Isola; or, The disinherited: A revolt for woman and all the disinherited

SCENE I.

The Palace of Dreaming, in the Metropolis of Infantlonia, capital of the Island of Saxa, which with Scotia and Bernia, forms the Saxscober Sovereignty.

Vergli. Solus, looking through them: “Home of my fathers, where I claim the right To live, and by the law Fair Play, to be The Prince of Scota. By that law I am My fathers heir, and the young fledgling boy, Who steals from me the title I should hold, Mocks at me, I, the Disinherited! Ay, disinherited; for he and I Are both the offspring of a common sire, Who called me son, long prior to the day When my young brother first beheld the light, And took the title which is mine alone. Does not this base injustice cast a slur Upon my most beloved mother’s name? Did she not wed my sire by Scota’s law? Am I not part of her as well as him? By what unnatural law is she denied The right to bear the title of The Queen? Does not the very act, which weds the two, And by the law of Nature makes them one, Proclaim a union most legitimate? Yet ye, Oh! Prelates, hold aloft a book, Concocted in the gloomy ages gone, By men as selfish and unjust as ye, Who flaunt the Act of Nature, and declare It wicked and unbinding, unless blest By superstitious Mummery, conceived By the immoral Prophets of the Past. They dare to call my pure-souled mother bad. Dub her a wanton, robe her name in shame! Curses upon them and the ranting Cant Which voices such a foul and hideous lie. Away with it! Perdition to its name, I will for ever be its fiercest foe; I, who love Nature, the true, only God, I, Vergli, the poor bastard son of him Who lives in legalized Adultery With the unhappy and degraded slave, Which his priest-ridden Creed has called The Queen, I swear to fight it to its very death. I vow it! I, the Disinherited.”—

Enter Maxim, who has overheard the last words. “What, Vergli here? ‘The Disinherited!’ Sighing o’er wrongs. Planning Revolution. Dost know King Hector is abroad to-night, And will return this way without a doubt? What will he say if he should find thee here? Put thee in prison, man, most probably. Oh! thou art rash to venture thus, as ’twere Into the precincts of The Lion’s den, The person of The Disinherited.”

Vergli. “Maxim, that’s why I came; I fain would speak With my liege lord and King, and Father too, I would plead just once more for my own rights And crave respect for my dear Mother’s name. She lies sore sick, sick unto very death, That Mother, dearer to me than my life, She, who should be our fair Saxscober’s Queen, Not as is poor Isola, a mere slave, But reigning all conjointly with my sire, I, the presumptive heir to him and her And not the forced usurper of her rights.”

Maxim. “Oh! these are dreams, Vergli; thou dream’st strange dreams; Woman is but the appanage of man, At least our priestly tutors tell us so. ’Tis they who have assigned that place to her. Would’st thou make her Man’s equal? Have a care, Freedom to Woman would doom Privilege, And that we have secured from ages old By help of Superstition and false gods, Who bade the Woman bow the knee to Man. Mind’st thou how in the days that have gone by Thou had’st a sister, little Merani? She was thy elder by a year or more, Did she live now, would’st put her in thy place And as the eldest born declare her heir, Princess of Scota and prospective Queen Of fair Saxscober, leaving out thyself As a nonentity and younger born?”

Vergli. “Aye, that I would. Fervently I say it, So long as Primogeniture is law, Consistency declares the eldest born, And not the male first-born alone, the heir. Saxscober’s laws do not deny the right To Woman to inherit, when no boy Stands in the way depriving her of such. Why should a Woman therefore lose this right Because a younger brother sees the light? No Maxim, if Merani were alive, I’d dub her Scota’s Princess and declare That she was the true heiress of this realm.”

Maxim. “Ah! well Vergli; I see thy point, ’tis just, But Justice is not loved by many men. He who would see it reign, is seldom found; ’Tis but a selfish creature, average man! And yet methinks he is not all to blame, Why do not Women teach him in his youth The principle of Justice to their sex?”

