ACT FOURTH.
SCENE I.
In the gilded Chamber of the House of Bores. That usually empty Chamber is full, and the galleries around, crowded. The centre of attraction is Bernia’s Prince, Shafto, who has entered the lists in defence of his feudatory subject, Vulnar, lord of Avenamore, who has been attained of high treason, for aiding and abetting the rescue of Vergli.—Vulnar and Vergli are at large, as also Fortunatus. Against all three a warrant for arrest is out.
The Prince of Bernia: “Is it a crime to speak the truth? Methinks We live amidst a sea of seething lies, Wallowing therein like the proverbial whale, Who with a guzzle, down which e’en a prawn Is passed with difficulty, swallowed up, Miraculously, of course, a tough old seer, Who proved, however, indigestible, So that the whale emitted him again, Unchewed, whole and unmasticated. Oh! What lies we wallow in and teach our Youth, The whole time crying like a hypocrite, ‘Speak not a lie, ’tis an abomination.’ Just so my Bores, that’s how I class it too, And so I’ll speak the Truth just for a change. ’Tis rather foreign to these gilded walls, But try and give it courteous reception. I see His Graciousness the Arch Ardrigh, Looking a bit ungracious and severe, I pray him don a less depressing mien, Religion should incarnate scenes of peace, Not war, resentment, animosity! Now to my subject. You condemn Vulnar, Lord of the boreship of fair Avenamore, Attaint him traitor to our lord the King, Because he rescued from a cruel death The King’s own son, bone of his very bone. You dub him and young Fortunatus, too, Murd’rers, assassins. How so? Did they plan Murder or assassination either? Not so. But while engaged in rescuing The prisoner from the van, unluckily, A bullet, fired by some conspiritor, Into the key lock, having done its work, Passed on and most unfortunately lodged Within the heart of the policeman Grett, Killing him as a natural consequence. For this you call these men foul murderers, If they be such then soldiers are assassins. Malice aforethought surely is alone The only sculptor of the murderer? You bid me bar my principality Against Vulnar, and Fortunatus too, And war against them as state enemies. But I assert they are not such, but friends, Faithful to Hector, our liege lord and King. My bores, I know Vergli; his soul is high He simply works for Justice and for Truth, He advocates fair play to every man, To every living, moving, sentient thing. His creed is, ‘Follow Nature, It is God, Inscrutable, but not impossible.’ The God to whom you offer sacrifice And before whom you kneel like hypocrites, Is an impossible, a defamed God, A brazen serpent reared aloft by Man, Dyspeptic Man, who dreamed a nightmare dream, And forthwith called it the Almighty God! Almighty lie! I call it, yes, my bores, Lie of Nightmare and of Indigestion. Vergli would purge our stomachs of this lie, And heal the wounds its foul disease has wrought. Bring peace on earth and goodwill to the world. Why should we live to kill, and to oppress? Why should a small majority laugh loud, Wrapped in the lap of luxury and ease, While the majority lives in trouble And writhes within the arms of poverty? Why should I wear fine clothes and eat good food, My brother in the street wear rags and starve? Vergli would end this, and moreover give To Woman the inherent rights she claims, Which your dyspeptic creed has filched from her, Making of her the puppet that she is. Vergli claims to be Prince of Scota too, He says that Merani was Hector’s wife. Nature, the One, true God, declares this too. Is Vergli wrong for clinging to the Right? My bores, I, Shafto, Prince of Bernia, cry, He is not wrong. He is the soul of truth, The soul of honour and of equity, The enemy of Selfish Privilege. He does not ask for the impossible, He does not prate of Man’s equality, He is not of the Anarchist brigade Whose muddle puddle laws would chaos breed. He simply asks that all men born should live, And have the opportunity to thrive, And not be born the disinherited. Just pause a moment. Let us think. Suppose, Just for the sake of argument I pray, That when we die, our Soul, which I believe Is out of matter forming Mind and Thought, Should peradventure take possession of A life in an embryo state, and step Either into this sphere, or say, elsewhere. Would you not like to think that soul of yours Will not become the tenant of a slave, A Disinherited, a Misery, But rather a free mortal born to live And make the most of Nature’s Gift of Life? Remember, ‘every mongrel has its day,’ If Life is as I say, you may become One of the disinherited of Erth. Or of that distant planet we call ‘Light,’ And who, perhaps, calls us ‘The Moon.’ Just now, A whisper in my ear says its real name Is Earth, and that our Erth is called ‘The Moon’ By this same Earth whom we have christened ‘Light.’ That whisper is a thought, a solid touch, Which woos my mind, making its presence felt. E’en as a soft wind plays upon my cheek, Telling me that it is a thing of Life, Although invisible to that thick mass, That shape Material or Body called, Which is the Tabernacle of the Mind, And of that ethereal substance known as thought, That loadstone which shall draw truths Unknown, Once we develop perfect tenements, Worthy of Thought increased a millionfold, With power to read the past, the future, All, And fathom what to our embryo minds Is now a veiled and hidden mystery. My bores, Vergli and Vulnar you condemn, And youthful Fortunatus likewise stands, Marked as an object for the hangman’s rope. Would you commit so terrible a crime As to deprive those three of Nature’s breath, For acts which are not crimes? Pause, think, my bores, Are they deserving of a death so drear? I pray you, join your signatures to mine, Ay, every member of The House of Bores, Entreating the King’s Gracious Majesty To pardon and accord fair Liberty To Vergli, Fortunatus, and Vulnar. They are not felons; two are noble men, One, a brave youth, full of enthusiasm. Treat them no more as disinheriteds, But as three loyal subjects of our King. My bores, I, Prince of Bernia, sue for them: Most earnestly I pray you grant my prayer.”
Sanctimonious (who has risen): “And I as earnestly beseech you all To turn a deaf ear to Prince Shafto’s prayer. Vergli is an attainted criminal, Condemned to death for treason to the State, And treason likewise to Most Holy Church, Vulnar and Fortunatus are condemned By that great voice, Public Opinion, called; My bores, away with Sentiment, face Fact. What are the facts justly condemning them? Vergli has sought to overturn the State, And sweep our Church away. Absolutely! ’Tis treason to our Sovereign lord, the King. He is the head of both our Church and State. Treason demands the penalty of Death, And Vergli stood condemned of this foul crime, And sentenced to the punishment it merits. When Vulnar, Fortunatus, and some more Defied the law and rescued him from death, Dealing death to another in the act. The blood of Grett is on their hands and heads, He died a brave man in the cause of duty. These rebels shot him down. They murdered him. They took his life that Vergli’s might be saved. Yet Bernia’s prince would see them pardoned! Faith! ’Twould be foul sacrilege to pardon such. Our constitution rests on Church and State, My bores, protect it most tenaciously.”
Prime Minister (Sirocco, lord of Darbytire) rising: “My bores; the Ardrigh’s words are golden grail, Dropping from Heaven like the Manna food. Eat up his words and treasure them as truth, Truth, the protector of your native land. The awful fiend of Revolution lives, Scotched, but not killed. Vergli would overturn Not only Church and State, but revered law, Make free of other people’s property, Turn Woman into Man, and make men Slaves, Abolish wages, crown Co-operation. Think what his wild schemes would impose on us. Think how the Millionaire would suffer, too? Co-operation! Why, ’twould give all men The right to claim employment, and to share The profits of these human Storage Ants! What call you this, my bores, but Spoilation, That spoilation spelling Thievery? To pardon Vergli, Vulnar, and the Youth Would mean surrender to dishonesty. And that the least. Behold! our noble Church, A relic of the ancient days of old, Part of a great tradition threatened now. It is the fabric of Morality, And all the notions that we love and cherish. True, it has not opposed the fiend of War, And it has dabbled over much in blood; But these are peccadilloes. Wink at them! We must not show up Godly indiscretions. So, too, it is a most important fact That men must toil, that other men may reap, That animals must moan, that we may laugh. To seek to overthrow these saintly laws, Laws nestling in our Church’s tender arms, Would mean destruction of the principle, ‘Might is our Right,’ which we laboriously Have made an Axiom of, and must uphold. No, no, my bores, Stand to your guns. Be firm. You have the press and nation at your back. Capital must not be robbed by Sentiment. The Brotherhood of Man is dreadful fudge, The God of Nature far too practical. Don’t let the people get the wind of them, They’d start full cry upon the scent. Oh! dear, The notion even, is too terrible; Banish it as a thing impossible. The House of Common persons has declined To sign this base petition to the King, Why should the House of Bores act otherwise? It is its bounden duty to the State, As also to the Holy Church of Erth, To give a stern denial to the prayer Which Bernia’s prince addresses here to-day. I call on you, my bores, to now uphold The great traditions of Saxscoberland.”
