll not need 
 again. 
 Ask a greater thing, Melmoth, that I, 
 With thine own instrument and mine own 
 
 hand, 
 Thy dear blood let; 
 And I will do it, failing then myself. 
 For how much greater is my love, than is 
 My womanly soul that can give instance of 't. 
 Then how much rather death than this blind 
 
 torment — 
 This taking to the heart and casting from 
 
 it — 
 This starving and wasting of the soul! 
 Oh, speak once! 
 
 And let me use your blade upon my heart, 
 For thus is death most sacred. (A pause.) 
 Why is Melmoth silent? 
 (Draws blade from Melmoth's belt. He takes 
 it from her.) 
 
 Oh, teach me, Melmoth! 
 
ACT II 87 
 
 For I am simple in my understanding. 
 Melmoth. Untaught I must love thee most. 
 
 Time will be when I will tell thee all, 
 
 And you will hate me. 
 
 But spare me now the rendering. 'Tis such 
 a thought 
 
 Must make dumb in utterance and leave me 
 mad. 
 
 Spare me this once, and leave me. Go, 
 Dolora. 
 Dolor a. I go, Melmoth. Good night. And 
 
 I'll not haunt thee more. . . . good 
 night. . . . 
 
 'Til from thine own necessity thou'lt feel 
 
 To come to me. . . . good night. 
 Melmoth. {Dreamily.) Good night. {Exit 
 Dolora.) 
 
 Oh, I have wandered in a mist! 
 
 Stars shine out and teach direction to my 
 soul! 
 
 And from your holy and unlettered dis- 
 tances, 
 
 Speak to me! 
 
 Light, light, more light! I'm lost upon the 
 waves 
 
 That heave in the still vast night without 
 an end, 
 
 And carry me afar 
 
 Ever to furthering bournes where sits and 
 waits, 
 
 In spectral loneliness, like doom's own phan- 
 tom, 
 
 Dimmest Uncertainty. 
 
88 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Oh Dolora, Dolora, you have pressed upon 
 
 me 
 A bewildering thought which rings most fa- 
 tal! (Draws dagger unwittingly.) 
 My manhood is entricked. I feel the gravity 
 Of my inner being giving way 
 To a chaos of ungovernable revolt. 
 Giant longings seek their natal fires 
 And call to nature in half despairing tones, 
 Deep from the dungeon-keep of my heart, 
 'Out,' 'Out!' and others, 'Stay/ 'Hold!' 
 Curtain 
 
 Scene 5. 
 
 Fore-stage. 
 
 Before the Banquet Hall. 
 
 Through the portieres a glimpse of the banquet 
 hall can be gotten. 
 
 Discovered Servingmen. 
 
 First Servant. I tell thee, when wine sinks 
 words swim. Mark the courtiers. There is a mar- 
 quis of the first water drowning in his own tank. 
 My word, as I am a God-fearing man, these mar- 
 kees, dues and lords from France and Hogoland 
 have the very devil in them, being such by heredity, 
 or becoming such by necessity. 
 
 Second Servant. Say you so! 
 
 First Servant. Fei fo fum! If there be truth in 
 wine, and, as the saying goes, truth be sober, then 
 are our bibbers judges and temperate men fibbers. 
 My father — Got wot, he was a well-meaning man, 
 albeit only an edifier of clothes, lofty in itself, gave 
 me, his only male sprit, who was, to speak properly, 
 
ACT II 89 
 
 a distinguished unit in a mass, — there being twelve 
 daughters besides me, which misfortune, I have 
 grave fear, brought him so early to his final lay out 
 — this same father, who was, as I said, a well- 
 meaning man despite everything, gave me a better 
 breeding, hark you, with all his daughters — the Lord 
 preserve them with their mates — than any show 
 present. 
 
 Second Servant. I make me no doubt 'tis so. But 
 how comes it they've begun feasting and the King 
 not here? 
 
 First Servant. Why, he must have told them: 
 " 'fall to', 'tuck in', 'imbibe' without me." 
 
 Second Servant. Say you so ! 
 
 First Servant. Why, look you, our king is as 
 full of surprises as a lover is of lies. 'Twas only 
 yestermorn as I was doing service with the 
 wine, his majesty inquired of me an my stock were 
 prospering. "Marry", quoth I, "you mean my wife, 
 your majesty." "Marry", quoth he, "I mean your 
 brood." "Marry," quoth I, begging his grace's hu- 
 mility, "I have not any!" "Marry," quoth he, "then 
 go and get thee some, and be your wife issueless 
 go divorce her and wive thee with another. There 
 must be soldiers for my army." Seeing 'tis our king 
 that tells me this I have already found me a new 
 rib and forsaken the old. What say you to this all ? 
 
 Second Servant. To my mind, he is a wise king. 
 An he counselled me so, I'd bless him most heart- 
 ily. I have a wife . 
 
 First Servant. But let's not grow idle. Here 
 comes the Master of the Cellar. (First servant goes 
 up stage.) 
 
 Enter Master of Cellar. 
 
9 o MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Master of Cellar. More Burgundy for the third 
 table. Make haste! Why stand you there fiddle- 
 fuddling? 
 
 Second Servant. We taste, master, we taste. 
 
 Master of Cellar. What say you there? 
 
 Second Servant. We haste, master, we haste. 
 
 Master of Cellar. Come, this is no time to loiter. 
 
 (Exit Second Servant. Enter Third Servant.) 
 
 Third Servant. The Roussillon's about gone, 
 master. 
 
 Master of Cellar. Well, let it go for all my 
 tasting. The beverage is much too heavy for these 
 light wits; and in some of them the oil's above the 
 water. Ere the night is wasted there'll be many a 
 pretty sight to mark, and hold one's tongue over. 
 Wine wears no breeches, I tell you, and I doubt not 
 but it shows a man as he is. Let us say, as seeing as 
 how it is, a person is normal, sober and therefore 
 wise. Now place a flagon before him. Mark de- 
 velopments. The first glass is a sail trimmer; it 
 makes him buoyant. The second will make him 
 good-natured, neighborly and cheery ; the third, fam- 
 iliar and doting, — familiar and doting, I said. 
 
 Third Servant. I'm listening, master, "familiar 
 and doting!" 
 
 Master of Cellar. The third, familiar and dot- 
 ing; the fourth will begin to fire him; the fifth 
 makes him a lion, restless and keen ; the sixth, saucy 
 and peevish ; art thou listening ? — 
 
 Third Servant. Ay, ay, master, the seventh. 
 
 Master of Cellar. The seventh! 
 
 Third Servant. (Hastily.) The eighth, master. 
 
 Master of Cellar. The sixth, you dog! The 
 sixth ! 
 
ACT II 91 
 
 Third Servant. Ay, the sixth, as you say, mas- 
 ter, the sixth, — as you say. 
 
 Master of Cellar. The seventh will make him 
 giddy and foolish; the eighth sees him a chattering 
 ape; the ninth a swine, wallowing in his own mire. 
 
 Third Servant. And how make you of those that 
 stay sober after the tenth? 
 
 Master of Cellar. We make nothing of them, 
 for in their case it is simply the pouring out of one 
 flask into another. Can a bottle of wine ever be 
 guzzled, eh? {Nudging Third Servant.) 
 
 Third Servant. No. 
 
 Master of Cellar. Neither can they. But we 
 must be hustling. The king will be here in no 
 time. (Exeunt both.) 
 
 The portieres are drawn and discover: 
 
 Scene 6 — The Banquet Hall. Brilliantly light- 
 ed. Tables decked. Some guests are at the table, 
 drinking and toasting. Among them are Bellas, St. 
 Francis, Lords from Britain, Lords from France, 
 and representatives of other countries. 
 
 Enter Berkeley and Brabant. 
 
 Berkeley. (Signifying to a group of men.) Is 
 not that my Lord of France? 
 
 Brabant. That is he. Let's to acknowledge 
 him. Our commission can be given over in less than 
 several words. 
 
 (St. Francis is seen to rise from table and come 
 forward. ) 
 
 Berkeley. Here is St. Francis approaching. 
 
 Brabant. Look not to him! 
 
 St. Francis. Hail, dear comrades! How do you 
 this gay night? My sight, wasted in the search 
 
92 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 of you, returns with your return! 
 
 Berkeley. {Dryly.) We are pleased to see you, 
 my lord. 
 
 St. Francis. Your absence should have made you 
 rich; eh, my lords? 
 
 Berkeley. What does my lord mean? 
 
 St. Francis. (Sarcastically.) What? Oh — 
 when Tarquin fled from Rome — 
 
 Brabant. Oh, that! The Prince is well, but 
 weak. More, there's nothing. 
 
 St. Francis. (Disappointed.) Indeed? I await- 
 ed better. But we'll wine together, no, my lords? 
 Let's be of this merriment that's careless of all 
 cares. I owe you a double pledge. 
 
 Fellas. Pause, Francis. Is not your place with 
 us? 
 
 St. Francis. Oh, pardon, sire, the advantage is 
 to me. I meant to be near you soon. ( To Brabant 
 and Berkeley.) Your pardon, both. (Turning to 
 Pellas.) Are these my lords from Britain? 
 
 Fellas. These are our noble lords. Study to be 
 of service to them, sir. They are men of rare and 
 deserving qualities. 
 
 (Berkeley and Brabant in the meanwhile go over 
 to the Lord of France's table.) 
 
 St. Francis. (Greeting the lords.) My father's 
 praise does not overleap your worth. (Following 
 Berkeley with his eyes.) I know you both, my lords, 
 and hope soon for better entertainment from you. 
 
 Lords. That is our best desire. 
 
 St. Francis. No better than my best. (He goes 
 up stage and joins Berkeley and Brabant.) 
 
 Lords. (To Pellas.) We are not deceived in 
 your son. He hardly contradicts what his fame has 
 
ACT II 93 
 
 prepared us for. 
 
 Fellas. I am glad you take him so. Better 
 exchange of thoughts will better your mutual re- 
 spect. (To the general company.) My lords, be not 
 given over to the serious. Give to the hour its 
 forthcoming, and do not save the wine. Let this 
 night be sweet to every moment, nor so soon 
 forgot. 
 
 A Lord. What may detain his majesty from our 
 midst ? 
 
 Fellas. We cannot set upon the unusual. But 
 be satisfied, my lords, his grace will attend us pres- 
 ently. Drink, gentlemen! 
 
 France. Your health, my Lord of Britain. 
 Britain. To you, France! I drink to our mu- 
 tual understanding, may it ever be undisturbed. 
 
 France. To our mutual love, may it know no 
 cessation. 
 
 All drink. General applause. Sennet. 
 Enter Melmoth. Acclamations. 
 Melmoth. (To trumpeters at the door.) Peace, 
 Peace ! Will you be silent ? 
 
 Fellas. Accept these fair acclaims, most royal 
 liege, 
 As the general expression of the company, 
 Which is our honor. 
 
 The noble lords of the several states as- 
 sembled, 
 Pledge you their fidelity, amity and love, 
 The which be gracious to acknowledge. 
 Melmoth. Thank them more than once. What's 
 here, Pellas? What special thing is it to-night? 
 'Tis hard to think. Why these loud ventures, these 
 rich brocades, these frames, these fashions, these 
 
94 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 hangings and ornaments, that by their overness make 
 the virtue of the eye a burden upon the sense? I 
 cannot think. 
 
 Fellas. My lord, you know full well. This ban- 
 quet — to our honor. 
 
 Melmoth. Ay, and what will come of it? 
 {Laughs strangely.) You need not answer. Where's 
 the wine that I may pledge the lords? 
 
 Fellas. (Anxiously.) Here, my lord. 
 
 Melmoth. That's so . . . let me see. . . 
 
 . let me see . . . 
 
 Pellas. (To the company.) Gentlemen, your 
 present favor. (To Melmoth.) Will it please 
 your majesty to grace the table? Here's your place. 
 
 Melmoth. (Approaching table.) Pour out the 
 wine. There always should be wine. 'Tis the 
 nectar of the mortal gods, and makes them live. 
 (Page pours out wine.) 
 
 Pellas. So it please you, here's your place, your 
 majesty. 
 
 Melmoth. (Abstractly.) It filters through des- 
 pair leaving no less to settle at the bottom. 
 
 Pellas. (Anxiously.) I have not heard you, my 
 lord. 
 
 First Lord. What says his majesty? 
 
 Second Lord. Nothing ordinary. It seems to 
 me, he is not so much with us, to-night, as beyond 
 us. 
 
 Melmoth. It eases the bonds of resolve, the 
 making of, 
 And the carrying out. Therein the will, 
 Into an unsufficing sleep, suffers the brain; 
 And this unraveled state breeds things 
 
ACT II 95 
 
 Which the fresh, uncoated senses think not 
 of. 
 
 Then there must be wine, and wine enough 
 
 To clinch all waking. 
 
 (Takes up cup and sets it down again. All 
 the company do the same.) 
 
 Pah! There's living here and life in noth- 
 ing! 
 
 The struggle's in the waking and the world ; 
 
 The tossing and the fretting and the stir. 
 
 Then, to sleep, and lose the sense of all, 
 
 Waving them far from the soldierly soul 
 
 And gaining the while by recess. 
 
 Sleep! This vessel cannot give of it, Pellas; 
 
 Nor can it take from me the unhealthy fan- 
 cies 
 
 That inhabit my daily dreams. 
 
 Thought, World, Love, and Excellent Ex- 
 citement ! — 
 
 Who knows what chance may work or let 
 alone? — (Pause.) 
 
 Ho ! Who'll drink with me, what ! ( Takes 
 up cup.) 
 First Lord. Our King is either merry or mad. 
 Second Lord. See, he sets down his cup again. 
 Melmoth. (Passes hand over his brow.) Why, 
 
 I cannot reach the cup but to my lips 
 
 And then must set it down. 
 
 There's something weighs upon us here, and 
 stops 
 
 The effort of the heart. What is it? . . 
 . Oh! (All rise.) 
 First Lord. (To Pellas.) Address his majesty, 
 your lordship. 
 
96 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Second Lord. We seem unsuited to this hour; 
 I pray we go. 
 
 Fellas. Gentlemen, be composed. The worries 
 of the state have told upon his majesty. Resume 
 your places, honored guests. This cannot survive 
 the moment. (To Melmoth.) My liege, I entreat 
 you, recall yourself. There's nothing here, nor that 
 which should perplex you. Believe not you cannot 
 drink. 
 
 Melmoth. Nay, I cannot, though my breath be 
 like the blistering sirroc, and my throat, the Libyan 
 Desert. I cannot drink! 
 
 Fellas. This is most strange. How is it with 
 you, my lord? You are not wont to be affected so. 
 Your guests would claim their host. They are 
 most anxious for your cheer. Speak to them. 
 
 Melmoth. What's this before me, ha! . . . 
 'Tis not the eye so much which catches at it, as 
 the seeing soul. 
 
 First Lord. What is there most evident, is con- 
 science, not matter. He speaks to a sick fancy, 
 nothing else. See now! 
 
 (A vision of Satan appears to Melmoth.) 
 Melmoth. Why, thou com'st not now! The 
 time's unripe, 
 And thou look'st green and sickly to the 
 
 eye 
 That beholds thee ere thy moment. Dissolve 
 
 again, 
 And incorporate thyself with what thou art, 
 The Topheth-breathing air. — 
 Thou canst not say that Melmoth's failed; 
 He is yet mighty, firm, like the unribbed 
 rock 
 
ACT II 97 
 
 With nature torn from him. I tell thee 
 I'll yet do it. Go then away, and cease 
 To stand betwixt the eyesight and the 
 
 sight, — 
 I cannot see beyond. Avaunt, thou hell- 
 abort ! 
 Thou hangst like miasma upon the brain, 
 Confounding it! Avaunt, thou chokest me! — 
 {Satan disappears.) 
 First Lord. See, there, his majesty falls! 
 Second Lord. Give o'er with the wine, for 
 shame ! 
 
 A Lord. There is no meaning in this. 
 Melmoth. Hold off and fear to approach me! 
 Lord. 'Twould be improper to remain here long- 
 er. Such exhibitions of the mind's terrors will re- 
 sent witness. Let us pass into the other chamber. 
 A Lord. Shall we retire? 
 
 Fellas. I know not how to answer you, my 
 lords. 
 