Vergli. “Because they know no better. They are slaves Drilled to believe the priestly fashioned laws Part of Divine instruction and command. In the dark ages gone, the prophets knew That Woman, to be held in check, must bend Prostrate before the superstitious spell Which has enveloped her with obscure mist And hidden from her sight The Promised Land. And so, poor thing, she hugs her chains and drills Her very children to believe them just, And if amidst these children, a girl child Dares to dispute this creed, the world aghast Gapes at her shouting, ‘How so miscreant! What! You say; You are disinherited? Presume you thus to question God’s decree And the most holy spouter of His Will, The Great Saint Saul, so chivalrous, so just, Who bade the Woman sanctify herself By humbly subjecting herself to man.’ ‘But,’ cries the child, and Maxim you will know I quote Isola’s words, which she has dared To fling broadcast upon a gaping world, ‘But I deny that such a God exists, And that he ever lived to say such things. He is the fabrication of those men Progenitors of Chivalrous Saint Saul! As chivalrous and just as that Good Man, Who, I declare, at every turn of speech Insults the woman and proclaims her slave.’ Thus speaks Isola, poor Isola, who Bore the young boy who holds the name I claim Of ‘Prince of Scota,’ unto my own sire; And thus assisted, though unwillingly, In rivetting upon my mother’s neck, And on that of her sex the cruel chains, Cast round them by a man-made, man-shaped God, And rivetted upon them by Saint Saul! Small wonder that Isola’s loud protest Has roused some of the disinherited, As it has spurred me also to revolt; Aye, here I stand, ‘The Disinherited,’ In spirit speaking to that lonely soul, Dwelling within that Palace’s cold Prison, And join with her my cry against foul Wrong. But hark! Voices! Maxim retire. The King.”

King Hector, catching sight of Vergli; “Thou Vergli? Thou art rash and most presuming To test my patience thus. What wantest thou?”

Vergli. “To speak with thee, my father and my King.”

King Hector. “Of what avail? I know before thou speakest”——

Vergli (interposing). “My Mother’s dying, sire. I bear to thee Her farewell message and some words of love.”

King Hector (starting). “Dying! What say’st thou, Vergli? Here Larar, Precede me, I will follow on anon.”

Larar. “Yes Sire.” [Retires.

Vergli (turning to King Hector): “Father! For thus I learnt to call thee, e’re Thou taught’st me that my mother had no rights And that I was a Disinherited. I come to bear to thee her dying words. ‘Tell him,’ she whispered, ‘that I love him still, Hector, my rightful husband before God. Tell him Merani’s dying thoughts forgive, Forgive him for the Wrong he has upheld By wedding Isola and scorning me. But tell him also, Vergli, that no creed Can sanctify a Sin, nor any law, No matter how ’tis worded, alter God, God, who is Nature indestructible. I am his wife by the true law of God, He is my husband by that self-same law, And by that law thou art the rightful heir, So long as Primogeniture is law, For Merani thy sister is no more. Were she alive, however, I declare Her right to be the heir, a prior one To thine, my son. In this we are agreed. Go tell thy father Merani’s last words, And pray him to do justice to Vergli.’ Father, I pray thee harken to those words, Be just, be brave; Oh! Father, be a King In deed as well as name, be that, and more, Be a true Man, dear Nature’s genuine son, And not the creature of unnatural laws, The offspring of a superstitious creed.”

King Hector (aside). “My son is eloquent, his words convince, And yet I dare not flout the Church or State, Which bids me worship and obey them both.”

To Vergli. “How now, mad youth, I bid thee once for all Cease this revolt against established law, And yield obedience to our Mother Church. My views are dreams; all Revolution is The outcome of fantastic, rebel thought. Thou and Isola, both are dreaming fools, Doubtless I’ll find her in a mood like thine, Which I intend to crush relentlessly. Beware, rash lad, try me no more. Be wise. I warn thee, Vergli, but for the last time.”

