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George MacDonald - Within and Without: Part II: A Dramatic Poem
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But then for her—she cannot see all this;
Words will not make it plain; and if they would,
The time is shorter than the words would need:
This overshadowing bodes nearing ill.—
It may be only vapour, of the heat
Of too much joy engendered; sudden fear
That the fair gladness is too good to live:
The wider prospect from the steep hill`s crest,
The deeper to the vale the cliff goes down;
But how will she receive it? Will she think
I have been mocking her? How could I help it?
Her illness and my danger! But, indeed,
So strong was I in truth, I never thought
Her doubts might prove a hindrance in the way.
My love did make her so a part of me,
I never dreamed she might judge otherwise,
Until our talk of yesterday. And now
Her horror at Nembroni`s death confirms me:
To wed a monk will seem to her the worst
Of crimes which in a fever one might dream.
I cannot take the truth, and, bodily,
Hold it before her eyes. She is not strong.
She loves me—not as I love her. But always
—There`s Robert for an instance—I have loved
A life for what it might become, far more
Than for its present: there`s a germ in her
Of something noble, much beyond her now:
Chance gleams betray it, though she knows it not.

This evening must decide it, come what will.


SCENE XVII.—The inn; the room which had been JULIAN`S. STEPHEN,
Host, and Hostess. Wine on the table.

Stephen.
Here, my good lady, let me fill your glass;
Then send the bottle on, please, to your husband.

Hostess.
I thank you, sir; I hope you like the wine;
My husband`s choice is praised. I cannot say
I am a judge myself.

Host.
I`m confident
It needs but to be tasted.

Stephen
(tasting critically, then nodding).
That is wine!
Let me congratulate you, my good sir,
Upon your exquisite judgment!

Host.
Thank you, sir.

Stephen
(to the Hostess).
And so this man, you say, was here until
The night the count was murdered: did he leave
Before or after that?

Hostess.
I cannot tell;
He left, I know, before it was discovered.
In the middle of the storm, like one possessed,
He rushed into the street, half tumbling me
Headlong down stairs, and never came again.
He had paid his bill that morning, luckily;
So joy go with him! Well, he was an odd one!

Stephen.
What was he like, fair Hostess?

Hostess.
Tall and dark,
And with a lowering look about his brows.
He seldom spoke, but, when he did, was civil.
One queer thing was, he always wore his hat,
Indoors as well as out. I dare not say
He murdered Count Nembroni; but it was strange
He always sat at that same window there,
And looked into the street. `Tis not as if
There were much traffic in the village now;
These are changed times; but I have seen the day—

Stephen.
Excuse me; you were saying that the man
Sat at the window—

Hostess.
Yes; even after dark
He would sit on, and never call for lights.
The first night, I brought candles, as of course;
He let me set them on the table, true;
But soon`s my back was turned, he put them out.

Stephen.
Where is the lady?

Hostess.
That`s the strangest thing
Of all the story: she has disappeared,
As well as he. There lay the count, stone-dead,
White as my apron. The whole house was empty,
Just as I told you.

Stephen.
Has no search been made?

Host.
The closest search; a thousand pieces offered
For any information that should lead
To the murderer`s capture. I believe his brother,
Who is his heir, they say, is still in town,
Seeking in vain for some intelligence.

Stephen.
`Tis very odd; the oddest thing I`ve heard
For a long time. Send me a pen and ink;
I have to write some letters.

Hostess (rising).
Thank you, sir,
For your kind entertainment.

[Exeunt Host and Hostess.]

Stephen.
We`ve found the badger`s hole; we`ll draw
him next. He couldn`t have gone far with her and not
be seen. My life on it, there are plenty of holes and
corners in the old house over the way. Run off with a
wench! Holy brother Julian! Contemptuous brother
Julian! Stand-by-thyself brother Julian! Run away
with a wench at last! Well, there`s a downfall! He`ll
be for marrying her on the sly, and away!—I know the
old fox!—for her conscience-sake, probably not for his!
Well, one comfort is, it`s damnation and no reprieve.
The ungrateful, atheistical heretic! As if the good old
mother wasn`t indulgent enough to the foibles of her
children! The worthy lady has winked so hard at her
dutiful sons, that she`s nearly blind with winking. There`s
nothing in a little affair with a girl now and then; but to
marry, and knock one`s vows on the head! Therein is
displayed a little ancestral fact as to a certain respectable
progenitor, commonly portrayed as the knight of the
cloven foot. Keep back thy servant, &c.—Purgatory
couldn`t cleanse that; and more, `twill never have the
chance. Heaven be about us from harm! Amen. I`ll
go find the new count. The Church shall have the
castle and estate; Revenge, in the person of the new
count, the body of Julian; and Stephen may as well
have the thousand pieces as not.


