Transcriber’s Note:
The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.
“The Last Watch.”
“Lo! sinks the sun beneath the Bawn co Pagh
Amidst a perfect sea of yellow gold.”
—Act VI., Scene III.—“Isola.”
FORTUNATUS ON THE HEIGHTS OF AVENAMORE
“The youth upon whose head a price is set,
—Young Fortunatus—is this Isola, ...
And leads as Fortunatus the unknown.”
—Act IV., Scene III.—“Isola.”
ISOLA;
or,
THE DISINHERITED.
A
Revolt for Woman and all the disinherited.
BY
LADY FLORENCE DIXIE,
WITH REMARKS THEREON
BY
GEORGE JACOB HOLYOAKE, Esq.
“Heed not the human sneer, the world lives on
Long after those who jeer are dead and gone.
And the ripe products of the fertile brain,
Will live and reproduce fair fruit again.
Thus thou shalt sow, though other hands will reap,
Perchance long after thou hast sunk to sleep.
But, fear not. Thought is Life. It cannot die,
And men will honour what they now deny.”
(“The Coming of Alastor,” in The Songs of a Child.)
LONDON:
The Leadenhall Press, Ltd: 50, Leadenhall Street, E.C.
Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd:
New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 153–157, Fifth Avenue.
The Leadenhall Press, Ltd:
50, LEADENHALL STREET, LONDON. E.C.
T 4,793.
Dedication.
TO
GEORGE JACOB HOLYOAKE, Esq.,
IN ADMIRATION
OF
HIS LONG AND COURAGEOUS FIGHT
AGAINST
SUPERSTITION, INJUSTICE, AND OPPRESSION,
AND OF
HIS FEARLESS DETERMINATION EVER TO SPEAK
AND UPHOLD
The Truth,
THIS DRAMA, LIKEWISE APPEALING FOR JUSTICE TO ALL
LIVING THINGS AND THE RECOGNITION OF TRUTH,
IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR.
FIRST PREFACE.
Isola demands the practice of the true laws of the only true God.
The drama demands Justice for all living things, from Ruler to Subject, of either sex, and for the brute Creation.
It advocates the Reign of Truth and the destruction of Humbug.
Look at the World and what the latter has produced!
Let Truth take the place of The Lie.
Let rational laws in Church and State prevail, fashioned in accordance with the laws of the Universe.
Shall Progress be deterred by antiquated ideas and opinions founded on imperfect Knowledge?
No. The antiquated ideas and opinions must be swept away. The result will be Freedom.
Florence Dixie.
1877.
SECOND PREFACE.
Isola first appeared in Young Oxford in September, 1902, and ran in serial form for six months through that publication. The drama itself was written many years ago. It is not for me to deal with its merits or demerits. These are handled generously by the true-hearted and honest gentleman to whom I have the honour to dedicate the piece. At nineteen or twenty the heart is more concerned with ideals, than the brain with thoughts of literary excellence. The soul, longing to uphold Truth and destroy Falsehood, forgets the p’s and q’s of literary etiquette, and I fear influences the pen to give premier consideration to the former.
The drama, Isola, opposes many established customs, but if these rest their claim to existence on antiquated and erroneous ideas, they must be remorsely uprooted. Man cannot make lasting laws. That is in Nature’s power alone, for Progress, Research and enlarged Thought Force will not be bound by the cramped and immature ideas of gloomy ages gone. Superstition has persecuted many, but the time has come to repudiate it, for in its wake follows Misery, and to it is due the sorrows of Mankind.
In my preface to Young Oxford occurs the following paragraph:
“Let us in imagination soar above our Earth and look down on it revolving in space, and then look round on that infinite space, in which myriads of other worlds are also revolving. As we look down on our Earth, shall we not see upon its surface the glories of Nature’s beauty, and the hideous scars inflicted thereon by Man? As we look down on these unsavory sights, and realise how contemptible they are, shall we not resolve to eradicate them and make the picture one of peace, contentment and joy? Instead of looking down on blood, carnage, cruelty, torture, suffering and injustice, let us look down on the reverse, and in order to do so, let us realise the simple, rational and natural ideas of ‘Isola.’ Advanced, are they? Not a bit of it. Unusual? Maybe. But because they are unusual does not make them wrong. Nothing Natural can be aught but right, for it is the offspring of Nature, the only true God. ‘Isola’ demands the practice of the true laws of the only true God.”