A large room on an upper floor in a housed, situate in a side street, leading off the populous thoroughfare and district of Stairway. The room is full of men and women, of poor but respectable class. They are listening to a somewhat eccentric looking man, who is addressing them; Scrutus by name.

Scrutus (pleadingly). “Be honest, comrades, show that which men lack, The Courage of their own convictions. Hark! Truth’s silver voice is pleading for you now. ’Tis Vergli, Hector’s son, who has flung down The gauntlet of defiance against Wrong. Vergli, himself, a disinherited; ’Tis he who has proclaimed our sacred rights, The rights which human beings claim by right, Right, moral and divine, and by divine I mean, as you all know, by Nature’s law. What are these rights? They are to live and be, To have access to Opportunity, To eat a wholesome meal once in the day, To be afforded work and honest toil, To be assured the idle shall not loaf, To know the infirm shall have free succour, The aged live in comfortable homes, To be assured likewise that every sex Shall have a voice in governing our land, That Privilege shall never be usurped, And that in Merit only, rank shall find Its resting place, which is its rightful due. We have the Human Right likewise to rule Our lives by laws divine. Vergli has said, And Vergli speaks with reason, ‘that no law Should bind Humanity but Human law, Which law is Nature, therefore Perfection.’ A natural religion is our right, Religion founded by the laws of God, Not Superstition’s God, as made by priests, But God as Nature represents this force, Whose laws no man-made creed can controvert. Rest certain, Nature orders all things best, And when we seek to flout her, sorrow comes. Look round ye, comrades. Nature is oppressed, On every side the disinherited Roam speechless, mutely wond’ring whence their pain, Begging as Charity what is their right; Right filched from them by those who mock and scout As wicked and immoral, Nature’s laws.”

Verita (interposing, speaks): “Scrutus is right, he voices Vergli’s words, Words which are gold and silver in our ears. If we would win the common rights detailed We must combine, and practice what we preach. What do we seek to win? Just human rights, And to be governed by diviner laws Than now prevail. Our revolution is The evolution of both Thought and Mind, Which working upwards yearns to find the Truth. Wander in Stairway’s slums. Is Truth found there? No, nothing but a huge and monster lie, The offspring of a Superstitious creed, That creed which Sanctimonious bids us hug, And which is bolstered up by Church and State. What has it done for us, that boasted creed? Why made us the poor disinherited, The outcasts of a sham Society, In which Sham’s influence is paramount; And when we cry ‘Reform,’ retorts ‘Revolt,’ And dubs our movement ‘Social Revolution.’ Our noble Vergli calls it ‘Moral Force,’ Seeking a level where it can abide, And influence entire Society. And thus it is, dear comrades, without doubt, And therefore to attain it we must work, Using all forces which we can command. We seek not Anarchy, that’s not our creed, We ask for Human rights and Human laws, For true religion, and not Superstition.”

A Voice. “I hear a step. Surely it is Vergli’s.”

Vergli. “The top of the morning! to you, kind friends, Our burrow then is not evacuated?”

A Voice. “No, noble Vergli! but the ferrets prowl And sniff around its entrance, seeking prey, The secret ‘peerers’ of our sharp Ardrigh Are searching for that which they may devour. Vergli’s ‘free lances,’ who are just the nuts Which Sanctimonious loves to gobble up, Having first pulverised to dust their shells. But every dog enjoys its day. We will Open his grace’s eyes, and make them stare When Vergli is returned to Parliament, And his most graciousness’s abject slave Is given the ‘good-bye’ by Stairway’s votes.”

Vergli. “How goes it, Scrutus? How now, Verita, Are you and he making good headway still? Shall we succeed this time? How go the funds? Low, I’m afraid? What no? Why do you smile And shake your head and laugh so pleasantly?”

Verita. “Because the silver lining of our cloud Is shining brightly. Stairway is aroused, And Isola has filled our purse with gold. She sent it secretly ‘for Vergli’s cause,’ But we know well it is Isola’s gift. That poor Isola, pining, as the lark Pines in its gilded cage, with eyes intent Upon the Heav’n its cagèd spirit craves.”