 Melmoth. Whereon do you gape? What have 
 you seen, that you look so upon me? Rise not from 
 your chairs! Sit! Sit! Pour out the wine and I 
 will drink with you all till the eye is heavy and the 
 sense is numb and the body limp with surfeit. 
 Wine, wine, wine and drown the world ! 
 Fellas. Oh, you are not well, my lord. 
 Melmoth. (Calmly.) 'Tis the music, Pellas. 
 Let the music cease. 
 It forces phantoms broad upon our visions 
 That tend to childhood. There we dream, 
 And there our hearts loose up their close- 
 braced ingrains; 
 
9 8 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Let the feelings through that will no more be 
 
 stemmed. — 
 Why does it not cease? 
 Fellas. The music has ceased, my lord. 
 A Lord. The rise to greatness drags with it the 
 troop of anxieties that were before, only so much 
 the fold. 
 
 Another Lord. This is no common fear that he 
 has shown. Look yet again! 
 
 {Satan appears.) 
 Melmoth. What, again! Dark genius of my 
 soul, what will you? 
 Speak, what will you? I fear thee not! 
 Satan. Melmoth, thou art weakening. 
 Melmoth. Thou liest deep in thy thrice-damned 
 throat ! 
 Nor heaven nor earth, nor the high hour of 
 doom 
 
 {Guests begin to leave.) 
 Can break me now. Let vast ruin enter 
 And eat away this residence of clay, 
 This heart of iron will not budge to see 
 The ant-heap thrown. Give me the brand 
 
 from hell, 
 Myself will fire the world and laugh to see't 
 Pass into a fume. {Lords exeunt.) 
 
 Satan disappears. Melmoth and Fellas re- 
 main alone. 
 Fellas. What is it? Tell me, my good lord. 
 What avails your speech? See you any- 
 thing? Whom do you address? Your 
 manner has sent the guests away and spoil- 
 ed the night. 
 Melmoth. Pellas, what have you seen? 
 
ACT II 99 
 
 Fellas. Not what you seem to have seen. 
 
 Melmoth. Nor heard ? 
 
 Fellas. No one, my liege, but you. 
 
 Melmoth. Pellas, my brain is sick. Go, Pellas, 
 before me — 
 (To himself.) There is no reason stronger 
 
 than her death! — 
 She must be put away, for living, 
 She makes labour to the mind! — 
 Go, Pellas, I'll be alone. (Exit Pellas.) 
 Resolves bend up! dark spirits to mine aid! 
 And every agency of starless deeds 
 Know my deep design and secure it fast. 
 There is an only and an only way, — 
 And that to follow! 
 
 Curtain 
 
ACT III 
 
 Scene i. A room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter St. Francis and Toussan. 
 St. Francis. Here we are, Toussan, like fortune's 
 fools ; 
 Her whims satisfied, she has cast us from 
 her favor. 
 Toussan. Tell me! Tell me, my sweet lord — 
 St. Francis. Dolora has discouraged my ad- 
 vances 
 And put herself wholly beyond me; 
 And what have I not done to possess her! — 
 Betrayed her brother to fetch to myself his 
 
 titles ; 
 Risked the swords of conspirators; estranged 
 From me the affections of my father; 
 Played false to the Prince, and doubly false 
 To the King. All of which, steeping us in 
 
 danger, 
 May bring us nowhere! Toussan, I have 
 
 jeopardized 
 My soul and nothing comes of it! 
 Toussan. Merry, my lord, are you a man, the 
 stronger vessel, and boast of the powers masculine? 
 And she be a- woman, the weaker vessel, of con- 
 struction feminine? And that first cannot rule that 
 second? — Bah! 
 
 IOO 
 
ACT III 101 
 
 St. Francis. Toussan, you shall not pique me; 
 I'm grown reckless of myself, 
 
 Toussan. Quality, my sweet lord, quality; 
 and that the quality of decision, of steadiness. The 
 strong man! (Contemptibly.) The high cox- 
 combed rooster! What will you do? Not eat 
 lizards? Not swallow fire? Not do with ghosts? 
 
 St. Francis. Toussan, this time, Toussan, you'll 
 have no cause to whine over me and plague me with 
 your interrogatives. If fairly she cannot be ruled, 
 then foully must she be schooled. 
 
 Toussan. Fine! Fine! Fine! 
 
 St. Francis. But, win her or lose her, Toussan, 
 I'll not neglect our common ends and interests; I'll 
 see ever to push onward and upward. 
 
 Toussan. Fine! Fine! Fine! 
 
 St. Francis. Toussan, my word on it, Toussan, 
 I shall school her to-night! 
 
 Toussan. Very fair, very fair, my sweet lord. 
 But how, my sweet lord? By thy soul's sole sweet 
 lady? She that's known thee so oft, not knowing 
 thee at all ? Ay, she is good at the sport, merry, my 
 lord ; fine for the having, but troublous for the keep- 
 ing, eh? 
 
 St. Francis. Toussan, thou knowest Cedrielle . . . 
 
 Toussan. Merry, my lord, thou knowest her. 
 
 St. Francis. I have spoken to her of that, but 
 though she has obeyed me in other matters, I cannot 
 rule her in this. 
 
 Toussan. 'Cannot!' 'Cannot!' Merry, merry, 
 my lord! 'Cannot!' And you the power mascu- 
 line? 
 
 St. Francis. (Positively.) I can, Toussan, I 
 can! Toussan, you know Francis lets not the morn- 
 
102 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 ing wind cool off his last night's heat; nor for any 
 obstacle does he couch his determinations. You 
 know that! 
 
 Toussan. Well and verily. The rich soil whence 
 thou springest makes thee what thou art. I knew 
 thy mother thoroughly. She was the game-heart 
 of the court, and merry! — Oh, merry, my lord! 
 
 St. Francis. They say she made my father a 
 cuckold and so I was born. No, Toussan? 
 
 Toussan. Ha, ha; heh, ho! But there's your 
 jump-jenny now. Know then thy methods, sweet 
 my lord. Be thou mastering and thou'lt have her 
 yielding. They have them as they want them. 
 And, not to take the teeth from the old saw, bring a 
 whip to a woman and — thou knowest the rest. {Exit 
 Toussan laughing.) 
 
 Enter Cedrielle. 
 
 Cedrielle. Francis, my lord! . 
 
 St. Francis. Madam, why do you haunt me? 
 Why do you ever force yourself upon my leisure? 
 It is not becoming to one of your station to be so 
 unmindful of her continence. Do not gaze upon 
 me with that sorry look as if I had killed your 
 father. Prithee, be more constrained. 
 
 Cedrielle. These, your raw humors, Francis, 1 
 owe, have worn on me. I'm not your mirror where 
 you can play off your moods at will. Believe not 
 to bend me to your easy delights when they are for- 
 ward, or break me to your vagaries as one doth with 
 a blackamoor. I'll not endure the least. 
 
 St. Francis. Do not, madam, and it shall grieve 
 me least. But, — no more of it. You are become 
 nigh unbearable. 
 
 Cedrielle. Oh, thy griefs be my pleasure as my 
 
ACT III 103 
 
 words are thy scorn. 
 
 St. Francis. Thy pleasures be my scorn as my 
 words are thy grief. 
 
 Cedrielle. Oh, I can as easily hate you as love 
 you. 
 
 St. Francis. I can as easily skip you as trip you. 
 
 Cedrielle. Let thy griefs cease with thee! 
 
 St. Francis. And thine, never with thee, sweet 
 chuck. 
 
 Cedrielle. Oh, hateful deceiver! 
 
 St. Francis. Oh, charming believer! Madam, 
 what will you do? 
 
 Cedrielle. Ingrate, what have you done? 
 
 St. Francis. That which hardly affects me. 
 
 Cedrielle. That which fairly should kill thee. 
 
 St. Francis. Tush, tush, Cedrielle! I have not 
 wronged you in so much as you have wronged your- 
 self. Yours was the sin and mine the folly. 'Twere 
 best then, as 'tis easiest, we both forget that hour 
 which knew our weakness. 
 
 Cedrielle. Oh, in that hour I played into the 
 hands of sin; threw away for the pleasure of a 
 cheap moment the dearness of virtue, as 'twere a 
 thing we could miss. I rue it! Oh, I rue it! 
 
 St. Francis. How goes the saying? The repent- 
 ance of a 
 
 Cedrielle. Insensible man, do you now assume 
 so distant a responsibility for a guilt we share in 
 alike? I, to have yielded to an improper affection, 
 and you to have imposed upon me with studied 
 troths and practised wiles, loving without love, and 
 sinning without beauty! Where it will serve them 
 best, men seek to forget; the things that shame 
 their memory, they erase from it. But women can- 
 
104 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 not, even if they would. 
 
 St. Francis. Tut, tut. 
 
 Gedrielle. Base inhumanity that could swear by 
 heaven looking at once to hell; that could promise 
 now and spit upon its vows so soon after! 
 
 St. Francis. Forsooth, madam, I know not, but 
 at the time, what promises I made were not with- 
 out sincerity. Perhaps I should have paused — but 
 that's a wasted thought. If nature was so absolute 
 with us she could not be controlled, then 'tis she, not 
 I, that's to be imputed. In truth, when the heat of 
 the instant cooled, I repented of the folly — 
 
 Cedrielle. Repented! To come to me again? 
 To assail me with new protestations, and once more 
 beguile me into accepting thee? This is pretty re- 
 pentance! Wast not so long ago as the night be- 
 fore last, you sought me out; burdened the air with 
 your easy suspirations ; entreated like one de- 
 vout; hung upon my lips as the robber bee upon the 
 blossom, and with that sure audacity which insin- 
 cerity alone finds it in itself to practice, shared the 
 comforts of my bed, aggravating crime to villainy? 
 Wretch, are you unmoved? 
 
 St. Francis. Moved to strike you. 
 
 Cedrielle. Cruder than your tongue are you that 
 say this. Oh, into what narrow channels has your 
 manhood run? Has it forsaken you completely, 
 leaving behind naught but the dregs of nature? 
 What manner of man are you to do me thus? All 
 that I have yielded of myself — is it a thing to 
 abuse and boast of? Will you now cast me off 
 as one discards a useless habit which he disdains to 
 wear again? They say that love engenders love. 
 
ACT III 105 
 
 What bitter stuff was in mine that it brought forth 
 hatred ? 
 
 St. Francis. Cease, I pray you. You set the 
 aggravation above the error. See to do what I 
 have bidden you, and there will be no space again 
 for such protests. 
 
 Cedrielle. Oh, never, faithful heart! You should 
 be clearer than the morn, more crafty than the fox, 
 more subtle than the snake, and your wisdom should 
 strive to the age of the basilisk ere you will find me 
 baby to a gig. No, Francis! Instantly I shall be 
 firm! The largeness of your scheming I have be- 
 gun to understand. Her shame shall not dispute 
 with my weakness, nor your deed be upon my con- 
 science. 
 
 St. Francis. What folly to say "no" ! Rather be 
 willing, Cedrielle, and gentle to obey, than rebel- 
 lious and brought to. Know that I have conse- 
 quence above you, which urge me not to engage. 
 To-night you will leave the door of Dolora's cham- 
 ber free to entrance. Thyself keep from there. If 
 you value much in your life, value my instructions. 
 
 {Re-enter Toussan at door, rubbing his hands 
 gleefully. Exeunt St. Francis and Toussan.) 
 
 Cedrielle. Oh vile, vile thought! Oh wretched 
 fate! Oh dismal time! He would command me, 
 revile me, cause me from him, and yet has my love. 
 What anomalous things are we to suffer so and 
 keep silent; to fear and to favor; to know and to 
 be helpless. But I'll not let him further in his 
 strides. The door shall be open to his coming but 
 shut against his going. And if he dare approach 
 Dolora as she sleeps, he'll never know to take a 
 better step. Yet he may not find it in his courage 
 
106 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 to come. Therefore I'll hold these fears to myself, 
 lest by telling, and then he come not, 'twill bring 
 on complications. Francis, be cautious of thy step! 
 Know where thou goest! 
 
 Curtain 
 
 Scene 2. — Grounds adjoining palace. Night 
 threatening. 
 
 Enter Dolora and Margaret. 
 Dolora. Wrap my cloak about me, Margaret. 
 How chill it is! 
 The winds make commotion with the air, 
 Seeming at odds with the world. 
 See how love-mad Boreas rages the heavens 
 
 through 
 And drives yon smoky billows before him. 
 Margaret. He must be a knave, being so loose, 
 And the manner he disturbs our dress 
 Makes such shame to the modest stars 
 That — see, they hide themselves. 
 
 {Bells toll.) 
 Dolora. I pray you, pause. 
 Margaret. The tower bells, madam. 
 Dolora. Count the many times they speak. 
 Margaret. Five — six — seven — . 
 Dolora. Like seven knells. How they ring 
 into the soul! 
 I know not what is come upon me now 
 To make me fearful. These are presenti- 
 ments 
 That take the spirit into a secret world 
 Yet tell it naught. Come, Cedrielle awaits 
 us. {They go out.) 
 
ACT III 107 
 
 Scene 3 — The same. 
 
 Enter from castle, Royce, Dohlgrin, Brabant and 
 Berkeley, with torches. 
 
 Brabant. A dreary night this, gentlemen! 
 
 Dohlgrin. A favorable one to our designs. 
 
 Brabant. Who should think so fair a thought 
 needs be executed in so foul a night to make it a 
 noble deed! 
 
 Royce. Those who can disjoin darkness from 
 its terrors. 
 
 Berkeley. Those who know that there are 
 secrets in the world, and that such nights have their 
 motives. 
 
 Dohlgrin. Gentlemen, is Francis gone from the 
 Palace ? 
 
 Royce. No. At least, I think not. 
 
 Berkeley. Then he may hap on us here? 
 
 Dohlgrin. Let him. His safety lies in his avoid- 
 ing us, and in his silence, which he will best ob- 
 serve. We need not care for him. Rather, we 
 should look to resist him — crush him. 
 
 Royce. Rather, Dohlgrin, we follow the ex- 
 ample of our great Preceptor, and resist not evil. 
 
 Dohlgrin. That would be nobler indeed. And 
 I grant you, Royce, that evil is like a hurricane 
 which blows itself out of its own breath even after 
 mountains have failed to stop it; yet, in halting it, 
 there is a measure of delight, akin to satisfaction, 
 that good accomplished succeeds not in. So is it 
 with us and St. Francis. 
 
 Berkeley. What winds are up! 
 
 Brabant. And this cloud descending! It comes 
 on murky. 
 
108 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Royce. Like a curtain to our eagerness, saving 
 the surprise of the dawn. 
 
 Brabant. Gentlemen, attend! If I can know 
 their forms by their shadows, these are our friends. 
 
 Royce. Berkeley, look to the Tower while we 
 receive them. 
 
 Voices. (Without.) Holla! Holla! 
 
 Royce. Who's there? 
 
 Voices. King's men and friends to our friends. 
 Enter Steele, De Forest and Edwin. 
 
 Royce. Then to us. 
 
 De Forest. Royce? Dohlgrin? We are timely 
 met. 
 
 Edwin. Not the best time to be abroad in, 
 gentlemen. 
 
 Steele. By the wine and the wind, I vow, better 
 abroad with a purpose than at home with the cat. 
 
 Dohlgrin. We thank you, gentlemen, you do 
 not fail our need of you. 
 
 Steele. Oh, those that think of the days for- 
 get not the hours. 
 
 Dohlgrin. For our part, those that forget not 
 the hours, make rich the days. 
 
 De Forest. 'Each man to his own' — goes it not 
 so? 
 
 Royce. Ay, so and so; but you are indeed most 
 welcome. 
 
 Edwin. Has the signal shown? 
 
 Royce. No, we may expect it presently. 
 
 Edwin. This night encourages doing the dar- 
 ing deed. 
 
 Steele. Our spirits are in it, if our heads must 
 hang for it. 
 
 Royce. Our purpose does not question death; 
 
ACT III 109 
 
 and is so exalted it draws not only on the sap 
 of friendship but on the wine of love. 
 
 De Forest. — Gentlemen, our position here is un- 
 certain. 
 
 Brabant. What now? What may the matter 
 be? 
 
 De Forest. Crossing the bridge on our way 
 here — 
 
 Dohlgrin. You were challenged? 
 
 De Forest. Not that — we suddenly came upon 
 his majesty — 
 
 Brabant. To-night ! 
 
 De Forest. A while ago. 
 
 Dohlgrin. Unattended, you say? 
 
 De Forest. Quite alone. We passed that near 
 to him and to our several salutes he gave no an- 
 swer. 
 