The prayer of The Prince of Bernia is rejected.
SCENE II.
A rugged glen in the Highlands of Scota. The glen forms portion of a pass, lying between two high hills, respectively called Cairnghlu and Dhugla, which dominates this pass, known by the name of “The Pass Ghlugla.” A rapid torrent threads its way through the valley below, passage through which is only possible by the pass above. In a large cave in this pass, attended by a few faithful followers, Vergli, Isola, and Vulnar, together with Scrutus and Verita, have concealed themselves, their adherents guarding both entrances to the pass. News has been brought that two large forces of militia have been sent to apprehend them, one advancing from either side.
Vergli (solus, standing at the Cave’s entrance): “’Tis a strange life! We cross its threshold first, With little understanding in our brains. Then suddenly, into that empty Cave Steps an immortal soul, which we call Thought, Turning the empty cave into a Mind. From that mind, Thought is ever issuing, In ripples, like a calm, pellucid sea, Or in tumultuous waves of reasoning, Diffusing all around its magic spell. Some brains receive but little of this thought, While others are o’er-charged with its great force, And magnetise the weaker brains of men, Who yield obedience to the stronger pow’r. Is it this pow’r which gives me followers, Willing to risk their fortunes for my sake? Or are my principles the motive force Which causes them to fight for Vergli’s cause? A bit of both, I fancy. Still, I think It is the thought pow’r that attracts them most, A glance from me, accompanied by a thought Silently wished within my active brain, Will often gain for me that which I seek, Without recourse to viva voce speech. Ah! well; If Thought can concentrate itself In force sufficient to attract success, I’ll send wave after wave abroad, in quest Of kindred and reciprocating thought, Which shall respond to my far-reaching call, Seemingly soundless and invisible. Is my call soundless? Yet ’twill penetrate And ring my message in the brains of men. Therefore it must have something kin to sound, Something in Nature like a zephyr sprite, Whose wings float round us, yet we hear them not, Whose lips caress us, though we see them not, Spirits we feel, but cannot hear or see, Life living, yet in form invisible.”
He pauses, then continues: “Oh! come to me, Success, ye whom I woo, Not that success for which Men strive so much. Not empty adulation and renown. I care as little for the world’s false praise As I care for its paltry condemnation. The true Success I ask to come to me, Is that the Truth, whose flag I hold aloft, And Justice and kind Love shall triumph o’er The reign of Falsehood, Cruelty, and Hate. For this I send forth thought waves far and wide, May their returning tide bring back to me My bride, Success, whom I court from afar. Yes, she will come. I feel it. She will come, Although across an angry, tossing sea.” [Looking up at the summit of Dhugla he apostrophises it. “Summit of Dhugla, Peak of misty clouds, Around whose brow the golden eagles soar, Upon whose breast the sentient form of Life, Called animal Creation, finds support; Like unto me thou soarest heavenwards, With glance fixed on the guide Excelsior, Whose hand points ever upwards, bidding us Pierce Space unending, and Immortal Truth. Summit of Dhugla, as thou wooest Heav’n, So woo I Truth, which my fair bride, Success, Shall bring me as her peerless wedding gift.”