Vergli. “Isola, ah! yes, she is Vergli’s friend, The heart of that poor captive beats with love For all the disinherited of Erth, Be they of human or of brute creation, Knowing that All Creation has its rights, The dumb brute and the voluble human. From both of which the sanctimonious laws, Which rule Society, have filched their dues. Isola is in heart and deed a Queen, Not that gay puppet which man dresses up In tawdry garments trimmed with tinsel daubs, Pulling the strings which make the puppet dance The weird, fantastic jig his fancy loves, But what a monarch should be, a kind friend, The people’s Maypole, round which Joy is rife And laughter is not drowned in Suff’ring’s tears. Yet our false laws deny her human rights, Class her with the poor idiot whose dulled brain, Diseased by causes physical, is mute, And cannot use the right, which nature gives To all the human family of this erth, No matter of which sex its items are, That right to think, and speak, and fashion laws Demanded by Necessity. Progress Demands new laws, and busy evolution Will not be bound by antiquated thought, Whose crude ideas no longer satisfy The ever moving forces of Mankind. Yet Isola, proud Sanctimonious says, Has not the right to vote or represent, Or be that, which she is, a human being! Is she not—leastwise Sanctimonious says,— An offcast of the man, piece of his bone, That piece, a rib, filched by God from his side, Which he can pet, mal-use, treat as a thing Dependent on him, not of much account, Unless it be to pander to his wants Physical or Political, a slave. Bone of his bone? Ha! Ha! a splintered bone? Or stay! Perhaps the long sought missing link, The bone of that lost tail! I have it now; Oh! happy thought! Oh! Sanctimonious, What will you pay me for this missing link? No wonder we have searched for it in vain, Seeing your Deity made use of it To fashion her, to whom no doubt He said, ‘Woman, thou art indeed the tail of Man.’^[3] A vast idea, is it not, Verita? Are you not fascinated by the thought? Just ponder it. Bone of his bone. Sublime! The missing link between the ape and man.”

Verita (laughing). “Oh! thought divine! Who dares to question now The wondrous evolutionary power Which fashions thought, and from an Embryo Will turn it into a discerning God. Haste Vergli! Haste! Give Scientists the clue, Oh! Physiologists, examine quick The rib made woman. Surely a mistake! A slip of pen, a literary ‘mot.’ If only you can reconcile that tale And get the rib to waive its ancient claims, And find in Woman’s bones a trace of that Most noble Relic of primeval man, Then you and Sanctimonious can embrace And stitch up all your little differences, Hold a most amicable, state Pow Wow, Issue a new and Authorised edition Of a revised and up-to-date religion, Smoking together fragrant Pipes of Peace. But Vergli, apart from joking, good news! Ay excellent the news I have received. Isola has assured your cause success By sending us the sinews that we lacked. I have no fear. Vergli, you’ll be returned, The Sanctimonious nominee o’erturned, Next Parliament will hail you an M.P.”

Vergli. “Verita, Scrutus, kindly comrades, thanks, For your brave work on my behalf. I swear To labour in your service to the last, Whether I represent you as M.P. Or lead you forward to fair Freedom’s goal, As King in deed and not alone in name. Take Vergli’s gratitude. He ne’er forgets. His aim will be to reign within your hearts, And reap his people’s love, faithful and true. And now, good morning to you, see the sun Is clasping in its rays those shamefaced clouds Which Night is beckoning, as off she flies, To leave to Day an equal spell of rule As she has held. We must not linger here, A sadder scene demands my presence now, So let us leave our burrow solitary, And go our diff’rent ways as silently As we came here. We disinheriteds Will bear in mind our motto and watchwords, ‘Forward’ to fight for ‘Liberty and Truth.’”

SCENE III.