 Royce. Which way was he going, towards us? 
 
 De Forest. Nay, opposed to us. 
 
 Steele. You mean he faced us, but himself was 
 quite motionless. 
 
 De Forest. However, when we turned again to 
 see him, he was slowly following in our direction. 
 
 Royce. Intent upon you? 
 
 De Forest. Hardly — 
 
 Edwin. Nay, he did not even notice us. His 
 head was bent to his chest, his arms locked behind 
 him ; he seemed like a student of the world to whom 
 its problem was too bewildering. 
 
 Berkeley. Lights, yonder! (Lights appear in the 
 distance and vanish.) 
 
 All. Oh, where? 
 
 Berkeley. Now they are gone; vanished on the 
 instant ! 
 
no MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Royce. How did they show? 
 
 Berkeley. First, two of no duration; then a 
 single one brighter than either, which held until 
 I turned to you. 
 
 Royce. From what direction showed they, from 
 the bay? 
 
 Berkeley. No; more surely from the embank- 
 ment. 
 
 Royce. From the tower, then. Hold steady ob- 
 servation. The signal will be repeated presently. 
 'Tis decided, then. ( To Steele, Edwin and De For- 
 est.) You are to wait in readiness at the appointed 
 place. We count on you, friends. 
 
 De Forest. My lords, the gravity of the matter 
 we have on hand forbids any waywardness of ac- 
 tion. We can well conceive there's much hangs 
 upon this night's work. 
 
 Dohlgrin. The fortune of an empire! 
 
 De Forest. Why, then, we are better matched 
 for it. 
 
 Royce. Why has the signal not again appeared? 
 Sure it was not from the bay you saw the light? 
 
 Berkeley. Certain it is. 
 
 Royce. But in this direction, no? 
 
 Berkeley. Ay, even where the tower should be. 
 
 (Lights show again.) 
 
 All. See, see, there it shows again! 
 
 Royce. This second is confirmation of the first. 
 
 Steele. Haste we, then; for a while, my lords, 
 good night. 
 
 Berkeley, Royce and Dohlgrin. Good night. 
 (Exeunt De Forest, Edwin and Steele.) 
 
 Berkeley. I'm glad we thought of them, Royce. 
 
 Royce. Ay, they are proper men when proper 
 
ACT III in 
 
 circumstances rise to challenge their worth. This is 
 to them not so much a duty as a privilege. — Who's 
 there ! 
 
 {Enter St. Francis and Toussan, with torch.) 
 
 Brabant. Here comes a viper. To think of his 
 rascality is to desire to end it. 
 
 Berkeley. Be discreet, Brabant; let fall your 
 sword. 
 
 St. Francis. Who's here? Aha! {Agitated on 
 perceiving them.) What? So late in such a night? 
 Conspiracy that counts such men amongst it glances 
 at crowned greatness only. What's ado? Where's 
 the King? 
 
 Dohlgrin. The King is where he is. We are 
 neither his guardians nor his keepers. 
 
 Royce. You do not ask for the Prince, my lord. 
 
 St. Francis. The Prince? — The Prince? — heh — 
 
 Toussan. Merry, my lords, he's been dinning 
 "prince" into this ear till I am deaf on both. 
 
 St. Francis. Toussan speaks truly. If John 
 were ever distant from my mind, I should regret 
 it. What's with him ? What bring you from him ? 
 
 Dohlgrin. {Dubiously.) Be he above the 
 earth — 
 
 St. Francis. Go to, how you speak ! 
 
 Dohlgrin. {To the others.) Shall we let him 
 hear? 'Tis a long tale, St. Francis. To begin 
 with — 
 
 Toussan. The king has claim upon your time, my 
 lord. 
 
 St. Francis. True, you remind me, Toussan. We 
 must find him insantly. 
 
 All. Instantly! 
 
 St. Francis. Ay, our purpose is immediate. 
 
ii2 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Dohlgrin. Your purpose with the King is imme- 
 diate ? 
 
 St. Francis. (Confused.) That is, there — 
 
 (Turns to Toussan appealingly.) 
 Toussan. Ay, immediate, as his majesty awaits 
 us in his chamber. 
 
 St. Francis. That's so, friends. 
 Dohlgrin. How 'in his chamber' when at pres- 
 ent he is abroad? 
 
 St. Francis. Abroad? 
 
 Toussan. (Hastily.) It does not matter, eh, 
 merry, my lord ? We'll await him, then. 
 
 St. Francis. Yes, we'll await him. Friends, 
 when shall we meet again? To-morrow? 
 Royce. A proper time enough. 
 Brabant. (Aside.) Oh, and that should be the 
 last. 
 
 St. Francis. We leave you then; good night. 
 
 (Exeunt St. Francis and Toussan.) 
 Brabant. He plays both hands as false, lying, 
 traitorous to the king as to our cause. I'm sorry, 
 we should have killed him here. 
 
 Royce. There's no regretting it, Brabant. 
 Death itself is hardly punishment; 
 But death that trips up 
 Great ambition, high hopes, schemes pro- 
 jected, 
 At a time when life is measured by the great- 
 er compass, 
 Then 'tis something — 
 Then 'tis part of heaven's intercession 
 Here on earth. 
 
 Enter Melmoth. 
 Dohlgrin. Who is this that enters — not the 
 
ACT III 113 
 
 king? 
 
 Berkeley. Your eyesight's keen. That surely is 
 the king. 
 
 Dohlgrin. Let us nearer to this end, my lords. 
 
 We may escape attention and so, depart. 
 Royce. Nay, he has seen us already. Raise the 
 torch aloft; 
 But let our countenances be familiar 
 With their native hue, lest, being pale, 
 They betray our thoughts. {Torches are 
 
 raised. ) 
 How does your majesty? 
 Melmoth. When had we such a night ? History 
 attests 
 That the elements go ever with great events 
 In the lives of men. When had we such a 
 night ? 
 Royce. WTien Richard slew his old and infirm 
 father 
 To ascend the sooner to the throne. 
 Melmoth. — Then laid the self-same hand upon 
 
 himself, not so? 
 Royce. Ay; destroyed in his own destruction. 
 Melmoth. So is it with all of us. The Nemesis 
 Of self-ideal. Give me good night, my 
 
 lords. 
 The end's indeed the poetry of life; 
 For in the consummation, that rare dream, 
 Through which the soul in vital harmony 
 With all the world is led, — is curtained o'er. 
 Give me good-night, my lords. 
 There'll be no hunting to-night in the 
 
 heavens ; 
 Orion sleeps, and the hounds follow no trail. 
 
ii 4 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Give me good night — but the Lion, the Lion 
 shall rule! 
 Royce. Will not his majesty enter to the palace? 
 
 This night hath a thousand humors — 
 
 Not one to be trusted. 
 Melmoth. No; give me good night. 
 
 {All go out but Melmoth.) 
 
 Beauty and loveliness shall pass away 
 
 This night ere dreams are ended. And a star, 
 
 Like the early light which fails the dead- 
 new born, 
 
 When given to the bosom of the world, 
 
 Will go out of heaven. 
 
 Then will come sorrow, anguish, and 
 remorse, — 
 
 And that puts out the light! I go to thee 
 now — 
 
 Thee whom my soul would embrace, and my 
 hand 
 
 Must destroy! I go to thee like one un- 
 taught 
 
 In his own instructions — and bewildered! 
 
 But life must out, stars fall, and ruin come. 
 
 There is no pausing now so near the end — 
 
 There's nothing else. 
 
 Awake, Dolora! 
 
 For thine shall be the everlasting sleep 
 
 Hereafter ! 
 
 Curtain 
 
 Scene 4. Dolora s bedchamber. Up stage, cen- 
 ter, is a bed with drawn curtains. Door to left 
 leads to ante-chamber. Two casement windows, to 
 
ACT III 115 
 
 back of stage. A bureau; a couch; a long upright 
 mirror; chairs, etc. 
 
 Enter Dolora and Cedrielle. 
 
 Dolora. Cedrielle, we'll at once to bed and 
 anticipate this night of its terrors. 
 
 Cedrelle. So soon, madam? 'Tis earlier than 
 your wont. 
 
 Dolora. I have such unwholesome fancies usurp- 
 ing my quieter thoughts, they caution me against this 
 wakefulness. (Seats herself on couch.) Restless 
 grown, fretful and peevish, why should I burden 
 you with my reproaches and make you concerned 
 with me ? Unfasten this clasp. It seems that heaven 
 then asserts itself over us when we are ready to 
 think ourselves above it. Look out and see if it doth 
 rain. 
 
 Cedrielle. I will. (Goes to window.) 
 
 Dolora. How oft does the condition of the 
 weather accord with that of the heart! Surely there 
 is sympathy in nature. — How is it out? 
 
 Cedrielle. (At window.) There's a moist wind 
 blowing and the night is rolled up in such a heavy 
 mist, it cannot be seen through. A night one feels 
 rather than sees. (Dolora approaches window.) 
 
 Dolora. It is indeed as you say. At times, 
 Cedrielle, life is even as this night, dark, dark and 
 failing of an end. — Come, help me off with these 
 pale trinkets. Without a memory to link them to 
 our hearts they lose their original charm. (Thun- 
 der.) Oh! I fear this night beyond all reason. 
 
 Cedrielle. Why do you, madam? Why do you 
 start so at the least disturbance of nature, which 
 when 'tis over, is but an airy nothing. These agita- 
 
n6 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 tions are your own. 
 
 Dolor a. Nay, Cedrielle, you are pale yourself; 
 and besides I do observe in your glance, to-night, 
 something quite unbrave, which comes not of the 
 weather, meseems. What is it, if it is anything? 
 
 Cedrielle. Indeed it is not anything. If I am 
 pale, then take it I have borrowed something of 
 your own unrest. Humors are persuasive; they 
 league disposition with disposition, be they anywhat 
 opposed. Our hearts are of such rare textures, like 
 sensitive chords, they stir to the unruly wind as to 
 the balm. And the mind, like the weather-cock, goes 
 the way of the wind. 
 
 Dolora. Nothing more? 
 
 Cedrielle. No, in good faith! 
 
 Dolora. Sure? 
 
 Cedrielle. Sure. 
 
 Dolora. — Help me drag off this heavy robe which 
 clings like a cerecloth about my body. {Pause.) My 
 father, Cedrielle, I fear, will not survive the week. 
 
 Cedrielle. He is old, madam; well above eighty 
 years. 
 
 Dolora. But loves not life the less, God wot. 
 Make fast the casement-windows, Cedrielle, while 
 I go undress. 'Tis raining now, I think. {Dolora 
 goes into ante-chamber.) 
 
 Cedrielle. The heart must have a double lease 
 of life- 
 Else it must fail us midway. Oh, this sus- 
 pense 
 Doth make me conscience-ridden, and throws 
 
 me 
 Into a fever-heat of doubt. 
 
 Dolora. {From within.) Cedrielle — ? 
 
ACT III 117 
 
 Cedrielle. Yes, madam — ? 
 
 Dolora. What do you think, do ever our dreams 
 
 tell us anything? 
 Cedrielle. Very often they do. 
 Dolora. Oh, I am so glad you say so! 
 Cedrielle. She is in better vein. {Aloud.) 
 
 Dolora, you'll not retire so soon? (No an- 
 swer.) What, Dolora? — 
 
 Mine own eyes stick, and my limbs need 
 effort 
 
 To sustain them. But the night's too full 
 
 And eloquent of fateful prophecies 
 
 To let guilty sleep, that steals his watch, 
 
 Summon the weary sense, and overpow'r it. 
 
 Nor must I let her sleep! 
 Dolora. — But are they real, Cedrielle? 
 Cedrielle. I do not hear you, madam. 
 Dolora. Do ever our dreams seek to betray us? 
 Cedrielle. Not selfishly, madam. — Are you un- 
 dressed ? 
 Dolora. How, then? 
 Cedrielle. "How, then" what? 
 Dolora. Our dreams, goosy. 
 Cedrielle. Oh, our dreams! 
 Dolora. Yes. Do they ever seek to betray us? 
 Cedrielle. I don't know — I think . . . but 
 
 what matters it, anyhow? 
 
 Dolora. {Appearing at the door.) Do you 
 
 :now, Cedrielle, Melmoth came to me yesternight? 
 
 Cedrielle. Here, madam? I did not see him — 
 
 Dolora. Like one forth from a sleep of troubled 
 
 dreams, 
 
 A spirit leading. 
 
 Without the outward show of royalty 
 
n8 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 He came, 
 
 And yet more kingly never did he seem. 
 His left hand held a sword without an edge; 
 And in his right there was a flowing cup 
 Which he would feign compel unto his lips 
 And was not able. 
 Cedrielle. Strange you dream of him thus! 
 {Dolora withdraws again into ante-chamber.) 
 Oh, poor heart, she knows not how, alas, 
 These silent hours may play about her soul, 
 Enacting things that broad and wholesome 
 
 day 
 Would shame to look on. What is in- 
 nocence 
 When its dear virtue hangs upon the wind 
 And caprice of chance? So little valued; 
 So great, its possession lost! 
 {Re-enter Dolora in loose gown, ready to retire.) 
 Oh, Dolora, I told you once that you had beauty 
 of sufficient allowance to win you a prince, but you 
 have it in that rich measure, I would for your own 
 sake, you had less of it, that you could be more 
 happy. 
 
 Dolora. Do you think, then, my beauty would 
 even now hold the survey of a dispassionate suitor? 
 Nay, rather, I'll not ask it. Take up your instru- 
 ment, Cedrielle, and play while I try to lose the 
 sense of reality. {Reclines on bed.) 
 Cedrielle. Dolora — 
 Dolora. What, Cedrielle? 
 
 Cedrielle. {Anxiously.) Do not sleep, Dolora. 
 Dolora. Why, you goose? 
 
 Cedrielle. I don't know, but — {Imploringly.) 
 do not sleep, I pray! 
 
ACT III 119 
 
 Dolora. {Raising herself.) How now, what's 
 the matter with you, Cedrielle? 
 
 Cedrielle. Oh! I'd rather we were together. 
 
 Dolora. Why, so we are. 
 
 Cedrielle. I mean that I should remain up with 
 you; that we should waste the night in words; tell 
 each other tales; read, and sing, and call up pleas- 
 ant memories, and so, wear weariness away. 
 
 Dolora. Go to, you are whimsical. I am tired. 
 
 Cedrielle. (Nervously.) The king, Dolora! — 
 
 Dolora. (Playfully.) Is graciously bestowed to 
 slumber. Thus he lies, (Makes a certain posture.) 
 his person divested of its terrible greatness. Per- 
 chance thus he lies — or thus — his arm a second pil- 
 low; or better, so. 
 
 Cedrielle. No, madam — 
 
 Dolora. No? Then lies awake; or walks about; 
 or is seated; or — 
 
 Cedrielle. Do you think, madam? — 
 
 Dolora. That he loves me? Wily, he loves me; 
 nily, he loves me not. But go, get thee thyself to 
 bed. Time doth wane into the slender hours and 
 you should be weary. Go get thee gone ; or, if you 
 stay, as doth content you, play me a score or two, 
 not light, but tender; sweet, not sad; something 
 that puts to sleep the thousand passions of the 
 heart and gives it rest. (Cedrielle plays.) 
 
 Dolora. So. That's sweet. Play on. (After 
 a while.) We are all sorrowful children, Cedrielle — 
 
 Cedrielle. Yes, madam — 
 
 Dolora. And I often wonder whether of the 
 many, many souls that endure upon this earth, 
 'twould matter much if one had never been. 
 
 Cedrielle. Very much so, for God has given each 
 
t2o MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 a purpose in his being. 
 
 Dolor a. Do you think, then, we should live for 
 others more than for ourselves? 
 
 Cedrielle. Ay, Dolora, for others survive us, and 
 living, we exist as much in others as in ourselves. 
 'Tis we that quit the world, and therefore 'tis we 
 should make it our beneficiary. 
 
 Dolora. I thank you for teaching me this. Now, 
 good night. 
 
 Cedrielle. {Anxiously.) Goodnight — goodnight. 
 Dolora. Make low the light, dear Cedrielle. 
 Cedrielle. I will, I will. {Turns down lamp.) 
 Dolora. That's well. {Sleeps.) 
 Cedrielle. {Over her.) May the bosom of quiet 
 be thy pillow of rest. 
 And thy dreams, the calmer visions of the 
 
 night, 
 Attend on thy soul, sweetly, like cherubims 
 In music ascending. {Softly.) Dolora, do 
 
 you sleep? — 
 Now she sleeps, and now the best alarm 
 Should not awaken her to the wretch 
 That makes history of night. I'll obey; 
 But obedience will go so far — no more: 
 I'll see him on the verge of another's doom 
 And push him to his own. ( Unlocks door.) 
 I'll let him in ; 
 
 Himself must needs determine if he go. 
 Dolora, sleep! 
 