I shall always stand by this assertion.
In conclusion, I desire to make the following statement. My publishers have pointed out to me that in some of the names of places and countries I have chosen, there might arise cause for the belief that my characters in Isola are drawn from life. I am glad to here state frankly that, in so far as royal personages are concerned, they are purely fictitious and concern no living human being whatever. Customs and etiquettes I certainly openly attack. Who would not who desires, as I do, to see justice done, not only to the poor disinherited human and suffering non-human, but also to our disinherited and manacled rulers? The unjust laws in regard to woman I also vigorously attack, and for Superstitious Falsehood I have no reverence whatever. Nevertheless, judge me as they may, let no one accuse me of Mockery or Infidelity, for I innately worship the Inscrutable and believe in Nature, both of which are God alone. Let us have “Truth at any price,” no matter what idols we have to cast down to attain it. In the attainment of Truth, Justice, Love and Kindness shall rule in the place of Selfishness, Cruelty and Greed, and Fair Play be meted out to all.
Florence Dixie.
Characteristics of the Drama.
Though I cannot but be gratified by the Dedication of this Drama to me, it does not, and was not intended to influence my judgment. Its noble and unusual aims of “demanding Justice for every living thing, from Ruler to Subject, of either sex, and for the brute creation and advocating the reign of Truth and destruction of Imposture”—could not fail to command my sympathy and admiration. Written when the authoress was a girl, the drama is a marvel of thought and power. I know of no one, save Shelley, who, at so early an age was troubled about the questions she discusses with such generous passionateness. Apart from immaturities of expression, natural to immaturity of years, the Drama is a wonderful piece of writing. But the occasional youthfulness of style creates the greater surprise at the maturity of conception and often original expression.
The Drama opens with what George Henry Lewes entitled the great problem of “Life and Mind.” The first words Isola speaks are:
“Vast attribute of the Eternal mind. Thought, and thy clinging twin, fair Memory. Art thou and she imperishable parts Of Life and Matter?”
Here is a perfect philosophic theory excellently put. Surely never Queen before was set to answer such questions.
Isola is a Lady Macbeth of a nobler kind, but has the same undaunted spirit. She is bold but tender—and only inflexible for the Right. Her conception of womanly independence is original in literature. The legal and ecclesiastical restrictions woven about her, which limit her freedom and frustrate her equality, are discerned with great acumen and described with great power. Such indignation at wrong; such energy and eloquence in its denunciation, such devotion, sacrifice and unbewailing courage—constitute the Rebel Queen a new inspiration. Rugged expressions which occur here and there, seem congenial to the rugged and impetuous times in which the scenes are laid. Even there there is gold in the quartz. Keats tells us that Columbus when he first saw new lands from the peak of Darien, viewed them with “glad surprise.” In like manner the reader comes upon fresh unexpected sentences. The moral interest of the Drama has great charm. Every speech, however impassioned, has a certain quality of restraint; amid fiery denunciation of regal and legal wrong, there is no insurgency against law, but against unjust law Isola abdicates her throne in generosity to her rival. Her love of justice and right brings her to the scaffold, which she contemplates with quiet heroism, in which there is no fear, or flutter of fear—neither bravado nor shrinking. No hysterical word escapes her. No word of reproach, such as Madame Roland uttered, is spoken by Isola. Her sole desire is to save others and to serve the cause of right. As the tragic death of a woman, capable both of heroism and reflection, the last hours of Fortunatus are memorable.
The reader will not need to be told of the felicity in the invention of names; nor of the spirited scenes in the public Hall, where the orators of the People speak; nor of the intrigues of courts, nor the conspiracy of priests—which make these pages alive with interest. The speech of Merani on the consciousness of her approaching death, has queenly dignity, as well as flashes of true poetry. The reader will see in the “Last Watch” of Fortunatus on the heights of Avenamore, the beauty, the dignity, the determination without defiance, of Isola. Intellectual intrepidity in defence of the Right, is the soul of the Drama of the Disinherited.