A cottage overlooking the Firth, in the island of Scota. The cottage is covered with climbing roses and creepers, and flowers abound in rich profusion. The cottage nestles amidst stately trees, and grassy glades surround it, and in these glades rabbits and pheasants feed in perfect peace and security. In this woodland retreat every kind of bird finds a home, and their song gives glory to their joy and happiness. Here, too, the roe deer dwells amidst the bracken and the squirrel is permitted to revel in Life amongst the dark pines which rear aloft their spreading branches. A rippling burn runs through the whole Glen, making its way towards the sea, and its waters shelter the shy brown trout, who leads, as far as man is concerned, an undisturbed existence. Life is sacred in Glen Glory by order of its Mistress, Merani.

Merani (stretched on a couch in her bedroom, close to an open window. She is alone. Time: Evening): “So this is Death? How quietly it comes, Creeping like Evening’s shadows slowly on. I feel its presence drawing very nigh, Its cold breath hovering around my face, Like the chill wind which heralds in a storm. God of my heart! I do not fear its touch; It is from Thee it comes, so must be right, The Pow’r that rules all things, that put me here And takes me hence, will clasp me in its arms And make me still a part of endless Life, Part of the Mighty Universe divine, Part of that matter indestructible, Whose very death creates and recreates, Fashioning Life from out of all decay. Oh! Life, thou art a strange enigma here. Marred by the vices and the sins of Man, Distorted by his weird, fantastic creed Which shapes a most impossible, dread God And makes him parent of unnatural laws. This is the God who judges me outcast, A prostitute, a disinherited, Because I would not utter shameful vows, And call myself the slave of e’en a King. And yet by the true laws, of the true God, Nature, the one and only God I own, I am the wife of Hector, as he is The husband, whom I loved, and loving still Claim as my wedded co-mate, though he has Proclaimed me outcast and forced to his side That poor Isola, loved of Escanior, Fair Escanior to whom her heart was wed, Who died before her eyes unwillingly, For life was sweet to him when she was nigh, And bright to her so long as he was near. Ah! well, we suffer when we cast defiance At Nature, so must willing hands strike down The superstitions and the lies of Men, And fight to win fair Justice and bright Truth. Vergli, my son, dear Scota’s rightful prince, Have I not given thee these thoughts of mine? Yes, and have bidden thee spread them afar And labour to achieve Success for them. Vergli, it seems to me thou drawest nigh Often we think of those who think of us, What binds together sudden intercourse, Community of thought? Spirits blending? What hidden force of interchanging thought Brings this about? Oh! Science thou art dense, Thou hast a vast immensity to learn. Clear out the Charnel House of thy dull brain And flood it with that penetrating thought Which some have sneered at as Imagination. Where would all Truth have been but for its aid? Sometimes its shapes are vague and most obscure, As all conception is, e’en Life itself, Which from a speck becomes a thinking brain, Fruit of the tiny atom first conceived. Thus shall Thought be the ovule of a Life At present far beyond our comprehension. A life whose thought, in Evolution’s arms Shall far transcend the ovule of to-day, Bringing us knowledge that shall pierce the veil That veil which hides the secret of Creation.”

Enter an Attendant, exclaiming: “Lady Merani, your son is here, just come.”

Merani. “See dear Azalea to his needs, and then Bid him come to his mother’s side. The lights are growing dim and darkness steals Across the vision of these once bright eyes. Ah! ’tis his voice, ’tis Vergli’s, dearest boy, So without tarrying thou seekest me? Azalea you may leave us quite alone, It is my last ‘alone’ with my dear son.”

Vergli (kissing her): “Mother, I bore thy message to my sire. If I mistake not, it struck home a shaft Which made him wince although he held high head And bade me bow to the inevitable. But fear not mother, Truth and Right shall win, I’ll work for it unto my latest breath. I’ll plant the seed thou gav’st me. It may be I shall not reap the harvest it shall bring. But other hands can reap where I have sown And in the reaping thou shalt win the day.”