 And cover with a film this naughty world, 
 And see it not. If I had magic charm 
 To spirit thee away into a world 
 Of better fabric, I'd follow thee myself. 
 
 (Noise.) 
 
ACT III 121 
 
 He comes already; hence he mayn't so soon! 
 (She hides behind the arras.) 
 
 Enter St. Francis. 
 St. Francis. {Calling softly.) Cedrielle! Ce- 
 drielle ! 
 
 (Feels along the arras.) I thought she would 
 be here. Now, what were his words? Ay, 
 'the coxcombed rooster!' 'the power masculine!' 
 Those were his words! (Beholding Dolora.) 
 Oh, most beauteous! 
 Nature's perfect fingers cannot again 
 Design in manner like to this! Rare prize, 
 To gain which dwarfs the halting thought of 
 
 honor, 
 Spiting the dread of consequence. (Listens.) 
 Ah, I'd crowd all hazard of the yet to be 
 Into that small while which sees me at her 
 
 side. 
 Thus do we, for a present advantage 
 Forego all the future. — Cedrielle! She is not 
 here. (Approaches Dolora.) 
 Enter Melmoth. 
 (Francis turns abruptly. They gaze at each other 
 fixedly.) 
 
 Melmoth. There's nothing now can make me 
 to exclaim 
 Out at the strangeness of it all. 
 Life's too possible! 
 
 To wonder at things this world shall mani- 
 fest 
 From time to time, is little knowing it. 
 See! Francis, see! I sink my knee before 
 
 thee 
 Like the serf, the minion, or the fallen slave, 
 
122 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 If from that lily hand whose grace is its 
 
 fault, 
 Thou hast known the bounty of her heart. 
 
 {Pause.) 
 But bend thou, 
 
 And bare thy breast to its deserve, 
 If, in the pure unconsciousness of sleep, 
 Now the regeant of her virtue, 
 She has felt the rabid touch of lust 
 That meant to defile her! {Pause.) 
 
 You do not kneel; go then. 
 You have sinned already by your presence. 
 Yet if your silence lies to me, 
 And you yourself shall recommend the truth 
 Henceforth to your honor, 
 Take this dagger {Francis takes dagger.) 
 
 and redeem yourself. {Exit St. Francis.) 
 
 {Melmoth approaches Dolora.) 
 Thou art only for love and for death, 
 Sweet sorrow of my soul! And in the first, 
 Like the Supreme Man who died while he 
 
 bestowed, 
 Thou hast richly given for the second. 
 Therefore, for thy love thou diest, 
 As many come to die. 
 Since careless fate hath placed thee in my 
 
 way, 
 It is to blame, not I, nor thou, great heart! 
 And were thy perfect soul 
 More perfect in its applauded innocence, 
 I know not that above the fatal promise 
 I could set my heart. 
 Then let not heaven 
 
 {Exit Cedrielle unobserved.) 
 
ACT III 123 
 
 From its high and pillarless arcade 
 
 Seek to dissuade me. For I would sooner 
 
 life, 
 Than love in life, and one shuts out the other. 
 Awake, Dolora! 
 Here there's life no more, but where, I know 
 
 not. 
 Awake ! 
 
 Or shall I still the labored breath of sleep 
 Even as thou liest! — {Dolora awakes.) 
 
 Dolora. Melmoth? 
 Melmoth. Ay. 
 
 Dolora. What time of night is this? 
 Melmoth. At cross hours with the morning. 
 But think of time no more. With thee the rec- 
 ord of its day is at an end. 
 
 Dolora. How mean you, Melmoth ? What will 
 
 you do? 
 Melmoth. A necessary deed, Dolora. 
 Dolora. So never have I seen you before. You 
 look so earnest and so calm, I almost fear you. 
 They say when strong men's souls become intent on 
 deeds, their faces look like this. (Anxiously.) But 
 in your love I feel secure. 
 
 Melmoth. Err not, sweet lady. Great love 
 wounds itself — 
 
 Dolora. (Anxiously.) Then loves the most! 
 Melmoth. But is most cruel ! Destroys on what 
 it feeds! 
 
 Dolora. (Alarmed.) Yet does not die? 
 Melmoth. Nay, but kills! but kills! Think 
 upon the world this last, Dolora, and say farewell. 
 Dolora. Alas! And must this be? 
 Melmoth. It must. 
 
124 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Doiora. And is it for thy sake that I must die? 
 
 Melmoth. 'Tis for my sake. 
 
 Doiora. Oh, then tell me why, that I may know 
 my death's not thrown away. 
 
 Melmoth. Ask it not, yet be the sacrifice. They 
 ask not, they that die for any cause. 
 
 Doiora. Oh, then death is life, and life is death, 
 and I am one to both. 
 
 Melmoth. Ay. Ay. 
 
 Doiora. Spare me not, if in my living, thru some 
 unlearned and terrible way, you must suffer to the 
 causing death. 
 
 Melmoth. Ay. Ay. 
 
 Doiora. Then am I prepared. 
 
 Melmoth. {Aside.) Oh, where's that fixedness, 
 that iron nerve, that grit that ruled me once? Con- 
 fess it not to yourself, Melmoth, you are weakening! 
 
 Doiora. {Baring her throat.) Here, Melmoth. 
 
 Melmoth. {Aside.) Oh, shame! 
 
 Doiora. Here is my white neck, Melmoth, 
 which knew no dearer touch than thy sweet lips, its 
 proudest jewel. Now brace it with thy purposed 
 fingers — so — till they hold off breath and leave my 
 body without impulse. 
 
 Melmoth. Ha! He said thou canst not do it, 
 and thou canst not ! My hands are traitorous ! Oh, 
 my will's become the trifler of my weakness, and 
 all is contradiction. {Falls back.) I cannot do it! 
 
 {Bells sound.) 
 
 Doiora. Oh, Melmoth, why is this? 
 
 Tell me how to best deserve your love; 
 If not by death, then how? how? 
 
 Melmoth. {With abandon.) Thyself! Thy- 
 self! Let thine own hand be thine own possessor! 
 
ACT III 125 
 
 Promise me that, Dolora. Quick ! Promise me. 
 
 {Hides his face.) Oh this is the least of me! 
 Now have I fallen to the lowest. 
 
 {Knocking without.) 
 Dolora. That I promise thee, Melmoth! I will 
 restore thee to thy peace. 
 
 Melmoth. {Embracing her.) Oh, that I loved 
 thee less! 
 
 {Knocking without.) 
 {They separate as Cedrielle and Courtiers enter.) 
 Courtier. Most gracious liege, if we do here 
 intrude 
 Let our special purpose be the excuse. 
 Esmund's escaped. The guards, 
 A while since, up from their sleep, 
 Induced upon them by most vicious drugs 
 Which sealed their consciousness for some 
 
 odd hours, 
 Stirred the bells to this midnight alarm, 
 And warned us from our beds. We thither 
 
 came 
 Directed by this lady. {Signifying Cedrielle.) 
 The guards stand without, awaiting enforce- 
 ment 
 To pursue. Please to give the word. 
 Melmoth. Go out; go out. I follow you. 
 
 {Exeunt all but Dolora and Cedrielle.) 
 Cedrielle. Praise God, dear madam, you still 
 
 survive this night ! 
 Dolora. Go you, too, and leave me here alone! 
 Cedrielle. Why, I'll stay with you. There are 
 
 many — 
 Dolora. Go! I tell thee, thou wilt make me 
 mad repeating this. 
 
126 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Cedrielle. (Going.) I fear this night is not yet 
 
 ended. 
 Dolora. Go! go! go! go! 
 
 I'm sure that she will make me mad ! 
 Wheels! Wheels! Where got I all these 
 
 wheels ! 
 The whole world with its streets, peoples and 
 
 trades, 
 Rivers, bridges, wagons and commotions, 
 Has crept into my head and there spins 
 
 round ! 
 Wheels! Wheels! A million whirling 
 
 wheels, 
 Leaping, revolving, — faster, faster, faster . . 
 Curtain 
 
ACT IV 
 
 Scene i. Public Park. Easter Sunday. It is 
 a warm summer afternoon. 
 
 Enter Melmoth and Pellas, dressed as citizens. 
 Melmoth. Let me linger here. There's some- 
 thing pleasing 
 
 In this prospect makes me wish to tarry. 
 
 'Tis not the air, drawing upon the odor 
 
 Of these bearded trees and common flowers, 
 
 Caters to us here where it does not elsewhere. 
 
 Our chamber windows serve the sight to 
 views more grand: 
 
 Green lawns peopled with figures cut in 
 bronze 
 
 And alabaster; 
 
 Floral gardens; waters serpentine; 
 
 Long spacious avenues, which rows and rows 
 
 Of stately pines, on either hand, escort 
 
 To the stretch and brink of our vision. 
 
 Then 'tis not these, Pellas. What is it? 
 Pellas. 'Tis the air of homely satisfaction 
 
 Pervading the scene like the light of a Sab- 
 bath morn 
 
 Upon the world, doth make you pensive, my 
 lord. 
 Melmoth. There is a change, Pellas. 
 
 I know not why I'm grown so reminiscent. 
 
 Things of former days creep in upon me 
 
 With a new significance. What is it, 
 Pellas? 
 
 127 
 
128 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 There were children before, men and women ; 
 Now as they pass me by, I find myself 
 Seeing them, observing them, thinking of 
 
 them, 
 As tho they had been missing to mine eyes. 
 Pellas. Alas, I clear forgot to-day was Easter 
 morn! 
 So do we depart the thought of God, 
 The rites and preference of our days, 
 Yielding our attention to the temporal, 
 That we o'erglance our spirits' proper weal, 
 And find us wanting. 
 How is it, my lord, with your religion? 
 Melmoth. Eh, what? 
 Pellas. My lord, I am overbold ? I ask it but in 
 
 sympathy. 
 Melmoth. Religion? Faith, you hurt me. 
 
 You're unjust. 
 Pellas. I'm sorry, truly, I'm sorry. 
 Melmoth. Matters it, Pellas, how one serves the 
 Lord 
 If he but serve Him? The science lies not 
 So much in our worship as in our faith. 
 Be religious if thou wilt, but ask no man. 
 Ay, do not speak of that! Do not speak of 
 
 that ! — 
 What do the children sing? 
 Pellas. Hymns, my lord. 
 
 Melmoth. Hymns. {Reflecting.) I remember, 
 Pellas, — but let that be. 
 Who are those men yonder? 
 Pellas. Honest men, my liege. 
 Melmoth. How simply "honest men!" 
 Pellas. Ay, my liege. 
 
ACT IV 129 
 
 Men who travail in the fear of the lord, 
 And in the virtue of their living 
 Seek not to go beyond themselves. 
 Humble in their plenty; in their want, 
 
 serene. 
 They give of themselves what is most dear 
 
 to them, 
 And murmur not. They hear of the ills 
 Of the world and believe in its good. 
 Two solemn moments mark their even lives: 
 Love and death. 
 
 The one they cherish as a duty bound; 
 The other they accept with resignation. 
 Thus, my lord, do they live, love and suffer 
 In their own and unrelated spheres, 
 And pass out from the toss and toil of life 
 Unnoticed, undiscovered, like supers, 
 From the back door of the theatre. 
 Whilst the great roles are on. They are 
 simple men. 
 
 Melmoth. (Sadly.) Happy men! 
 
 And they question not, and wonder not, 
 And never reason "why?" Are there none 
 Among them, who, looking to the mystery 
 Of the stars, crave not to fly to them? 
 
 Fellas. Fly to them? 
 
 Melmoth. (Vehemently.') None who have a 
 sorrow for the whole world, 
 Seeing it bowed down by the rigor 
 Of nature's laws, and seek not to revolt 
 Against them? 
 
 Pellas. What, my lord! 
 
 Melmoth. Not one, 
 
 Who, in the wrecking fever of his ambition, 
 
130 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Shakes a mailed fist at the Invisible Hosts, 
 And thunders war to God! 
 Fellas. War to God! 
 Melmoth. Happy men! 
 
 Fellas. Your words are very strange to me, mv 
 lord. 
 They slip the grasp of my understanding 
 And leave me wondering. 
 Melmoth. No, old man, nor will you under- 
 stand 
 Should Hell itself unfold to you their mean- 
 ing, 
 Or Heaven warn you against it. 'Tis such 
 
 a thing, 
 Must separate reason from words; meaning, 
 From comprehension. 
 Here comes a minion of thy son. Look to 
 
 him. 
 That haste is herald only of the worst 
 In happenings. {Enter Toussan.) 
 
 Tis of her death he comes to tell me now. 
 Not with a dagger did I slay her, 
 Nor pour into her cup the hemlock's juice 
 That seduces the breath from life. 
 (To Toussan.) You need not speak. I know 
 too well your news; she is dead. 
 Toussan. Merry, my lord, who? 
 Melmoth. Then lives? 
 Toussan. Merry, my lord, who? 
 Melmoth. Wretch, thou holdst me in suspense! 
 Toussan. And thou holdst me! Merry, my 
 lord, means his majesty the daughter of the one that 
 has just quitted life? 
 
 Fellas. What, old Kemiss, dead! 
 
ACT IV 131 
 
 Melmoth. But Dolora lives? Death itself is 
 nothing. 'Tis imaging makes death feared! But 
 Dolora lives! 
 
 Toussan. Ay, lives, but in such a state that one 
 thru pity would have it otherwise. The old duke's 
 dead; and she, thru great dolor of his passing, has 
 forgotten count. 
 Melmoth. Her mind was not so faithful as her 
 heart. 
 One failed the other! 
 Fellas. Dolora mad! Old Kemiss dead! Alas! 
 What's this world come to? 
 
 Melmoth. (Moved.) He is the better off. 
 Rather life's death, than death in life. 
 When a soul fails we call it by that name. 
 'Tis the expiration of our this-world's lease. 
 But the failing of a mind, that is 
 The taking quite away of life, and yet 
 Denying death. (Contemplates.) 
 Fellas. What exactly made his death so sudden, 
 can you say ? 
 
 Toussan. Merry, my lord, men die when they 
 cease to grow older. Poor health, for one ; a broken 
 spirit, which has had its hurts before, for another; 
 and a presuming old age — all three combined to 
 bring him to his end. If you'll hear me further, 
 sir, Walden, in attempting to fly the country, doubt- 
 less to join with the bothersome John, was intercept- 
 ed, and now's within the Tower, himself a prisoner, 
 where, a jump before, he ruled. Merry, eh? Es- 
 mund's whereabouts have not been learned, but cer- 
 tain it is he is within the walls, free for anything. 
 Had Francis, your much obedient son, been heard, 
 and his words preferred when he sought to caution 
 
132 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 against what's responsible for this, it would not have 
 come to this. 
 
 Melmoth. It does not matter now. (To Tous- 
 san.) Go you before me. (Exit Toussan.) 
 
 It was not by her death alone that then 
 
 I could reach out to the impossible goal. 
 
 The world's engulfed me with its sympathies 
 
 Too far already. 
 
 'Twill force an end — it must! 
 
 Tis become a greater and a grander struggle. 
 
 And the first full might — 
 
 The rare, unbroken energy of the spirit 
 
 To riot against the riot of the flood — 
 
 Is no more with me. 
 Curtain 
 
 Scene 2. Room in the Palace. 
 
 Enter St. Francis and Toussan. 
 
 St. Francis. Counsel, Toussan? A fig, a fig, 
 I say! Go link thee with a fool; confound thee 
 with your counsel. Whereto has your counsel led 
 us? To loss, to blundering, to mishap, to chance 
 escapes, to danger of our necks, our ends, our all! 
 A fig, a fig, I say! We're found out to an ace; 
 royally discovered on both hands, and either hand 
 is free to cut us down. Counsel? A fig! 
 