SCENE XVIII.—Night. The Nurse`s room. LILIA; to her JULIAN.

Lilia.
How changed he is! Yet he looks very noble.

Enter JULIAN.

Julian.
My Lilia, will you go to England with me?

Lilia.
Julian, my father!

Julian.
Not without his leave.
He says, God bless us both.

Lilia.
Leave him in prison?

Julian.
No, Lilia; he`s at liberty and safe,
And far from this ere now.

Lilia.
You have done this,
My noble Julian! I will go with you
To sunset, if you will. My father gone!
Julian, there`s none to love me now but you.
You will love me, Julian?—always?

Julian.
I but fear
That your heart, Lilia, is not big enough
To hold the love wherewith my heart would fill it.

Lilia.
I know why you think that; and I deserve it.
But try me, Julian. I was very silly.
I could not help it. I was ill, you know;
Or weak at least. May I ask you, Julian,
How your arm is to-day?

Julian.
Almost well, child.
Twill leave an ugly scar, though, I`m afraid.

Lilia.
Never mind that, if it be well again.

Julian.
I do not mind it; but when I remember
That I am all yours, then I grudge that scratch
Or stain should be upon me—soul, body, yours.
And there are more scars on me now than I
Should like to make you own, without confession.

Lilia.
My poor, poor Julian! never think of it;

[Putting her arms round him.]

I will but love you more. I thought you had
Already told me suffering enough;
But not the half, it seems, of your adventures.
You have been a soldier!

Julian.
I have fought, my Lilia.
I have been down among the horses` feet;
But strange to tell, and harder to believe,
Arose all sound, unmarked with bruise, or blood
Save what I lifted from the gory ground.

[Sighing.]

My wounds are not of such.

[LILIA, loosening her arms, and drawing back a little with a
kind of shrinking, looks a frightened interrogation.]

No. Penance, Lilia;
Such penance as the saints of old inflicted
Upon their quivering flesh. Folly, I know;
As a lord would exalt himself, by making
His willing servants into trembling slaves!
Yet I have borne it.

Lilia
(laying her hand on his arm).
Ah, alas, my Julian,
You have been guilty!

Julian.
Not what men call guilty,
Save it be now; now you will think I sin.
Alas, I have sinned! but not in this I sin.—
Lilia, I have been a monk.

Lilia
A monk?

[Turningpale.]

I thought—

[Faltering.]

Julian,—I thought you said…. did you not say… ?

[Very pale, brokenly.]

I thought you said…

[With an effort.]

I was to be your wife!

[Covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears.]

Julian
(speaking low and in pain).
And so I did.

Lilia
(hopefully, and looking up).
Then you`ve had dispensation?

Julian.
God has absolved me, though the Church will not.
He knows it was in ignorance I did it.
Rather would he have men to do his will,
Than keep a weight of words upon their souls,
Which they laid there, not graven by his finger.
The vow was made to him—to him I break it.

Lilia
(weeping bitterly).
I would… your words were true… but I do know…
It never can… be right to break a vow;
If so, men might be liars every day;
You`d do the same by me, if we were married.

Julian
(in anguish).
`Tis ever so. Words are the living things!
There is no spirit—save what`s born of words!
Words are the bonds that of two souls make one!
Words the security of heart to heart!
God, make me patient! God, I pray thee, God!

Lilia
(not heeding him).
Besides, we dare not; you would find the dungeon
Gave late repentance; I should weep away
My life within a convent.

Julian.
Come to England,
To England, Lilia.

Lilia.
Men would point, and say:
There go the monk and his wife; if they, in truth,
Called me not by a harder name than that.

Julian.
There are no monks in England.

Lilia.
But will that
Make right what`s wrong?

Julian.
Did I say so, my Lilia?
I answered but your last objections thus;
I had a different answer for the first.

Lilia.
No, no; I cannot, cannot, dare not do it.

Julian.
Lilia, you will not doubt my love; you cannot.
—I would have told you all before, but thought,
Foolishly, you would feel the same as I;—
I have lived longer, thought more, seen much more;
I would not hurt your body, less your soul,
For all the blessedness your love can give:
For love`s sake weigh the weight of what I say.
Think not that must be right which you have heard
From infancy—it may——

[Enter the Steward in haste, pale, breathless, and bleeding.]

Steward.
My lord, there`s such an uproar in the town!
They call you murderer and heretic.
The officers of justice, with a monk,
And the new Count Nembroni, accompanied
By a fierce mob with torches, howling out
For justice on you, madly cursing you!
They caught a glimpse of me as I returned,
And stones and sticks flew round me like a storm;
But I escaped them, old man as I am,
And was in time to bar the castle-gates.—
Would heaven we had not cast those mounds, and shut
The river from the moat!