G. J. Holyoake.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Hector. King of Saxa, Scota and Bernia (and the Saxscober people[[1]]) forming the kingdom of Saxscoberland in the planet Erth. Isola. Queen Consort. Bernis. Prince of Scota, their son. Merani. The so-called Mistress of the King, but claiming to be his wife, having married him by the civil law of Scota (long previous to his union with Isola) while refusing to go through the religious ceremony, which the law of Saxscoberland adjudges necessary to constitute a legal marriage.[[2]] Vergli. Their son, claiming to be Prince of Scota. Maxim. Vergli’s school and college friend. Larar. King Hector’s equerry. Shafto. Prince of Bernia. Brother of Isola. Vulnar. A noble of Bernia. Sanctimonious. Ardrigh of Saxscoberland. Conception. Chief of “Peerers.” Judath. A spy and informer. Scrutus. A leader of the “Evolutionary Party” under Vergli. Verita. A leader also of the same party. Azalea. One of Merani’s attendants. Volio. Arflec. Conspirators.
&c., &c., &c.
[1]. No suggestion whatever is intended in the selection of these names. (1877)
[2]. The situation is created to enable the Author to deal with the degrading position assigned to woman in the Religious Marriage Service, which position that service forces her to agree to accept and enjoins her to obey. (1877)
Isola; or, The Disinherited.
PROLOGUE.
Isola, Princess of Bernia, loves Escanior, one of her father’s youthful bodyguard. The Prince of Bernia has, however, promised her in marriage to his liege lord and sovereign, Hector, paramount King of the Saxens, Scotas and Ernas, inhabitants of the three islands Saxa, Scota and Bernia, situated in the Emerald Ocean, in the Planet Erthris, or Erth, and together forming the Kingdom of Saxscoberland. Isola and Escanior attempt flight, but are pursued by the Prince of Bernia, and captured in their boat, whereupon the Prince condemns Escanior to instant death, and he is stabbed and flung into the sea, his unhappy love, Isola, being borne away to become the wife of Hector, King of the Saxscober people, and shortly afterwards the nuptials are celebrated.
Isola, Queen of the Saxscobers, sitting alone soliloquises: “Vast attribute of the Eternal mind, Thought, and thy clinging twin, fair Memory, Art thou and she imperishable parts Of Life and Matter, or but sudden sparks Born to expire and never live again? What art thou Thought and what is Memory If not the factors of undying Life, Which draws from Death fresh force to recreate And fashion new existence from Decay? Oh! Thought; oh! Memory, Ye cannot die, Ye can but sink to sleep in Death’s cold arms To wake again, a recreated force, Part of a universe which cannot end, Because its function is to recreate, Evolving Life from Nature’s boundless store, Nature the all Eternal, only God, Creator of all things known and unknown, The Great Inscrutable, which mind alone Shall understand when it is perfected. Escanior; Oh! Escanior, where art thou? Fair Memory recalls thee to thy love, Isola, who will never yield her heart To mortal man, for it is thine alone. My golden haired, my blue-eyed Escanior! They murdered thee before these starting eyes, They forced me to become another’s bride, They forced that horror on my shrinking soul And left me to endure its fearful pain. One thing they could not do. They could not take My heart away, or force it to vibrate For any other but thy own dear self, My murdered love, my vanished Escanior. Thought! speak to me. Ah! tell me where his is, What part of Nature is his woven with? When will my body, mingling with the Earth Quit this curst slavery and twine once more Its arms around the Love that cannot die? Oh! Thought so penetrating, so divine, Fathom for me the Knowledge that I seek. Shew me where I can find Escanior, Tell me and I will burst my prison bars, And seek with him the liberty I crave.”
Hector, King of the Saxscobers, joins her exclaiming: “Dreaming again Isola. Truth, thou art A sorry bride for a great King to own, A King whom many virgins yearned to win, And whom thou shrinkest from with mute appeal In thy sad eyes that I should let thee be. Hast thou no sense of honour? Where the vows Which Holy Church commanded thee to make To love me, and obey and reverence me, Yes, me thy Lord and Master, thou my slave? Hast thou then no respect for pledges given, And priestly exhortation? How is it Thou shun’st me as thou dost, breaking the vows Thou mad’st to God to be my loving mate?”