Vulnar. “Vergli, the enemy are closing in, Our scouts apprise me of their near approach. To try and hold this pass against such odds Would be a folly; tactical mistake, And blunder irretrievable indeed. We must disperse, and that without delay; The hillmen love you. Whisper of your name Assures the wand’rer hospitality. Let us, while it is possible, disperse, The winter soon will be upon us now, These passes quite impassable. Hark! Sir, A distant bugle call! Its winding note From out Kilsonan’s valley, steals aloft. We can, of course, stay here and fight it out, Leaving our bodies for the Corbies’ sport; Yet killing is not noble Vergli’s aim, But Life around which Freedom twines her arms, Rather his object. Thus I counsel flight, Not craven flight, but politic retreat, And a reunion midst securer scenes. Let us disperse and make for Avenamore, There, through the winter, though I am outlawed, I’ll guarantee you full security. The Men of Avenamore will stand by me. Take Scrutus and Arflec, both are experts In Scota’s hills and Bernia’s rugged paths, And I will steer, with all my craftiest skill, A safe course thither both for Verita And Fortunatus. They may trust in me, And for the rest, our followers can disperse.”
Vergli. “So be it, Vulnar. Pass the word around, Brother-in-arms, so faithful, trusty, true. Fair-well! until we meet again, brave heart. Noble Vulnar, Nature’s true nobleman. Take Vergli’s thanks. ’Tis all he has to give, Take them, they are the echoes of his heart, Where Gratitude is not a foreigner. Now go. Pass the word quickly round. Farewell!”
Vergli (to Fortunatus): “And you, too, I must part from, Isola. You, who have made my wanderings so fair, You, who have braved imprisonment and death To save Vergli and hold aloft his cause. Hard is the utterance of the word farewell, When those to whom we say it are beloved, As you, Oh! Lady Isola, are loved By Vergli with respectful, reverent love. He knows your love is with Escanior, And not for him, but tender friendship giv’n, As you have given yours to me, is sweet, And plays a soft light on Life’s rugged path. Farewell, Isola; soon to meet again, Amidst the crags of far-famed Avenamore. Farewell! may all the blessings of our God Fall on your shoulders, dearest Isola.”
Fortunatus. “Farewell, Vergli. I thank you for your love, Man’s love is rarely generous and pure, Capable of Unselfishness, and true; ’Tis not my fault I cannot make return Of love so tender and so chivalrous. But mine is with Escanior, bound to his. Wedded with him for all eternity. Yes, we will meet again at Avenamore, Vulnar, and I, and Verita will come. Have hope, have confidence, though skies are dark, Behind the clouds shines the resplendent sun, Our cause shall triumph yet. In Sunburst’s glow We’ll see it someday clasping Victory.”
Enter Verita: “Hear you the bugle of the men of war? Vergli, Scrutus awaits you, and Arflec. Lady Isola, Vulnar bids you haste, Ere long escape will be impossible. He waits you by the Pass’s eastern side, Scrutus and Arflec will be by the western; Hasten to join them, Vergli. Hark! ’tis near, King Hector’s men of war are very nigh.”
SCENE III.
The Palace of Magnificence, situated in the town of Rowanberry, and the residence of the Ardrigh of Saxscoberland. In the private sanctum of the Ardrigh two men are seated. One is His Graciousness himself, the other the head of his “secret service peerers,” these being a body of men kept by Sanctimonious for the purpose of keeping vigilant watch over the interests of the State Religion of the country. The two men are engaged in earnest conversation.
Sanctimonious. “And so, Conception, from your fertile brain You have evolved a plan to lay them low?” [He draws nearer to Conception. “While Vergli, Fortunatus, or Vulnar Remain at large, destruction threatens us. Destroy this trinity and dangerous force Of Will, and thought, and optimistic hope, And all will flow serenely once again. The torpid languour of the working men Will soon return to lull them all to sleep, As in the good old days gone by, when I Ruled o’er the roost in undisputed sway. Now tell me of the plan you have evolved, And who the Genius is who’ll take the helm And steer its course into the bay Success. Tell me, Conception, I am all attention.”