[Distant yells and cries.]

Escape, my lord!

Julian
(calmly).
Will the gates hold them out awhile, my Joseph?

Steward.
A little while, my lord; but those damned torches!
Oh, for twelve feet of water round the walls!

Julian.
Leave us, good Joseph; watch them from a window,
And tell us of their progress.

[JOSEPH goes. Sounds approach.]

Farewell, Lilia!

[Putting his arm round her. She stands like stone.]

Fear of a coward`s name shall not detain me.
My presence would but bring down evil on you,
My heart`s beloved; yes, all the ill you fear,
The terrible things that you have imaged out
If you fled with me. They will not hurt you,
If you be not polluted by my presence.

[Light from without flares on the wall.]

They`ve fired the gate.

[An outburst of mingled cries.]

Steward
(entering).
They`ve fired the gate, my lord!

Julian.
Well, put yourself in safety, my dear Joseph.
You and old Agata tell all the truth,
And they`ll forgive you. It will not hurt me;
I shall be safe—you know me—never fear.

Steward.
God grant it may be so. Farewell, dear lord!

[Is going.]

Julian.
But add, it was in vain; the signorina
Would not consent; therefore I fled alone.

[LILIA stands as before.]

Steward.
Can it be so? Good-bye, good-bye, my master!

[Goes.]

Julian.
Put your arms round me once, my Lilia.
Not once?—not once at parting?

[Rushing feet up the stairs, and along the galleries.]

O God! farewell!

[He clasps her to his heart; leaves her; pushes back the
panel, flings open a door, enters, and closes both
behind him. LILIA starts suddenly from her fixed bewilderment,
and flies after him, but forgets to close
the panel.]

Lilia.
Julian! Julian!

[The trampling offset and clamour of voices. The door
of the room is flung open. Enter the foremost of
the mob.]

1st.
I was sure I saw light here! There it is, burning still!

2nd.
Nobody here? Praise the devil! he minds his
own. Look under the bed, Gian.

3rd.
Nothing there.

4th.
Another door! another door! He`s in a trap
now, and will soon be in hell! (Opening the door with
difficulty.) The devil had better leave him, and make up
the fire at home—he`ll be cold by and by. (Rushes into
the inner room.) Follow me, boys! [The rest follow.]

Voices from within.
I have him! I have him! Curse
your claws! Why do you fix them on me, you crab? You
won`t pick up the fiend-spawn so easily, I can tell you.
Bring the light there, will you? (One runs out for the
light.) A trap! a trap! and a stair, down in the wall!
The hell-faggot`s gone! After him, after him, noodles!

[Sound of descending footsteps. Others rush in with
torches and follow.]

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

SCENE XIX.—The river-side. LILIA seated in the boat; JULIAN
handing her the bags.

Julian.
There! One at a time!—Take care, love; it
is heavy.—
Put them right in the middle, of the boat:
Gold makes good ballast.

[A loud shout. He steps in and casts the chain loose,
then pushes gently off.]

Look how the torches gleam
Among the trees. Thank God, we have escaped!

[He rows swiftly off. The torches come nearer, with
cries of search.]

(In a low tone.) Slip down, my Lilia; lie at full length
In the bottom of the boat; your dress is white,
And would return the torches` glare. I fear
The damp night-air will hurt you, dressed like this.

[Pulling off his coat, and laying it over her.]

Now for a strong pull with my muffled oars!
The water mutters Spanish in its sleep.
My beautiful! my bride! my spirit`s wife!
God-given, and God-restored! My heart exults,
Hovering about thee, beautiful! my soul!—
Once round the headland, I will set the sail;
The fair wind bloweth right adown the stream.
Dear wind, dear stream, dear stars, dear heart of all,
White angel lying in my little boat!
Strange that my boyhood`s skill with sail and helm,
Oft steering safely `twixt the winding banks,
Should make me rich with womanhood and life!

[The boat rounds the headland, JULIAN singing.]

SONG.

Thou hast been blowing leaves, O wind of strife,
Wan, curled, boat-like leaves, that ran and fled;
Unresting yet, though folded up from life;
Sleepless, though cast among the unwaking dead!
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.

O wind of strife, to us a wedding wind,
O cover me with kisses of her mouth;
Blow thou our souls together, heart and mind;
To narrowing northern lines, blow from the south!
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.

Thou hast been blowing many a drifting thing
From circling cove down to the unsheltered sea;
Thou blowest to the sea my blue sail`s wing,
Us to a new love-lit futurity:
Out to the ocean fleet and float;
Blow, blow my little leaf-like boat.
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