Merani. “It matters little who will reap the grain, So it is reaped. Our work is Evolution, In which all Nature, that is God, directs The ceaseless ever active spinning wheels Which weave the vast materials of space Into forms known to us, and all unknown. Here I, advancing into that unknown, Upon whose threshold I shall shortly stand, Counsel thee Vergli to work endlessly To find the Truth of all things by research And by developing the Thought of Man. But Thought will never soar to heights sublime, Those heights where dwell the knowledge that we seek, Save in the brain of recreated Man, By which I mean the Human perfected. It is not perfect to be full of lust, It is not perfect to have cruel hearts, It is not perfect to oppress the weak, Or to deny to all and everything The rights which Nature gives them as their own. The perfect man will not delight in war, Nor crave to make his food of bleeding flesh, The Vivisection Hell and Slaughter House, The pastime known as ‘Sport’ and other crimes, Which Superstition and imperfect Man Have hitherto upheld and countenanced, Will cease to be and our fair Erth become That which Perfection shall attain for Man, An Eden Garden, one in fact, not myth, A world where love and kindness shall hold sway. Thus shalt thou toil towards that far off goal. Vergli, my son, be just, be merciful, Treat every living thing that breathes and feels As kith and kin, nor seek to disinherit That living life of Life’s fair heritage, Nor filch from Life its dearest privilege, The right to live and to enjoy its own. Work to make Man divine in heart and form, Teach him that beauty is assured to all Who shall be born of well selected mates. Teach him that ’tis a crime to the unborn To breed unhealthy offspring or oppress Woman with childbirth’s oft-recurring strain. Quality, not Quantity, should be the aim, And every child should be the fruit of love, And not of lust, incontinence or greed, Which latter is ungoverned Passion’s child. Vergli, my son, these are thy Mother’s words, The mother who has lived and nurtured thee. Thou wilt be true, I feel it, for I know Thou art in truth born of my very bone. See Evening fades. Upon horizon’s face Soft lights are dying, slowly, as I die; Dying, but only to be born again As all is born anew in Nature’s arms. Behind the fading evening, darksome Night Looms like a ghost, and yet a fair-faced wraith. Around whom brilliant worlds irradiate And glorify the endless Universe. Behind dark Night I see the face of Dawn, Dawn, dimpled-cheeked and rosy like a child, Dawn that proclaims the birth of a new day, The offspring of Eternal Evolution. There is no end, Vergli, there is no end, Who dares to say the infinite can die? Science? Ah: Science, quit your A. B. C. And learn to read until you find the Truth. Vergli, dear Son, thy Mother sinks to sleep Good night, but some day it will be good morning. Kiss me, Merani’s eyes are courting sleep, The Sleep which Death awards to everyone. The Sleep which must awake, as certainly As cycle wheel goes ever turning round. Bury me, Vergli, where the wild flow’rs bloom. Kill not a single bud to deck my grave; No faded wreaths let any man lay there. Let Nature only whisper with soft voice When Merani rests in the lap of Erth. Hold my hand, Vergli; see, I have no fear. Oh! Death, where is thy terror or thy sting?”

Vergli (kneeling down beside his Mother’s couch): “No, Mother. Fear of Death is not for thee, Or for those others who, like thee, believe That Nature’s laws are part of the divine, And the divine, the great Inscrutable, And the Inscrutable, the only God, Which Human minds cannot distort or mar, Because they cannot formulate the thought Which shall conceive thee as thou art indeed. I bow before thee, vast creating force, And will not dare to mock thy Majesty By sculpturing thee in any kind of form. Yes, Mother, I will plough and sow the grain Which thou hast counselled me to cultivate. And it shall root, and grow, and multiply Until the world shall shine with golden corn, And Man shall reap and feast upon this grain, And wax beneath its potent nourishment, A Hercules in Thought and Perfect Love, Parents of Knowledge that we hunger for. Oh! future Thought! Oh! Perfect Love! true mates, Creators of that Truth we yearn to find. I see ye, yes I see ye, though afar, The time will come when we shall clasp your hands And revel in the Knowledge yet unknown.”