Rothsay. I can only think
Of bread, bread, bread!...
... Oh, without
Are many cornfields—;and the river! God!
I scarcely can remember anything
But the white floods, and the last scrap of meat
I emptied from my wallet.
. . . . .
I ever thought
Death was a shadow.—;I myself am Death.
I fed and never knew it: now I starve.
Here is the skeleton I’ve seen in books!
’Tis I—;the knarled and empty bones. Here—;Here—;
The grinning dints! I thought Death anywhere
But near my life; and it is in the pith
And centre of my body. Horrible!
Act IV, Scene 2
King Robert does not know that David is dying, and the tragic irony of Scene 5 of this act is masterly. It is a wild night, and the King, crouching over the fire of a room high up in the castle, hears the wind shriek outside and thinks of his boy, whom he believes to be merely shut up like a naughty child to recover from his rage:
K. Robert. My poor lad,
My David, who is fearful of the dark,
Would he were here this bleak and scolding night!
He used to throw a cushion on the floor,
And lay him down as featly as the hound,
His foolish yellow head against my knee;
And so he’d laugh and chat and sing old songs,
Or gaily sneer at our last grave debate,
Drop sudden crude suggestions that anon
Our older counsel ripened into act;
Until for some light word I’d give rebuke,
When either with a peal of raillery
He’d toss me back a penitent bright face,
Or with a shaded humour spring apart,
No place from me too far. Good Albany,
You would not have our Rothsay longer shut
In such grim-tempered darkness?
Act IV, Scene 5
William Rufus (1885), a full-dress drama of five acts, is without a woman character. It is based on Freeman’s history of Rufus, and was suggested to the poet, as she explains in the preface, by a visit to the New Forest. There she found the stone which marks the spot where Rufus fell, pierced by an arrow glancing from an oak, “as if directed,” to use her own phrase, “by Nature’s anger at the destruction of her food-bearing fields for the insolence of pleasure.”
So there, again, peeps out the ulterior motive. The idea of the play is explicitly to be the land question; and that it had, in fact, a political bearing is confirmed by the poet’s letters on the subject. Yet one is glad to discover, as we quickly do, that here as elsewhere in her intellectual drama Michael Field has been better than her creed: her dramatic instinct has subdued the idea to itself. So that, if we had no other evidence than that of the play, we should be convinced that the idea grew out of the theme, and was not imposed upon it. It was never a case of the poets’ exclaiming, “Go to, we will write a problem-play!” but rather of a sudden perception, in their travels or their reading, “What a subject for drama!” and then, as an afterthought, “And see what profound significance!” But as a fact all the evidence points in the same direction: a character would arrest them, they would be attracted by its story, would absorb themselves in the study of it, and become literally possessed by it—;working out the implicit idea as something subsidiary.
In this play the idea is completely assimilated to imagination. There is no bald presentation of it on the plane of everyday existence, for that surely is a function of comedy. And though the King’s cruelty in appropriating the peasants’ land is shown in its effect upon the lives of individuals, a larger vision of the problem is presented in the figure of one old man, Beowulf, who is, as it were, the wronged spirit of the Earth in human shape. In him the idea is made both concrete and spiritual, as the genius of poetry can make it. He is a very real, rough-hewn old countryman, with a vigorous part in the movement of the drama; and yet there is a touch upon him that is weird and supernatural, which relates him to fierce elemental forces and makes him at one and the same time a rustic and an avenging deity. He is blind; his eyes were put out long ago for trespass; and he feels his way to the gallows where the body of his grandson has now been hanged for killing a deer:
Beowulf. I feel it’s here; I have no need to see.
I’m glad they murdered him, not made him dark;
For now he’s dead the Earth will think on him
As she unweaves his body bit by bit.
She’ll have time like the women-folk at work
To turn all over in her mind, and get
His wrongs by heart.
... Who is here?
Wilfrith. Wilfrith! I often come to pray for him!...