Chief Peerer Conception. “Your Graciousness, ’tis nothing new indeed; An old, old plan, in origin quite human, Just the old story, treachery, ha, ha, The counterpart of the malignant Lie, That lie which bolsters up the most of Life And bids uncanny Truth to hide her head. The Genius who will pilot in this case, Is one called Judath. In his black lined soul, The love of gold is the abiding lust, Which rules him to exclusion of aught else. I have informed him that the price I set On Vergli’s head is twenty thousand crowns, On that of Fortunatus, half that sum, On Vulnar’s head the half of that again, And if the three together he can bag, The sum of forty thousand shall be his. Your Graciousness, his eyes gleamed like a coal, A wolfish, hungry glare arose in them, The cunning of the fox leapt from their depths And ogled me with side look, amorous glance. His yellow teeth grinned at me as he said, ‘Sir, I will claim the forty thousand crowns, Yea, ’ere the winter snows have clothed the earth, They’ll hang before grey cloaked November’s gone, And Judath shall have forty thousand crowns.’ Your Graciousness, had you but heard his voice, And seen his face, and looked into his eyes, You would have felt, as I felt, ‘All is well.’ Have I done well? The job’s a bit high priced, But worth the coin, I think, your Graciousness.”
Sanctimonious. “Worth it, Conception? Rather! Double! More! The peril threatened is of magnitude, And forty thousand is the minimum Which I would pay to see it rooted up. Just think what Disestablishment would mean, A mine of wealth let loose amongst the mob; Vergli would have that wealth distributed And sunk in his Co-operative scheme For giving every toiler a part share, According to his toil, of the State funds. His heathen propaganda would destroy Not only emoluments, but instal Amongst the public free-lance teaching, and Abolish that most necessary vice Called prostitution, which is the result Of both our civil and religious laws, The first safeguarding it as politic, The latter in accordance with the faith Held by our creed that Woman is that thing Which I’ve heard termed the ‘After-Birth of Man,’ But which I’d rather call God’s ‘After Thought,’ Or ‘Second Thought,’ creation from a rib! Man being fashioned in the shape of God, Is naturally the Superior Life, And Woman, but a bauble After Thought, Made for Man’s Comfort, and his Pleasure too, Is of no consequence, except as slave, As wife obedient, or as prostitute. And Vergli dares to say we preach a lie, And strives to waken Woman to the truth, Proclaiming her Man’s equal, shouting out She is not part of Man’s Almighty rib! Conception, just conceive the blasphemy! Conception, realize the rolling wave Of unbelief, which will o’erspread the land, Once Woman takes to heart that this is true. Great Scot! She’ll sweep us off our noble legs, She’ll cast the Saintly Rib into the fire, Cremate it on the instant without Shame, And dare to ask for Equal Rights with Man. What should we do? Alack! What should we do? Man’s infidelity we can despise, So long as Woman grovels in Belief, But if she cease the Stomach Crawling farce, We are undone! Alas! we are undone! And so, Conception, forty thousand crowns, Is not too much to pay to kill this snake, This awful offspring of the Satan myth, Which we invented to uphold the slur Cast on the Woman by our Holy Creed. No, at all costs, keep sight from Woman’s eyes, Once she obtains it, like a cataract Will fall on us her wild and angry wrath, Sweeping away the Fable of the past, Which we have held aloft six thousand years, Moulding from it our creed, our faith, our laws, And forcing Man to hail it as Divine.”
Conception. “True. Woman sleeps. She knows not of her pow’r, That pow’r which would make her a ‘Woman Free.’ And those who would awake her must be slain, For they are deadly enemies to us. Vergli is dangerous, and Isola As dangerous as he is, of a certain.”
Sanctimonious (contemptuously): “Oh! Isola, her teeth have all been drawn, She’s pining far away in Killareen. The outcast of our King, divorced from him, Denied access e’en to her little child, Prince Bernis, Prince of Scota, Hector’s heir. She is of no account, her name is dead, Bernia’s dishonoured Princess! in good sooth. She scorned me, bit at me, questioned my right To sit upon the freedom of her sex. I think I’ve taught her just a little lesson!”