 Toussan. A stopper to your spleen, my lord, 
 my sweet lord. (Expostulating.) Blundering! 
 Danger! Loss! Rats and lizards, merry, merry, 
 my lord ! You tear, you fume, you exclaim ! Where- 
 fore? And if wherefore, whereto? And if whereto, 
 whereat? Wisdom, I say; wisdom and a steady 
 nerve; nerve and quality, merry, my lord, and we'll 
 
ACT IV 133 
 
 undo those that have undone us. A dull trap can 
 catch an angry bear; then let not thine own fury 
 be its own bait. Clever, my lord, — that's the trick! 
 Be thou clever rather than proficient, and thou'lt 
 wear the plume and crow — 
 
 St. Francis. If our heads be not leveled and our 
 tongues pulled out ere that time. We're hedged 
 in, sir. Royce and Dohlgrin, like opposite fires, are 
 raging thru the palace in search of Esmund, at once 
 with an eye for us. If we come upon them, or they 
 on us — 
 
 Toussan. Game on it, my sweet lord, we'll not 
 let honor scare our conscience. We'll dig thru their 
 poor, pestilent wrappers of a hide as deep as sun- 
 light. We'll make them pray harder than ghosts 
 at Christmas. We'll swear them off their sweaty 
 legs with black, inflammable curses till they forget 
 their own wheezes. Our lives are worth a point, 
 eh? We'll halt them, my lord, we'll do that to 
 them. But let them bark their shins in our pursuit, 
 not we in theirs. Follow me, my sweet lord, we'll 
 lay our heads together and call it individual. 
 
 St. Francis. Nay, follow me — this way. 
 
 Toussan. Follow! Follow! Follow! 
 
 {Exeunt both.) 
 
 Enter Royce and Dohlgrin hastily frojn either 
 side } meeting. Both are disguised. 
 
 Royce. Well, what have you seen? 
 
 Dohlgrin. Esmund, I have not. But I have seen 
 enough 
 To make these eyes, clear of that weakness 
 Which wastes their quality, to dissolve 
 And run out in tears. The jewel light of this 
 
134 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 court's 
 Eclipsed, cancelled, put out. 
 I met Dolora wandering thru these halls 
 Without aim of direction, spirit or desire. 
 A distant eye, a simple and loveless smile, 
 Told me better than all her random words 
 The story we hoped untrue. 
 Royce. Then she is mad! 
 
 Dohlgrin. And do you wonder? This state 
 drives to madness! 
 
 Calamity pursues us like the still-hunt 
 hounds — 
 Like the northern wolves that race across the 
 
 heavens, 
 Swallowing the sun. 
 Royce. Dohlgrin, you are not yourself to-day. 
 Dohlgrin. I am not. 
 Royce. I pray you, take yourself in hand. 
 Dohlgrin. {Bitterly.) Nay, nay, there's cause 
 enough to make one quarrel 
 With his own nature. See Royce, 
 The great mass of our doings' jumbled up, — 
 Thrust aside by the back of a hand 
 Without the eye following. 
 Esmund has led us to a peak, pinned us there, 
 Then removed the base of our support, 
 And so left us. 
 
 Here's labor mocked at, effort unacknowl- 
 edged, 
 And the whole school of an empire swung out 
 Into the unsupportable air. What's to do? 
 Royce. I know not what myself. 
 
 Esmund's being here within the palace, 
 And so immediate to the person of the king, 
 
ACT IV 135 
 
 Makes all things, conjunctive to security, 
 At once precarious. 
 Dohlgrin. Oh, Royce, if I had hate in my heart 
 for him 
 Now's the time 'twould show, and aggra- 
 vate 
 Itself into a fever. 
 Royce. Moderate your thought and feeling to- 
 ward him. 
 He should have more our support and less 
 Our prejudice. For in such a case, 
 Friendship's nothing if it is not all. 
 Here he enters. 
 That helpless look which starts out from his 
 
 eye 
 Even humbles pity for his state. 
 Enter Esmund. 
 Dohlgrin. Ay. He thinks not of us. 
 
 We and our purposes are as far from him 
 As that inauspicious thought, which spoils 
 The rose and promise of our effort, 
 Is near to him, 
 Esmund. You hardly greet me well, my lords. 
 Dohlgrin. I'm sorry we do it not well. Tis a 
 fault, 
 If the heart teach not the lips eloquence 
 They cannot speak. 
 Esmund. What is it with you? What's the 
 
 matter? 
 Dohlgrin. Nothing that is not. 
 Esmund. I pray you, friends, do not censure me 
 Thus freely, nor give way to your grievances 
 Which excite mine own. Howbeit the out- 
 come 
 
1 36 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Of this quick and dangerous adventure — 
 My coming here — may derogate the vant- 
 age 
 Of our prince, the which I fairly doubt, 
 I still must further in the course 
 I have for myself prescribed. 
 My present purpose which stirs not indeed 
 With vital element of general good 
 Yet finds a mother-wing in the state's. 
 'Tis that my heart is too much charged 
 
 with grief 
 To suffer me the ease of proper answer 
 Or excuse for my behavior, which makes 
 
 you 
 Such lame comforters. 
 Dohlgrin. Who doubts not in his own perform- 
 ances, 
 He need not answer any. 
 Esmund, you have lost yourself in your own 
 
 desires, 
 And forgotten us ! 
 Esmund. Ah, no! To forget would take away 
 the pain. 
 'Tis the more remembered, and therefore 
 Grief the more extenuated. 
 If mine* be waywardness in your conceit, 
 I cannot help. Here's the principle: 
 Poor reason is strong affection's fool, 
 And strong affection ever to her will 
 Doth twist the frail ligaments of things 
 And qualities, careless of circumstances. 
 Dohlgrin. There's the harm! 
 
 By such a disposition, do you not alone 
 Not assist the cause but help to drag it down. 
 
ACT IV 137 
 
 Can you then find it in you to excuse 
 
 A wrong so loudly imminent to — to the 
 
 whole ! 
 It is plain you jumped consideration 
 When you threw yourself away on private 
 
 wrongs, 
 Neglecting ours. 
 
 Do you intend that to elicit sympathy? 
 Esmund. {Hurt.) Dohlgrin, speak not to me! 
 'Tis well to censure when there's no regret. 
 What, so circumstanced as I am now, 
 Would you have done? Done other? 1 
 
 doubt it much; 
 I would not wish upon you a moiety of my 
 
 cares 
 Even should it teach you fellow-feeling. 
 
 {Turning to Royce.) 
 Royce, you are silent. May it be 
 Resentment in your heart is too full for 
 
 words, 
 Or is it that you understand death's grief 
 And respect its distractions? I take that, 
 
 rather, 
 And see in your silence an allowance 
 For the spirit of revenge, which, if denied, 
 Must pluck at the heart's root ever. 
 Royce. Dohlgrin, forego. 
 
 We ought allow for that degree of selfish- 
 ness 
 Which is in every man. So, likewise, 
 The strength of habit and affection 
 Must be known and understood ere we 
 Can undertake to find exception, 
 And presume the anger of our hearts 
 
138 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Upon another. 
 
 Besides, revenge, when not the unsuspected 
 art 
 
 That does in secrecy, deserves a with-thought 
 here. 
 
 But where it is the quick and brave confes- 
 sion 
 
 Of a hurt, deeper than reason's reach, 
 
 And beyond its medicine, then even 
 
 It claims a nearness to justification. 
 Dohlgrin. I'm not so much against him, that 
 you know, 
 
 As he is from us. But this you must confess : 
 
 By his revenge our cause suffers neglect. 
 
 If Esmund would bear with us as we with 
 him, 
 
 He would release vengeance from his own 
 hand 
 
 And entrust it to that Greater One, 
 
 Which knows to mete out knowingly and 
 when. 
 Esmund. Not so! Not so! Myself and I my- 
 self! 
 
 All else — too slow! Nor will I let Time, 
 
 That joins again the little broken weft- 
 threads 
 
 Of our lives; that heals the wound, and 
 makes 
 
 Of great grief, a careless memory, 
 
 Steal away from me the precious fires 
 
 Living here. 
 Royce. Peace, Dohlgrin! To say more is to 
 say too much. 
 
 We cannot take away this care of cares; 
 
ACT IV 139 
 
 Add to it, we should not. {Enter Dolor a.) 
 There's his sister. 
 Dohlgrin. Oh, look not, Royce! 
 Royce. Ten times his heart must break and 
 
 break at this! 
 
 Esmund. Oh, pity! pity! Thou hast not tears 
 
 enough 
 
 To drown this spectacle. This is my sister! 
 
 Where's despair can measure out my grief, 
 
 And describe me full? When they have 
 
 known 
 This too too sorry sight, mine eyes 
 Have seen enough. Dolora, oh sweet sister ! 
 Speak to me! Say that you remember! 
 Say that from your mind's rich coronet, 
 The dearest gem, the radiant source-light 
 Of the soul, has not been ta'en away. 
 
 {Esmund removes mask.) 
 Dolora. You speak to me, sir. What will you? 
 Esmund. I speak to you, Dolora, yet you know 
 me not! 
 Friends, she knows me not! 
 Is there no way to reach her complete soul 
 Other than the transit of her mind 
 Which now's obstructed with a thousand 
 
 memories 
 Hopelessly confused? 
 Dolora. Faith, sir, I know you not, how can I? 
 I do entreat you to let me pass. Frail things wither. 
 The elm outlives a thousand lilies. The roses die 
 before their colors go. Faith, faith, what's sweet is 
 not lasting. But is not the poetry of the breeze 
 sweeter than the music of the stormwind? Will 
 you let me go? There will be feasting to-night 
 
i 4 o MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 where everything is forgot. A few mad souls will 
 wave their cups high in the air, and hosts and hosts, 
 with pale and envious lips, who always dress the 
 feast, will serve to them — look on, but never par- 
 take. 
 
 Esmund. What vast thoughts are there, raveled 
 up! 
 
 Dolor a. My duty's to my lord. Thither is my 
 heart gone. I must follow. Why do they keep him 
 from me? 
 
 Esmund. Alas, she loved him even to the doom 
 of reason! Oh, why do the best of us forsake so 
 soon the world, and leave it to the ravages of the 
 rest? 
 
 Dolor a. Ever have I loved him, but he was 
 cruel, and led me to this. 
 
 Esmund. To this? To what! {Clutches at 
 her arm.) 
 
 Dolor a. Why do you hurt my hand? I know 
 not to "what". Why do you frown upon me? Will 
 you let the phrase mar the sentence? Who are 
 you? 
 
 Esmund. Who am I! I! Oh, rather were 
 thy poor lips sealed, Dolora, than yielding of 
 such words. I am not wrong; Melmoth was the 
 all-cause. (To Royce and Dohlgrin.) Do speak 
 to her, my lords. Perhaps in you she may recall 
 herself. 
 
 Royce. How do you, madam? 
 
 Dolora. Do! Do! Do! This is a world of 
 flies. (To Royce.) Methinks I've seen you be- 
 fore. 
 
 Royce. Even madam; it was in your brother 
 Esmund's company. You must remember. 
 
ACT IV 141 
 
 Dolora. That was so long ago. Ah, so long ago ! 
 {They adjust their masks.) 
 Enter Cedrielle. 
 
 (Perceiving Cedrielle.) Why does she follow 
 me? I know no rest nor peace. Fly boy, ho boy, 
 now I must away. (Esmund attempts to detain 
 her.) 
 
 Cedrielle. Do not detain her, my lord. She 
 becomes ungentle when crossed. Let her go which 
 way she pleases. — Was ever heart so tried? 
 
 (Exit Dolora with Cedrielle, following.) 
 
 Esmund. (To Cedrielle.) Madam, a while, I 
 pray. Do you attend upon her? 
 
 Cedrielle. Yes, my lord, day and night. 
 
 Esmund. What is the temper of her weakness? 
 
 Cedrielle. She is given to wandering through 
 the palace — 
 
 Esmund. Just so? 
 
 Cedrielle. In the hope that she may chance 
 upon the king. 
 
 Esmund. Aha! You see, my lords? — 
 
 Cedrielle. But when within his sight, alarmed, 
 she quickly hides herself, that he may not perceive 
 her. Thus does she all day. At night, exhausted by 
 her restlessness, she falls into a sleep which is neither 
 sleep nor waking. 
 
 Esmund. I thank you. (To Royce and Dohl- 
 grin, hopelessly.) Why, she is beyond recall! 
 
 Cedrielle. Were her brother here to speak to 
 her — 
 
 Esmund. Nay, that's unavailing. 
 
 Cedrielle. Such things occur they say. 
 
 Esmund. So rarely that it but torments the 
 hope wasted on it. 
 
i 4 2 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Who can renew a pattern of such excel- 
 lence ? 
 Cedrielle. But I must follow her, sirs, else she 
 will come to harm. (Exit.) 
 
 Esmund. Oh, friends, at times life's worth a 
 world, 
 And at times, not a throw's hazard. But 
 
 what is't 
 That makes us cling to it even when sorrow 
 Sits upon the heart and madness rends it? 
 I should be mine own deliverer, 
 Ending it all with this — {Dagger.) But 
 
 there's a cause 
 Keeps me yet a while; that encompassed, 
 Makes death slight. But to stand is to idle. 
 I'll seek and find him now. 
 Dohlgrin. You need not; there he is himself. 
 Esmund. Where? Aha! Why has the first 
 glance been denied me? (Enter Melmoth and Pel- 
 las.) What's now to live or to die? There's that 
 will satisfy all longing. Villain! How have you 
 killed my sister! O, I could drink thy blood, started 
 by this minister of death, faster than thy wounds 
 could spill it forth. 
 
 (Royce, Dohlgrin and Esmund remove their 
 masks. ) 
 
 Fellas. Treason, treason! Ho! 
 
 Dohlgrin. Old fool, be silent. 
 
 Esmund. You, great king, might have known 
 
 that such an hour was sure. Come now. Rest your 
 
 fortunes upon your sword. Make yourself terrible 
 
 as the Bengal Cat, the Lernean hydra! Yea, be like 
 
 the knotted oak, and I will run you thru the readier. 
 
 Melmoth. Esmund, put away your sword. 
 
ACT IV 143 
 
 Knew you the futility of your threats 
 
 You would make less of them. 
 
 Be undeceived. There is that strength in 
 
 me, 
 Unclaimed by nature and so opposite to use, 
 It could make mockery of a world. 
 Mercy was rarely mine. 
 If now 'tis time to show, be happy. Pellas, 
 follow me. 
 Royce. Nay, then, we must oppose you. 
 Dohlgrin. First here, my lord. 
 Pellas. What more, still more? 
 Esmund. Villainy hath more than one justicer. 
 Melmoth. (To Royce and Dohlgrin.) You are 
 his friends. I forgive your insolence as I forgive his 
 charge. (To Royce.) You, sir, I have remem- 
 brance of you. You do not honor my court so much 
 of late. 
 
 Royce. The turbulent state of matters here and 
 abroad have kept us keen on duty. 
 
 Melmoth. Excellent, excellent. Your wit should 
 make you frown upon your age. 
 
 Esmund. An end! An end! Why do you 
 measure words? There's nothing comes of that. 
 Will you draw, or must I bear away with me the 
 sin of murder? 
 
 Melmoth. Then there's choice not left to me 
 but yield 
 The satisfaction you desire. I can almost 
 Appreciate the election of the mind 
 When it seeks to locate the germ 
 Of its affliction here. 
 Esmund. Enough of words! My sword sweats 
 in my hand ! 
 
144 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 The argument of the tongue is stale ! I love 
 the argument of arms. 
 (Royce and Dohlgrin go to either door, and stand 
 guard with drawn swords.) 
 
 Melmoth. (Draws.) Is life so little that 'tis 
 thrown away so carelessly? (They join.) 
 
 And life's possibilities, (They fight.) — greater — 
 (Fending.) greater than death's promise, — a fume 
 — a fume — blown away — thus! (Hits Esmund _, who 
 falls.) 
 
 Royce and Dohlgrin. Esmund, you are wound- 
 ed. (They run over.) 
 
 Esmund. Nay, I am killed. Oh, friends, fare- 
 well. (Dies.) 
 
 Royce. Farewell, sweet Esmund; woe survives 
 
 thee! 
 Melmoth. He chose this hour from Time's great 
 calendar 
 To be his last. He died himself. This 
 
 world, (Signifying Esmund.) 
 
 With all its fond and cherished make-believes, 
 Is at an end. It might have yet revolved, 
 And yet be seen in its customary orbit 
 But for this chance. Tis fallen now. It will 
 No more be known, sung or thought of. 
 The promethean fire is out. 
 (To Royce and Dohlgrin.) You, sirs, his near- 
 est friends, take up the body and give it grace. For 
 your own selves, depart this kingdom in the free- 
 dom of a day. Be well in mind of this. (Exeunt 
 Melmoth and Fellas.) 
 
 Royce. (To Esmund.) Dear friend, farewell. 
 Dohlgrin cover him. 
 Lest the look within his fading eyes 
 
ACT IV 145 
 
 Accuse us with their glassy stare. 
 How stood we all composed to see our friend, 
 Most dear to us, fall before our eyes! 
 Dohlgrin. Better to have stood aside than to 
 have jumped 
 Upon a folly. Adieu! Adieu! Perhaps 'tis 
 
 better so; 
 Who knows? 
 
 The shadow and largeness of his calamity 
 Would from his spirit, ne'er have passed 
 
 away, 
 Lived he yet. 
 Enter Berkeley and Brabant, triumphantly. 
 Berkeley. All hail, comrades, heaven smiles 
 upon us most serenely ! (Suddenly.) Royce! Dohl- 
 grin! What have we here! 
 
 Brabant. (Over Esmund.) My God! Esmund's 
 murdered ! 
 
 Berkeley. Oh, say not so! 
 Royce. Alas, good friends, see but for your- 
 selves. 
 
 Berkeley. Oh, most pitiful sight! How came 
 this to be done? 
 
 Dohlgrin. He was slain most royally — by Mel- 
 moth's hand. Nigh crazed by his terrible misfor- 
 tune, Esmund came himself to seek revenge. This 
 is the sad result. 
 
 Berkeley. There is a time for death. It was 
 not now. For duty and past allegiance he should 
 have lived to see his efforts crowned. 
 Brabant. Shall we take him hence? 
 Royce. Yes. Take him up. In all our hearts 
 he shall remain a loving memory. And now — what 
 news, Brabant? 
 
i 4 6 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Brabant. To-night we must away; and while 
 revelry is highest in the court, we leave Elsmere be- 
 hind us, to return only with the prince. 
 
 Curtain 
 
ACT V 
 
 Scene I. — Dolora's Bedchamber. Dolora asleep. 
 Discovered Margaret, Cedrielle and Physician. 
 
 Cedrielle. Well, doctor? 
 
 Physician. The indications of her condition, as 
 I see them, cannot belie their exact nature. 
 
 Cedrielle. Is there not a last hope for her recov- 
 ery? I do beseech you. 
 
 Physician. No, madam. 
 
 Cedrielle. Nay, there must be, else you make 
 the use of your art a thing to laugh at. 
 
 Physician. Madam, I am a physician. You need 
 not urge your dissatisfaction at my advice to a point 
 of disrespect. What is beyond my art, is beyond 
 my power — consider that. 
 
 Cedrielle. Then cannot she be helped ? Are you 
 certain of it? Does faith go no farther than your 
 salves and antidotes that strive into the flesh only, 
 which knows not to resist? Is there no truer ano- 
 dyne, no surpreme touch that can renew the mind? 
 Indulge me but this hope. 
 
 Physician. I'm sorry, madam, I'm neither 
 prophet nor wizard; then expect not of me to exert 
 their extraordinary powers; you charge me too 
 severely, ay, too severely! {Going.) 
 
 Cedrielle. If I do, be patient with me. Grief 
 makes forget the courtesy of the tongue. But 
 you, sir, speak rather in sympathy than like one 
 who looks upon this failing flesh with the brave 
 and unprevisionary eye of science, and sees in all 
 147 ' 
 
i 4 S MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 matter, obedience to disease and remedy ; in all things, 
 change and decay. 
 
 Physician. I can do no more than take away the 
 pain when I have found the cause of it. Diseases 
 of the body are known to me — these I can influ- 
 ence; but diseases of the mind, when they are of 
 such abstruse character, are peculiar to the under- 
 standing. They may, forsooth, be healed by con- 
 viction as those of the spirit by faith. 
 
 Cedrielle. Alas, sir, where is the power to 
 endow her with faith or conviction when the power 
 to accept either is gone? 
 
 Physician. Then, madam, if you are a believer, 
 must you confide her to His wonders. Often have 
 they occurred to embarrass the methods of science. 
 On that behalf, we cannot say with certainty of 
 anything, 'it is so', or 'this will be' or 'this or that 
 must follow'. For sureness assured in a truth, may 
 be rooted in error. The most practiced not infre- 
 quently go wide in their speculations; yet for my 
 own part, in the instance of our present patient, I 
 cannot offer to encourage a hope for her recovery, 
 feeling it to be ungrounded. 
 
 Cedrielle. Then God must show his mercy. 
 
 Physician. Amen. Amen. {Goes out.) 
 
 Cedrielle. Were there no miracles before this 
 hour, there must be now. ( Walks over to the bed. ) 
 
 (To Margaret.) Has she yet stirred? 
 
 Margaret. Soon after you were gone, madam, 
 she did toss about as in great pain. She moaned 
 and muttered; called up bits of conversation, scenes 
 and names, which I could not make intelligible. 
 Then she fell into a sleep, unbroken since. Do you 
 think, madam, does her ailment give cause for 
 
ACT V 149 
 
 anxiety. 
 
 Cedrielle. Too much, too much, alas! 
 Margaret. How tended the words of the phy- 
 sician ? 
 
 Cedrielle. They were unassuring, and left me 
 less with hope than with sorrow. 
 Margaret. So ill? 
 
 Cedrielle. So hopeless ill. Were it but a tu- 
 mor, a disorder of the blood, an affection of the 
 heart — soft, she stirs! 
 
 Margaret. Do you think she will awaken? 
 Cedrielle. Perhaps 'tis her fever racks her so. 
 This may be her rest until the last. 
 Oh that her sleep were tranquil! and the 
 
 pillow 
 Whereon her angel head is laid, less fevered 
 With the dreams of him that has forsaken 
 
 her. 
 Art thou the sweet Dolora, lying so low; 
 The early flower that blithely followed 
 
 Spring 
 Her briefest season? 
 
 Oh bitter world, that like the Minotaur, 
 Appeases itself with the dearest and love- 
 liest ; 
 Or like hungry Cronus, devours the best 
 Of its own creation. 
 Margaret. She wakes, madam. 
 Dolora. {Awaking.) Cedrielle? 
 Cedrielle. Sweet madam? 
 
 Dolora. Help me to raise myself. What hour 
 is it, do you know? 
 
 Cedrielle. Near to evening, madam. 
 Dolora. So it is. How's your cheer? 
 
150 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Cedrielle. Little better than your own. 
 
 Dolora. Alas! alas! You should have a phy- 
 sician. Their drugs and simples can chide our 
 blood into behavior. {Observing Margaret.) 
 Who's this near me? Ill omens, again? So, so, 
 I'm eager; prithee come here. 
 
 Margaret. It is only I, dear madam. Do you 
 wish for anything? 
 
 Dolora. Boy, say to whom thou bringest news. 
 Messengers, like coaches, ofttimes serve for the dead 
 or the over-merry. I have not had a messenger so 
 long, he's ancient in mine eyes. What have you 
 there? (To Cedrielle.) What's the matter, why 
 this puling? Why this taking on? If my eyes bear 
 me true witness, Cedrielle, thine are moist. 
 
 Cedrielle. If thou wouldst understand my grief, 
 dear friend, I would not need to grieve. Nothing, 
 oh Dolora, nothing in the catalogue of great mis- 
 fortunes should have attained to the wrecking of 
 your life. Why was it so? 
 
 Dolora. Let me see the occasioner of your grief. 
 'Tis smoke, I bank, and will into the air. ( To 
 Margaret.) Here, boy, is thy reward. 
 
 Margaret. Harmony and discord both find a 
 chorus here! Madam, do you know me? 
 
 Dolora. To forget is the saddest thing in the 
 world, but what's sadder than to know that one 
 must forget? 
 
 Cedrielle. Oh, woe is me! 
 
 Dolora. (Mockingly.) Oh, woe is me! Why 
 do you confound me with your laments ? You make 
 my head to whirl. Why do you say that I am mad ? 
 I'll show thee. Bid me count the days of the week, 
 the months of the year; bid me calculate; put to me 
 
ACT V 151 
 
 questions and problems that are known to perplex 
 old men, and you'll receive most proper answer. Nay, 
 I'll tell thee thy lover's name. (In warning tones.) 
 Of him be cautious! Come here, by me. 
 
 (Cedrielle and Margaret sit down on her bed.) 
 Lay his sword between you, when you lie at his 
 side. Men will want thee till they get thee, and 
 thou art nothing, when they have known thee. Do 
 not cast yourself in the survey of men, for therein 
 lies no safety. 
 
 Cedrielle. Thy wisdom comes too late, alas! 
 
 Dolora. The laws of love are so exacting! They 
 rob us of our wisdom and our sleep and make the 
 proudest of us, willing slaves. 
 
 Margaret. (To Cedrielle.) If this be madness, 
 what quality is't we call reason? 
 
 Dolora. Fetch me my jewel-box. 
 
 Margaret. Your jewel-box? 
 
 Cedrielle. Make no ado, go get it. (Margaret 
 goes to drawer.) 
 
 Dolora. So the world seems fashioned; they 
 that comfort have no reward; they are dearest to 
 us, we love them most, for whom we suffer and en- 
 dure the most. (Margaret returns with the jewel- 
 box.) The lustre of a jewel is in the eye; the 
 fragrance of a flower is in the sense; music is 
 sweetest when the heart is sad. (Takes the box.) 
 
 Cedrielle. Reason unreasonably uttered! What 
 hope is there that shall sustain us now? 
 
 Dolora. This brooch was brilliant once; now, 
 no more. When was it given me, do I recall? 
 Take them away! Take them away! Jewels with- 
 out memory are like thoughts without affection, 
 friendship without duty, kisses without love; like 
 
152 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 letters whose sender is forgotten. 
 
 {Falls back upon her bed, exhausted.) 
 Go, let me rest, let me rest. Let me sleep till all is 
 unremembered and over. (Sleeps.) 
 Margaret. Madam, shall I go? 
 Cedrielle. Do, Margaret — of what fabric is my 
 heart that it does not break? Margaret? 
 Margaret. Yes ? 
 
 Cedrielle. Prepare what comforts have been pre- 
 scribed. You have heard the physician ? 
 Margaret. Yes, madam. 
 Cedrielle. Then go and make haste. 
 Margaret. Yes, madam. (Exit.) (Cedrielle 
 draws bed curtain.) 
 
 Enter Melmoth. 
 Cedrielle. What, is Melmoth here! 
 Melmoth. Soft! Unbrace not unto this air a 
 name 
 That must weight it down. Let her not 
 
 hear it. 
 (Turns to Dolora.) I thought, 
 That though she came with blood upon her 
 
 brow 
 Like an accusing angel, pointing upward, 
 Asking why, I'd know her not. 
 Cedrielle. Oh, king, were thy name the very 
 echo of these walls, and these echoes were alive, it 
 would no more startle her from that slumber, fast 
 sinking into the last. Once the thought of thee 
 alone gave vital breath; now even thy semblance 
 must be a perturbation to her sense. If you have 
 come to triumph at this fall, be sure in that you've 
 triumphed; for mischief never aspired to excellence 
 above this. But if you come repentant, pause here 
 
ACT V 153 
 
 and weep. Yet should you turn the streams of all 
 the world to salt, and that to tears, you will not 
 have enough. 
 
 Mehnoth. {Shaking his head.) Tears are not 
 for great sorrows that make men silent. 
 Rather for the hurts and thousand ordinary 
 
 pangs 
 That visit our lives. 
 
 'Tis the ready tear that fills a little grief 
 And washes it away. But the best tear, 
 As tribute to a deep and precious sorrow, 
 Remains a debt. {To Cedrielle.) 
 I cannot weep. 
 
 Yet if I could, and tears contained my grief, 
 They would overrun their swollen channels 
 
 faster 
 Than these eyes could suffer them. But 
 
 strong men 
 Must not weep howe'er the heart crack 
 With exceeding emotion. 
 Cedrielle. What vessel so overcharged, does not 
 spill itself ? But no, your heart is the Aegean marble 
 to which the melting rays of pity never penetrate. 
 Approach on thy knees, king, if thou hast it in thy 
 courage to approach her, as thou hadst it in thy 
 heart to madden her. 
 
 Melmoth. Judge me, thou Great Innocence! 
 Cedrielle. Fools cry to heaven when they grow 
 wise, and wise men when they grow foolish. Judge 
 yourself, Melmoth, and you will know that your 
 crime was great as it was terrible. 
 
 Mehnoth. Ay. Greater it could not have been. 
 There was a time when I could paint my 
 grief 
 
154 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 In bitter moods, in heavy silence, in words, 
 Sometimes, in tears. But now, there's noth- 
 ing. 
 Cedrielle. Why have you come, then? Like the 
 Vandal, to look upon the temple he has desecrated? 
 Melmoth. Ay, and to suffer looking at it. 
 Cedrielle. Then look till you are pale and sick 
 at the thought of yourself. {Draws aside bed-cur- 
 tain.) Look, till aught that's good in your small 
 nature, is warped and shriveled up, and becomes 
 afraid. 
 
 Melmoth. Oh that mine eyes were spared a sad- 
 der sight! 
 Sleep, Dolora, for in consciousness 
 Thou must despise me. Yet if thou wouldst 
 
 know 
 Why Melmoth thrust thee from him when 
 
 he craved 
 Thee most, and avoided thy dear presence 
 When, in avoiding thee, he bled his soul, 
 Neglectful of the point of death, thou 
 Wouldst be one in all this world to show 
 
 him 
 Sympathy. ( Pause. ) 
 
 Oh where shall I find words half eloquent 
 Of my emotion! I can only speak, speak, 
 
 speak, 
 Till the throat is dry and the tongue refuses 
 
 me 
 Its function. {Dolora awakes.) 
 
 {Melmoth hides his face.) 
 Nay, nay, 
 
 Gaze not upon me with that innocence 
 Which pleads with mute and tender accusa- 
 
ACT V 155 
 
 tion. 
 Rather see the violence and the waste 
 Within this vault, but that — that, thou canst 
 not! 
 Dolor a. We are not so fond as to take each man 
 seriously. Kindness is folly. Wise men die, but 
 fools never. Why hast thou come so late in the 
 night, Melmoth? 
 
 Melmoth. Why have I awakened so late in the 
 night, Dolora? Why did I fail the dawn? I look- 
 ed to opposite shores, and stars that paled. 
 
 Dolora. Why hast thou forsaken me, Melmoth? 
 Melmoth. Why have I forsaken myself, Do- 
 lora? 
 
 Dolora. They say that sinners who repent are 
 holier than the saints. He is better far. There's a 
 lily on his brow and a lily in his hand. Why was 
 the way so long, Melmoth? Why was the way 
 so long? 
 
 Melmoth. (Passionately.) Oh, my Dolora! 
 If thou hadst power left for comprehension, 
 And thy dear heart were stern as adamant, 
 And I had words as mild as thy sweet bosom, 
 That thou might'st hear a madman's tale, and 
 
 live, 
 I would disclose to thee my bosom's secret. 
 (Falls upon her bed.) 
 Enter Fellas and Officers. 
 Cedrielle. What! Even in this sanctuary, sirs! 
 Fellas. Your pardon — 
 
 First Officer. What shall we do? The news 
 is precious. 
 
 Second Officer. He should be instantly in- 
 formed. 
 
156 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Pellas. My lords, be pleased to wait without. 
 Trust me to acquaint him. 
 
 First Officer. Impress him with the immediate 
 nature of our tidings. Report to him that rumors 
 have come down to us by divers means, warning 
 the rapid approach of John on Elsmere; that there 
 is command for preparation. 
 
 Pellas. I will. {Exeunt Officers.) {After hesi- 
 tating — to Melmouth.) My lord. {No answer.) 
 My lord. 
 
 Melmoth. {Rising from bed and turning des- 
 perately to Pellas.) Pellas! Pellas! 
 
 Pellas. {Confused.) My lord, — the state's afire! 
 
 Melmoth. Let it burn! Let havoc come with- 
 out as it has come within! 
 
 Pellas. I bid your grace — 
 
 Melmoth. Not here! Not here! Speak to me 
 without — {Turns appealingly to Cedrielle.) Cedri- 
 elle — I'm on the breast of confusion. Oh, this hath 
 no climax! It is the prelude to the end. And I 
 could end it too, but that self-release, which dis- 
 claims the immortal spirit, makes nothing of great 
 woe, and I would feed on it. 
 