Conception. “Your Graciousness is over-confident. Listen, but keep it secret from our King. The youth, upon whose head a price is set, Young Fortunatus, is this Isola. Ha! Ha! You start, turn pale, and look distressed, Small wonder, for you know Isola’s heart, You know it is undaunted, brave, and warm, A combination irresistible. She has concealed identity from all, Successfully hoodwinked the populace, And leads as Fortunatus the Unknown. It is my business to assist this blind, King Hector would not hang his Isola! He loves her, though she was so coy to him, Mourning for that Adonis, Escanior, Friend of her childhood and her budding years, And then her lover, love which she returned. King Hector would not harm her. As you know, In spite of long sojourn with Merani, Isola’s presence fascinated him, Double her age. He might have been her sire, She held him an admirer, ne’er-the-less, Although his love repelled her. Escanior Being the only idol she adored. So ‘Mum’s’ the word, your Graciousness. Keep dark That Fortunatus is fair Isola. The former is the hangman’s property, The latter still the King’s heart’s property, He’d rather cast his crown into the sea Than sign a Warrant sanctioning her death.”
Sanctimonious. “Fear not, Conception, I will not betray, The secret you so wisely would conserve. So you defy me still, young Isola, You still make sport of Sanctimonious? Well, well, I bide my time. ’Tis drawing near. Dulcet will be the gift it brings. Revenge!”
Conception. “Your Graciousness. Judath awaits outside, Would just a word with him enamour you? May be that you would like to see this pearl, Offer him counsel, or give silent hint By eye glance, that success is your desire. Judath hath keen perception, he can read The outward and the inner face of man. Convey to him occultly the desire, Irradiating this veiled feature. He, Judath, the prince of traitors, Peerer true, Schemer, Informer, Genius masterful, Will paint your wish upon his inner face, And keep that face ever before his eyes. Is it your pleasure that I call him in?”
Sanctimonious. “It is indeed. Call him, Conception, pray.”
Enter Judath. (He bows low): “Humble obeisence! Your Graciousness.”
Conception. “Judath, you are commended. The Ardrigh Knows of your mission. He bids you succeed. You know the saying well, that ‘gold makes gold,’ Now take in the suggestion. Look at him. His glance alone will satisfy your soul.”
Sanctimonious (aside): “God! What a hunger lurks within his eyes, It has the aspect of the famished wolf, ’Tis a dread Tyrant, this consuming thirst, This human lust for Gold; Entrancing Gold! The need of it makes criminals. Its pow’r Commands the Adoration of the World, Its influence is paramount. Its sway Absolute and undisputed even.” (To Judath, suggestively): “Yes, ‘Gold makes gold,’ assuredly my man. The Man who earns some forty thousand crowns, Is surely likely to make one fourth more. A grandee such as forty thousand is, Will certainly not lack attendant kin.” (Looking at him meaningly) “Ten thousand is A comely bride for forty thousand crowns.”
Judath (earnestly): “He’ll marry her! Fear not, your Graciousness. A vision is before me. There it is! A scaffold! See, and on it five men stand; A hangman and a holy comforter, Vergli, and Fortunatus, and Vulnar, These last three, all are pinioned, and await The doom they’ve earned, and which I’ve brought on them. Yes, I, Judath, Conception’s arch informer, I, who shall win the forty thousand crowns,” (Looking at the Ardrigh cunningly) “And claim for this brave sum a winsome bride, I can assure your Graciousness, that I, Yes, I will bring the culprits to their doom.”
Sanctimonious. “Our blessing shall be on you, Judath. Gold! Yes, Gold shall line your pockets for the deed. Bring but these men into the hangman’s hands, Give me the power to breathe in peace once more, And for that gift, gold shall be yours indeed.” (Aside) “The gold you cannot take away with you.”
Conception. “Enough. Judath, you are dismissed. Work well, And bring his Graciousness the trinity.” [Exit Judath. (To Sanctimonious) “Obeisence, your Graciousness. I go.”
Sanctimonious. “Blessings on you, inimitable gem.”
(Solus) “Yes, Vergli, Fortunatus, and Vulnar, I’ll teach you not to meddle with the State, I’ll teach you not to meddle with the Church, The Rights of Man! A pure Religion! Faugh! You dreaming dreamers of Idealism. Shall brotherhood and love usurp the reign Of selfishness, and cruelty, and blood? Never! while our Almighty Creed prevails.”