 Cedrielle. {Understanding^ as Melmoth and 
 Pellas go out.) Oh, my gracious lord! 
 Curtain 
 
 Scene 2. A path in the King's Forest. Music 
 and laughter are heard from the distance. Mas- 
 quer aders passing. 
 
 Enter De Forest, Edwin and Steele. 
 Steele. Our coming here to-night well-nigh 
 amounts to an adventure. Set well your masks. Es- 
 
ACT V 157 
 
 mund's death may lead to our discovery. 
 
 Edwin. Were we less chivalrous — 
 
 Steele. You mean, were we less assinine — 
 
 De Forest. (Abruptly.) Were you less the 
 fools, you would not speak of this now. 
 
 Steele. Humph. 
 
 Edwin. Humph. 
 
 De Forest. If we did assist in Esmund's libera- 
 tion, we thought not of his death. No one knows 
 of our part in the affair and 'twill be but through 
 the folly of our own lips that any shall. He was 
 our friend. 'Twas nothing wrong to aid him. 
 
 Steele. Henry's right, after all, eh, Edwin? We 
 always held that regrets have long tails and small 
 heads; in fact, they are miserable companions. I say, 
 let us look rather to the promise of the evening and 
 make merry. 
 
 Enter other masqueraders, singing. 
 
 Edwin. Here's a junket company, a full night, 
 music and a Bacchanalian atmosphere. 
 
 Steele. And women, the dearest things on God's 
 gay world ! 
 
 De Forest. It seems to me, the spirit's taken the 
 age by the horns. 
 
 Steele. Hear their shouts and laughter! It 
 makes my heart young again. 
 
 Edwin. Romance never had a fitter dwelling- 
 place than this. 
 
 Steele. La, sol, fa, me, do! If I could count 
 my age by my gaiety, I would lose half my years. 
 Come away, away. 
 
 De Forest. Bear memory of our costumes, Rich- 
 ard, else you'll lose us. 
 
 Steele. I'll know you more easily by your bellies, 
 
158 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 which, alas, are so pretentious, they cannot help be- 
 tray you. And as to losing you, dear Henry, that 
 would indeed be too great a stroke of fortune. In 
 truth, I cannot lose you. 
 
 Enter several Courtiers, hastily. 
 
 De Forest. What's the matter, friends? This 
 festive night is not in harmony with your com- 
 plexion. 
 
 Steele. (To Courtiers.) You should drain a 
 cup to chase the pallor from it. 
 
 Edwin. But what's the matter? Tell us. 
 
 Courtier. The world should weep; alas, a fool 
 is dead. 
 
 De Forest. Nothing else? There are so many of 
 them living, we make nothing of them, dead. 
 
 Second Courtier. But this fool's found when he 
 is lost. On the approach, a pretty distance away, 
 we chanced upon the lifeless, self-handled body of 
 the court jester. 
 
 All. What do you say? — Splinters? 
 
 First Courtier. None other. 
 
 All. How came he by his death? 
 
 First Courtier. Out of great respect for him- 
 self he hanged himself. We had him borne away 
 to wait the evening's end, lest the news of his sui- 
 cide interfere with the pleasures. Meanwhile we 
 shall to the king to inform him of it. 
 
 Masquerader. Why did he hang himself? 
 
 Another Masquerader. Why do fools do things? 
 Because they lack wisdom to let them alone. But in 
 truth, I heard say, the king defied him to it. 
 
 Third Masquerader. On what account? 
 
 Another Masquerader. I'm unaware. There's 
 
ACT V 159 
 
 more annexed to this than we shall ever know. 
 
 Fourth Masquerader. Splinters was to be the 
 life and spirit of this evening. Without him we 
 cannot anticipate so much. 
 
 Curtain 
 
 Scene 3. King's Forest. Arranged for a Mas- 
 que. Flowers strewn upon the ground. Varied 
 colored lanterns hang upon the trees. Music is 
 heard. Throne of flowers to right, front of stage. 
 Discovered Masqueraders, dancing. De Forest, 
 alone. Enter to him a Masquerader. 
 
 Masquerader. De Forest? 
 
 De Forest. Oh, say, I am discovered! 
 
 Masquerader. What, alone in this gay com- 
 pany? 
 
 De Forest. Better than alone. 
 
 Masquerader. Then with your thoughts. 
 
 De Forest. Ay, but they are dreary fellows 
 to-night. 
 
 Masquerader. Strange, for they are seldom so. 
 
 De Forest. More strange they are not ever so. 
 The eye must be shut against the world that the 
 heart may permit itself a pleasure. 
 
 Masquerader. You are morose. Where's the 
 cause? I'd marvel not if I could find it there! 
 (Pointing to women in the crowd.) 
 
 De Forest. This once you are at fault. How 
 make you of this night, friend ? Is there not some- 
 thing unreal about it all? Things over much lean- 
 ing against things without construction? These 
 colored lights, this fitful music, see, these moving 
 figures, and then tragedy behind them, more 
 
i6o MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 real than their lives — what does it mean? What 
 shall we make of it? When the night is wasted, 
 each creeps back to a stale and lonely bed, and 
 thinks on the buried scene with that terrible empti- 
 ness of soul, which great events, the surfeit of un- 
 realities, ever bring on. Even as on the stage, 
 where the brilliants are glass; fire, paint; swords, 
 tinsel ; so here and so everywhere. In a little while 
 these trees will again be joined to their quietude and 
 not a solitary echo remain to tell of this night's 
 dream. (Pause.) 
 
 Masquerader. Where's the profit of thinking 
 when it grieves? Let wise men weep and fools 
 enjoy their pleasures. Let us go thither. 
 
 De Forest. (With abandon.) Ay. Let's away 
 into the swirl! We'll ride the bubble while 'tis 
 blown to burst with it. Let the fretting world go 
 hang, the furies take to-morrow. 
 
 Masquerader. We'll have our wine and song in 
 spite of it. (They mingle with the others.) 
 Enter Melmoth and Fellas. 
 Melmoth. Let not my entrance interrupt the 
 dance. 
 You have my welcome, all the company. 
 See to the evening and its possibilities. 
 Each follow out his own, and all in all, 
 Unite to make it pleasant. 
 
 (Dance is resumed.) 
 
 (Melmoth and Fellas go down stage — near 
 
 to the throne.) Pellas, I fear I am 
 
 doomed. 
 
 Fellas. My lord, I fear I never understand you. 
 
 Melmoth. No. It is a deep doom that drags 
 
 to beyond death, and there the unutterable com- 
 
ACT V 161 
 
 mencement, that puzzling state which lets not the 
 wit of man. But I do hold it nothing. It is a 
 fear, that being familiar with it, I am grown to 
 neglect. 
 
 Pellas. I'm troubled much, I cannot understand 
 you, nor the least of what you say. Ever is it 
 thus: to my most direct questioning you give me 
 answer in such special terms, it puzzles me. But 
 one need not, I know, understand to sympathize. 
 
 Melmoth. Ay, one need not. Sympathy lives 
 not in the understanding. It dwells in the ever 
 widening circle of our lives and we around it. Erst- 
 while I thought, that to feel with grief was to pity 
 error. But I would err sweetly, time not in telling, 
 if so 'twould bring me sympathy — that universal 
 bond — or do whatever, if that earned more of it. 
 Pellas, once I was strong; once there was a time 
 when I could pit myself against all laws that na- 
 ture cracks of, and yet prevail. Now I cannot even 
 against the least of them. 
 
 Enter several Courtiers. They approach Mel- 
 moth. 
 
 First Courtier. My lord, — 
 
 Melmoth. Well? 
 
 First Courtier. We come with news of such a 
 kind, we know not how you'll take it, well or ill. 
 Ourselves are sad over it. Splinters is dead, and 
 apparently by his own hand removed. 
 
 Pellas. Splinters, dead? 
 
 Melmoth. Strange was his life as the departing 
 it. Had I true learning of the man in him, I were 
 now less bitterly taught. (To Courtiers.) Where 
 did you come upon his form? 
 
 Courtier. In his majesty's own forest. 
 
162 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Melmoth. That is so. Are there many days 
 since this occurred ? 
 
 Courtier. Earlier than yesterday, surely, or the 
 day before. 
 
 Second Courtier. The body may have lain there 
 several days, my lord. 
 
 First Courtier. Ay, perhaps three or four. 
 
 Melmoth. Stay now, stay now — three or four? 
 
 Second Courtier. Or five. 
 
 Melmoth. That's better. Always is death a 
 reproach to memory; it wounds where it reminds. 
 Living I could not conceive him so well as now. 
 He failed not. He was a man, more normal in 
 his nature, more noble in his madness, than many 
 in their endurance. I loved him better than I knew. 
 {Clamor zuithout.) Who are those that come with 
 such bold clamor to break up this night? 
 
 Enter from up stage, in haste, St. Francis, 
 Officers of the Army, and others. 
 
 (To St. Francis.) What moral's in this noise 
 beside your own? 
 
 St. Francis. (Holding up a paper.) My lord — 
 
 Melmoth. When I would be away from the 
 tumult of the world, the hang and shift of affairs — 
 
 St. Francis. (Flaunting the paper.) My lord! 
 
 Melmoth. They come upon me with contracts, 
 forms, demands and such formalities — instruments 
 devised for one another's harm — that they draw 
 upon my patience. What will you? 
 
 St. Francis. My lord, we almost envy words 
 the time we waste on them. Now there is no tarry- 
 ing. Fate waits without our very walls. The base 
 Pretender, re-enforced with squadrons of the Aus- 
 trian and Prussian armies, lingers expectantly on the 
 
ACT V 163 
 
 break of next day's morn. The moment's now that 
 we must up in arms. 
 
 Melmoth. Be contained St. Francis. I am in- 
 different to your tidings. 
 
 St. Francis. Indifferent, my lord! Mistake me 
 not. I grieve to think that at this high impending 
 hour, when I should have your confidence in mat- 
 ters of the state, you take my purpose wrongly. 
 
 Melmoth. Do not speak to me! Let matters 
 be as near and dark as doom, such is my mood, 
 I'll not concern myself. The night is given over; 
 let nothing mar it! 
 
 St. Francis. Nothing mars it more than this 
 reply. (To Officers.) This is sheer madness, my 
 lords. 
 
 Melmoth. (Warningly.) Oh, Francis, the gods 
 you serve are false. Hurl them down to the dust 
 whence they've sprung. 
 
 St. Francis. You jest, my gracious lord. But 
 what a pretty time for banter! 
 
 Melmoth. Francis, beware! 
 
 St. Francis. (Turning to those about him.) 
 Comrades, ho! 
 
 Fellas. Francis, thou pursuest hotly thine own 
 perdition ! 
 
 St. Francis. Fie upon it all! Father you are 
 dull! See how the varying moods of kings will 
 plunge a world into ruin! Another day and we 
 shall have the Prussian gonfalons flaunted to our 
 faces, and Elsmere's auriflame, a bedraggled rag 
 for some proud Prussian cocks and traitor-knaves 
 to spit upon. But we'll not stand and wait to see 
 the assailing wave burst our dikes, rush in and over- 
 whelm us. (To Masquer aders.) Off with your 
 
i6 4 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 masks! Fling them away to the winds whose idle- 
 ness was but now in harmony with your own. This 
 is no time for play! Lovers of Elsmere, follow 
 me! Yet to-night, we'll see our lines arrayed for 
 defense. Our Country labors in her final pain — 
 to live or to die! {Going, and suddenly turning.) 
 Father, you stay behind? 
 
 Fellas. Francis, you step upon your honor. If 
 you go thus away, bear my curse away with you ! 
 
 St. Francis. Rest sure, father, I'll not fall by 't. 
 And as for him, — life and liberty are dearer to us 
 than many times that king. (All go out but Mel- 
 moth and Fellas.) 
 
 Melmoth. Pellas, of what quality is thy son? 
 
 Fellas. My lord, I'm punished in him. There 
 is no quality that he had not, but all were so per- 
 verted, that now one cannot tell the original good 
 in him. He was instructed well, my lord, but his 
 nature opposed. 
 
 Melmoth. How evenly does the little world 
 shadow forth the greater! (Satan appears dimly.) 
 What masquer is that that tarries? Did they 
 not go — all of them? 
 
 Pellas. Ay, all. I see no one. Where, my lord? 
 
 Melmoth. He is familiar. Nay, I know him. 
 Death to my soul! 
 
 Fellas. There's no one here, my lord. See for 
 yourself. 'Tis your mind's survey of its own 
 imaginings — nothing else. 
 
 Melmoth. He remembered to come. But why 
 so ragged, so meagre, so unattractive? I like him 
 not. He might have come in purple robes, a crown 
 upon his head, a victor! He might have pleased 
 me; he might have drawn upon the eye and still 
 
ACT V 165 
 
 engaged a fancy; but he is nothing now. The cap 
 is beggarly; the plume droops. Yet for this, I 
 scaled the world and mounted stars! 
 
 Pellas. Mad! Mad! Alas! 
 
 Melmoth. Ay, I know him well. Coming, he 
 comes well-timed. This is the unheroing of my 
 ambition, the fortunate collapse. Go, Pellas, give 
 space to my sight that I may see him only. 
 
 Pellas. {As he goes out.) Mad! Mad! {Satan 
 appears more distinct and approaches Melmoth.) 
 
 Satan. Well, Melmoth, we meet again. 
 
 Melmoth. Ay, but this is another day, Satan. 
 
 Satan. Yet it seems to me, looking upon you 
 {Pauses and regards Melmoth.) that the period of 
 time which has elapsed between our last meeting 
 and this, has wrought no change. You are the 
 same. 
 
 Melmoth. To say so is to reveal your dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 Satan. Still misfiguring yourself! Melmoth, 
 when will you awaken? 
 
 Melmoth. 'Tis you that sleep to my awakening. 
 My resurrection is come! 'Tis here; 'tis all about 
 me. I feel it in every living fibre of my frame. In 
 trying to further the evil in me, Satan, you have 
 brought forth the good. But tell me, why have you 
 come to-night? To spare me another effort? 
 
 Satan. Where's your once-devouring ambition, 
 Melmoth ? 
 
 Melmoth. I have flung it from me. Ambition's 
 for a time. 
 
 Satan. {Mockingly.) So it is, things of sweep 
 and altitude you drag down to the low level and 
 base of your despair, and in that moment, fail. Ha, 
 
1 66 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 ha. Well then, the time is come when we must 
 reach an understanding. 
 
 Melmoth. {Calmly.) I am satisfied. 
 
 Satan. Not sorry? 
 
 Melmoth. No, in faith, not sorry. 
 
 Satan. Except for yourself, of course. 
 
 Melmoth. No, no, not for myself even. I could 
 not ever say that I was happy. I say it now, with 
 the whole solid mass of this world melting like 
 a shadow before me. But tell me, is it really so 
 long we have not met? I forget, Satan, I forget. 
 How long? A week? A month? 
 
 Satan. Longer, longer, Melmoth. 
 
 Melmoth. But there is feeling that I've seen 
 and spoken to you often times before. 
 
 Satan. Your sick imagination, Melmoth; your 
 fear of me. 
 
 Melmoth. Nay, nay, it is not that. Once indeed 
 I feared you, but with the coming of conviction the 
 fear of you has left me. 
 
 Satan. Then, Melmoth, you have forgotten 
 what awaits you beyond. 
 
 Melmoth. I have not. But the light opened 
 up to my soul will equate whatever chastisement 
 written out for me. The other light — the thing 
 unattainable for which I craved, I crave not. Yet 
 even were I strong enough to make of it demand, 
 you could not answer me. This you were careful 
 to conceal; and I was foolish to believe that any 
 of your tribe could give of Knowledge and Power. 
 For truly, 'tis Heaven's alone. Satan, in your tri- 
 umph, I triumph with you, since in losing to you, 
 I have found myself. The power of evil has re- 
 vealed to me the power divine. I have learned that 
 
ACT V 167 
 
 there is more to this life than the merely living it. 
 I've realized the strength and beauty of the human 
 soul ; discovered in the lowest, in the most aberrant 
 of nature, the spark divine. But mistake not to 
 think, Satan, that I see you other than what you 
 are: the unhappy maker and minister of evil, who, 
 in the agony of his consciousness, must know that 
 all his efforts to destroy shall be as futile as the 
 ambitions of man ; who must know that, on the tab- 
 let of the universe, blood and fire write out his even- 
 tual doom. 
 
 Satan. Who are you that thus in this easy man- 
 ner accuse me? You, the groveling, hungering 
 figure of a man that, for the Monarchy of Self, made 
 great Satan create for him a world which he might 
 rule and abuse. You speak to me thus! You, 
 who for the satisfaction of a whim would roll to- 
 gether the heavens like a scroll and throw it into the 
 flames. 
 
 Melmoth. Enough, Satan! This was I once. 
 This am I no more. I have shuffled off the old coil. 
 
 Satan. Ha, you pass it off so slightly? Do you 
 purposely forget the consequence of your self-en- 
 slavement — the unnumbered misdeeds that trail 
 from your first acts to the end of age? See, you 
 have waged war, incited vengeance, encouraged 
 crime, murdered, and killed with weapons other 
 than mortal. But most were you abandoned, when 
 in the extreme of greed you strove against and 
 lost the thing you loved. 
 
 Melmoth. All that is passed; it cannot be again. 
 If I have left traces of crime behind me, by heaven, 
 they shall be cancelled. For I have risen to that 
 glorious height where I can find it in my heart to 
 
1 68 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 regret and feel redeemed. 
 
 Satan. That hardly clears you. But, in truth, 
 Melmoth, we've played so long together, I've grown 
 quite fond of you. Perhaps we may yet do a little 
 business. Who can tell? While Satan lives and 
 Melmoth lives, and there's a world between them — 
 
 Melmoth. I have done. 
 
 Satan. Done? To-day we are sure, fast, firm, 
 and formidable. To-morrow we are weak again. 
 Re-enter Fellas. 
 
 Fellas. Your majesty, I bring sad news of the 
 Lady Dolora. She is dead. 
 
 Melmoth. Her end is the end indeed! I could 
 almost wish all the events, from the first beginning, 
 to roll back again to the tangled hours of j^ester- 
 day, for her sake alone. Once more to see her, and 
 that the last. 
 
 Satan. Your crown, your sceptre, your royal 
 robes, my lord — 
 
 Melmoth. Drag them to hell with you. ( They 
 go out.) {Satan looks after them.) 
 
 Curtain 
 
 Scene 4. Prince John encamped before the walls 
 of Elsmere. Camp fires are burning along the line. 
 Lights seen from the city. It is still night, but 
 gradually dawning. 
 
 Discovered Dohlgrin and Brabant. 
 Dohlgrin. This morning air fills one to the 
 breadth- 
 Of living. It hath not in it withal 
 The lazy energy of the sun 
 
ACT V 169 
 
 That comes on noonday. Brabant, 
 
 I know not why I am so confident 
 
 Of this day's outcome. It is as if 
 
 The battle had already been decided, 
 
 The vict'ry ours, and John upon the throne. 
 
 Brabant. So I feel; so do we all. The spirit 
 Of success is that high among our men, 
 It puts out to the last enduring flame 
 The witching fires of doubt. How is it? 
 Will Melmoth come into the field? If he 
 does — 
 
 Dohlgrin. I doubt it very much. His manner 
 From the very first indicated 
 That pure indifference to his own as well 
 As t' Elsmere's fate, there's no expecting him. 
 
 Brabant. Then I know one who'll lead the 
 lines to-day. 
 
 Dohlgrin. That one we hope to meet. 
 
 Him is it only to oppose, and him we'll silence 
 Even to the last lap of memory, 
 That trace of one so irreclaimable 
 Be lost with his death. 
 
 Brabant. If he dare come — 
 
 Dohlgrin. But he will, Brabant ; this is the pink 
 Of his deep and delicate manoeuvering : 
 To press Elsmere to resistance, and make 
 This quarrel his own. 
 
 Brabant. Pray God, 'twill be his last, then. 
 
 Dohlgrin. The first should have been his last. 
 I know Francis. 
 
 His virtues are so small they're eaten up 
 By his multiplying vices, which 
 Alone remain. So, in this stand, 
 Bayed by fear of the contingency, 
 
170 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Like a cat, he will desert his cowardice, 
 And spring into the face. More than one 
 
 life 
 Should be his that justice may at all 
 Be satisfied. 
 Enter from tent John, Royce, Berkeley and others. 
 John. Look, Royce, how innocent now is the 
 scene 
 So possible of the direst. 
 There the soldiers lie, fully accoutred, 
 As though slain with sleep. Even the daunt 
 Of new or immediate encounter 
 Cannot take away the peace from their slum- 
 ber. 
 ( To Dohlgrin and Brabant.) Good friends, 
 you come to greet me early. 
 Dohlgrin and Brabant. Good morrow to our 
 
 Prince. 
 Dohlgrin. Has intelligence of the enemy come 
 
 down to us? 
 John. We await the final word. But, my gen- 
 erals, 
 Make glad your hearts. No greater victory 
 Attended our winning. Dark civil strife 
 As by the last reports we may construe 
 Dulls Elsmere's appetite for an engagement. 
 Royce. All's fair. 
 
 Ere the heavens bring on another day, 
 Our dreaded eagle, fierce with victory, 
 Shall screeching fly above yon battlements 
 Where Arnheim's banners will anon be hung, 
 To hang always. 
 John. These words, encouraging of the fairest, 
 Commend themselves to our hearts. 
 
ACT V 171 
 
 Enter soldier in haste. 
 
 (To Soldier.) What now? What have you to 
 report ? 
 
 Soldier. Your grace, the armies of the enemy 
 have sallied forth. They come upon us in three 
 divisons, mainly from the east. 
 
 John. Sound the alarum! How do they num- 
 ber, do you know? (Exeunt several officers.) 
 
 Soldier. Full ten thousand strong, if judgment 
 be not erring. 
 
 John. Who commands? Who bears the bloody 
 ensign ? 
 
 Soldier. The Marquis of Lode. 
 
 Royce. St. Francis, my lord. 
 
 John. 'Tis time, then, to set our battles on. 
 Array the lines. Give the order to retreat. We'll 
 afford them an advance. (General commotion.) 
 (To officers.) How are you, my lords? 
 
 Some. More than eager. 
 
 Brabant. The high hour we waited for so long 
 Has come at last to make us jealous 
 Of its every moment. 
 
 John. For this, my friends, I owe you better 
 than thanks. Elsmere shall live again in us. 
 
 All. And we in her. 
 
 (Exeunt marching. Drum and colors.) 
 
 Scene 5. The same. 
 
 Enter St. Francis, Toussan and armies. A royal 
 scribe. 
 
 St. Francis. My royal scribe, let this be noted 
 well ; 
 That full against our will do we now place 
 
172 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 The stake of all this glorious dominion 
 Upon the hazard of a single fight. 
 This too forget not ; that all unaided, 
 Wholly discountenanced by our traitor king, 
 We still have nobly dedicated ourselves 
 To save our country from the unwarranted 
 
 claim 
 Of the Pretender. Whate'er result, 
 Posterity shall know and praise our deed 
 Till another like it will applaud 
 The echo of this. And if we fail, 
 There'll be ourselves to blame, none others. 
 
 {Sounds of drums, from a distance.) 
 They're coming on! Mount courage on 
 
 your arms, my men, 
 And make your hearts the whetstone of your 
 
 blades. 
 Throw your shields before you. 
 We'll fight them till our limbs are hacked 
 
 to pieces, 
 And life's a jest. Set on your arms. 
 Toussan, ho! Why do the villains halt? 
 Toussan. My gracious lord, their pennons are 
 being lowered, mark. 
 It is a sign they would hold parley. 
 St. Francis. Stand well about me. I mistrust 
 their ways. 
 They are men only in times of peace ; 
 War leaves no room for honor. 
 
 (They stand about him.) 
 Now let them come on. 
 
 Enter John and army. 
 John. I had hoped to find a worthier adversary. 
 St. Francis. (Scornfully.) Worthier must have 
 
ACT V 173 
 
 worthy. 
 Were I not thy better in all additions, 
 I'd now be where those dark sons of the 
 
 kingdom 
 (Signifying Berkeley, Brabant and Royce 
 
 and Dohlgrin.) 
 Are fawning like dogs about you. 
 John. I grudge the patience that suffers you this 
 
 liberty 
 Of further speech. 
 St. Francis. Grudge me not. I'll speak no extra 
 
 words. 
 My sword hath a readier tongue. 
 There's more condition in a single stroke 
 Then in a tide of unfledged words. 
 Will you fight? 
 John. Peace, henchmen! 
 
 If thou hast courage to fight this out alone 
 Within the sight and witness of both our 
 
 armies, 
 Stand forth from the shelter of those men; 
 There is no need to shed much costly blood, 
 Since you have made this quarrel all your 
 
 own, — 
 It boots nothing for Elsmere or her king. 
 St. Francis. Liar ! My price is not a crown. 
 Let those lips rot that vomit forth such 
 
 calumny! (Armies prepare to fight.) 
 My voice is the general, and my answer in 
 
 these swords. 
 (Armies join in battle, as curtain goes down.) 
 
 Curtain 
 
174 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 Scene 5. Room in the castle; draped in black. 
 Tester to one side. 
 
 Enter two servants with candles. 
 
 Peter. Alas, alack, O woe, O well-a-day, Philip ! 
 
 Philip. Well, a day, well a day, Peter. Spare 
 me your tears, Peter. There's more to be cried over 
 in the matter of one's life than by one's death. 
 Therefore it is said, only fools make ado when their 
 fellows drop away. When we begin to think, 
 Peter, o' the many that sleep beneath the sod, and 
 "pari passu," o' the many that sleep above it, one 
 death or life, or a thousand deaths or lives, is verily 
 a little matter, for in the great throng of things 
 it is passed over like an old year. Just think, Peter, 
 there are men, nations and languages, thoughts, ac- 
 tions and accomplishments, co-eval with us, and yet, 
 so unrelated are they to our needs, they do not even 
 exist to us! I tell thee what, Peter, and hold 
 those words to your heart. This world is gone to 
 the hang. Old men live till they fall in love again, 
 and youth is cut off in the cradle. When such as 
 haven't yet known the tip-taste of life, make them- 
 selves a grave, there's no dignity in being old any 
 more. For my part, if I hadn't come to these two- 
 score and ten I'd have stopped at thirty. 
 
 Peter. Ay, Philip. But this woman was known 
 to have been a queen; a virgin, God rest her soul! 
 A lady of description, no ordinary thing! 
 
 Philip. Therefore, Peter, should we make the 
 more of her ! Death is as real to one as to the 
 other, and there are a sad many of quality, equally 
 choice, that go down to their silence, unsung. You 
 say this Dolora was a virgin, a lady, a queen, if 
 
ACT V 175 
 
 you will have it. She died. Sad, she died. But 
 how many of your brothers* sons are even now 
 kicking their last on the battlefield within easy 
 distance of this castle. You make no moan at that. 
 The death of one near to us is the loss of a world, 
 but the loss of an actual world — the report of thou- 
 sands dying, will not dull our appetites. I say, 
 dying's become the comedy and living the other 
 thing. 
 
 Peter. How came she to die, Philip, do you 
 know? 
 
 Philip. Peter, Peter, who can know the loads 
 that hang about the souls of such as toy with sceptres 
 or deal in high intrigue? A simple life merits 
 a simple death. I'll give thee a plain coffin, 
 Peter, and you'll not haunt me. Rich men balk 
 even after they're laid away. My marquis such-a- 
 one would have a catafalque, and trimmings, and 
 jewels, and fineries; chaplets, wreaths, and a splash 
 of ceremony! He would have a procession to fol- 
 low him, hymns to be sung after him, mass to be 
 said over him, and rhetoric to be flouted about him 
 — and what not besides! Else he'll not rest easy. 
 But lay to it, Peter, Peter, you'll sleep as sound and 
 as snug as he, and turn not once over. 
 
 Peter. (Dubiously.) Humph! I'll not gain- 
 say you. 
 
 Philip. But for all that, this is a sad time indeed. 
 
 Peter. Alas, alas, it is. She was a sweet lady. 
 Enter Melmoth. 
 
 Philip. Set 'em down; set 'em down. Me- 
 thinks we are observed. (They set down the 
 candles.) 
 
 Melmoth. What shall adorn the tomb that does 
 
176 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 not life? 
 Flowers, habit, tears, respect, what? 
 Why these candles? Their superstitious 
 
 light 
 Hath that strangely-sown virtue in it, 
 It makes all things within the radiance 
 Of its hollow beams, suggestive and dim. 
 Peter. Yet we need them, my lord, to make 
 death seem more serious, for the pathos of life takes 
 away the sting from mortality. 
 
 Philip. That's true, my lord. Death's the easier 
 of the two, and most when the tire of things, comes 
 on. 
 
 Melmoth. What is your part in this event? 
 
 Philip. We are mourners, my lord, with the rest. 
 
 Melmoth. Is it still in you to mourn, good 
 
 friends? Has not death, to whose form you are 
 
 accustomed, having attended upon it so often, lost 
 
 its seriousness for you? 
 
 Peter. Our hands, my lord, are indeed become 
 cold to the touch of the dead, but we are men. 
 
 Philip. Great sorrow in our own lives, makes 
 us blink at others. 
 
 Melmoth. What sorrow, friend, was in thine, 
 that you do speak? 
 
 Philip. A death, my lord. 
 Melmoth. Death? That's mere. 
 Philip. A death of the spirit, my lord! 
 Melmoth. Ah! 
 Philip. I was a poet once. 
 Peter. A painter, I. 
 
 Philip. (With sincerity.) But there was one 
 that mocked at my endeavors — 
 Peter. And flouted mine. 
 
ACT V 177 
 
 Philip. {Vehemently.) Who disclaimed the 
 beauty of our creations, and destroyed their truths! 
 Who took upon himself to judge the eternal! 
 Matched art with years, and named all, futile! 
 Who brought on sorrow, pain and disappointment; 
 blighted dear hopes, sweet fancies and life's dream; 
 crossed our years and destinies, (Sadly.) that we no 
 longer live. 
 
 Peter. You gave us gold, my lord, but that was 
 squandered. 
 
 Melmoth. {Realizing.) O, look not at me, 
 friends! Can I be he that's wronged you, 
 myself, and all the world so cruelly? No 
 more, no more! Alas! How necessary are 
 your dreams, great men! For they alone are 
 real and enduring! Oh, what further beauty has 
 my life betrayed? What things will yet arise to 
 make my final years a tribute to sorrow? Oh, look 
 not at me, masters. 
 
 Peter. See, he repents. The prophecy of my 
 picture is fulfilled ; he is now as I once painted him 
 — noble. 
 
 Enter funeral procession. 
 Melmoth. They bring her here. I do not feel 
 her death 
 
 So much now, as I had thought to do. 
 For with it, life's caught ; 
 The globe of a thousand passions compre- 
 hended ; 
 And the fear of things unknown and un- 
 discovered, 
 Together with the unnatural craving for 
 
 them, 
 Has passed away completely. 
 
178 MELMOTH THE WANDERER 
 
 (Coffin is placed on the tester.) 
 Enter Courtier to Fellas. 
 Courtier. My lord, St. Francis, your son, is dead. 
 Fellas. You tell me nothing, sir. He made his 
 bed as rude as that he'll lie in. Had he died honor- 
 ably, he might have lived in my heart. I think no 
 more of him. (Perceiving Melmoth.) This is sor- 
 row, indeed. Here's our sometime king and noble 
 lord. (Approaches Melmoth.) My liege, the fates 
 have contrived to make this hour the most. The 
 rule of the kingdom's transferred; her chronicles, 
 henceforth, shall be written by other hands than ours. 
 Melmoth. This is a proper consummation. 
 Life and death, and life and death again. 
 The universe of matter and of soul 
 Is bound up in a perfect harmony. 
 Nature's overmastering ! 
 Not an atom, moving, but it affects 
 The uttermost star. 
 A breeze that blows ; a wave, beating on the 
 
 shore, 
 Echoes through all eternities of space! 
 A spirit mighty with the voice of millions, 
 Calls upon me irresistibly 
 And bids me to be calm. 
 Never was my soul more tranquil than this — 
 The moment of its resignation. 
 (Stage fills with soldiers ; officers and Captains of 
 the army.) 
 
 But I am glad; 
 
 The vision's from the tangled skein brought 
 
 forth. 
 Truth shines on me like a calm star, 
 Set in the night; in whose light I shall follow 
 
ACT V 179 
 
 And pass away. 
 {All stand motionless and gaze after Melmoth as 
 he goes out.) 
 
 Curtain 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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