Isola. “Hector, I made no vow, my lips were mute, I did not utter the accursed lie, Which would have fallen from them, had I vowed To love, and honour, and obey a man I could not love or honour. Nor would I Lose self respect by swearing to obey One who should be my equal and co-mate, But not my Lord and Master, I his slave. What care I for your Holy Church, or for The priestly exhortations of its Men? Why should these Mockers of the laws of God, Make laws for Women, whom they treat as naught? Tell me not Hector, that their words are God’s, God’s laws are not immoral as theirs are, For God is Nature, God is not that fiend Which priestly doctrine has set up on high And bidden us remember and adore. Remember what has never been, nor is? Adore a myth ladened with cruel crimes, The base conception of ignoble minds? Never! Isola worships one true God, The vast, inscrutable, unfathomed force, Which nothing but a perfect mind shall solve, Which nothing but Perfection shall attain. Hector, you call yourself a mighty King, A ruler wise and just, guided by laws Called by their framers Righteous. Go to, King! I tell you they are rotten to the core, Fruits of a tree planted by priests and men Without the aid of Woman’s guiding hand. Small wonder they are false and trample down The heads of Justice, Mercy and Great Truth. As well might Man attempt alone the task Of making Life without the Woman’s aid, As seek to frame those human laws, which bind Communities together and enforce Their will upon the disinherited. For all around, these outlaws of our Erth Wander and prowl in seething discontent. Men, women, children, all are victims of Unnatural laws, Nature’s base antichrists. Am I not a poor disinherited? Is not that lonely woman far away, That woman dwelling in fair Scota’s isle, Whom, ere you tied with me ignoble ties, You treated as a wife, who bore you seed, And loved you Hector as I love you not, Is she not too a Disinherited, One of the outlaws fashioned by your laws? Is not the son she bore you, Vergli called, Your rightful heir? Is not the child you force On me, by Nature illegitimate, Although the priests declare it blest by God? Why did you leave her to dishonour me? I did not seek to be your crownèd slave, I loved but one, my dear Escanior, They murdered him and tore me from his side To be your lawful, sacred prostitute! Out on the creed that dares to order thus, Out on it, and its superstitious cant, Out on the monstrous God it has set up And made the Sponsor of its ranting lies. No, Hector, such a creed will never stand, Or be professed by thinking, honest hearts. ’Twas only made to gull the ignorant, And sway the superstitious multitude. All round you cry the disinherited, Go lift the loads from off the poor oppressed, Strike down all civil and religious laws Which mock at Nature and withhold from Man Those rights which Nature gives to everyone.”
Hector. “Isola, prate no longer blasphemy, Cease thy revilings of the Orthodox, Merani was not wed by Holy Church, Who judges her unwedded, and her son, Vergli, my first born, illegitimate. I bow to Holy Church, the fount of God And its behests I cannot disobey. Vergli is not my heir, the child from thee Will be The Prince of Scota, if a son, And dost thou dare to question his true right, Thou his own mother and King Hector’s wife, Thou the crowned Queen of mighty Saxscober? Cease woman, nor defame God’s holy name, That God who fashioned Woman out of Man. Who are the Disinherited of Erth? Would’st have men equal, and to women give Those sacred rights which Holy Church declares Are man’s alone, given him by his God? Cease thy revolt against the Orthodox, Bow to revealed religion and become A lover of Conventionality. Isola, I command it, I, thy King, And, as thy husband, lord and master too.”
Isola. “No, Hector, I will never bow the knee To Humbug or to the black fiend Untruth. I say the Prince of Scota is Vergli And not the son that I, alas! may bear. Poor innocent! Born to commit a wrong. What am I, the crowned Queen of Saxscober? A creature, a dependent on your life, Who bears the empty title of a Queen Without the powers which should accompany it, And who at your demise is ousted by The very child who prattles at her knee, Who thus is early taught to scorn that part Of his own being, given him by her, Far more a parent than his father even, Whom he calls mother. No, no, Hector, King, Your slave I am, but most unwillingly, Give me my freedom, give to everyone The equal right to strive for and attain The opportunities, which Life affords To those who have the chance to grasp their hands. Unto the Orthodox I will not bow And only one religion can command The homage of Isola. That which Truth Proves unmistakably by Nature’s laws, To be revealed, I will obey, but Cant And rant, and superstition, out on them! Isola shuns them as she would a plague.”
[Rises and walks slowly away.
Hector, solus. “How now! Revolt is in the son and air! Vergli protesting, and Isola’s ire Roused and evolving disobedience. I must assert my sole prerogative, And call unto my aid most Holy Church, Which will not brook of disobedience. Vergli, the disinherited indeed! Isola too a disinherited! The poor, the disinherited of Erth! ’Tis Revolution, ’tis Revolt indeed, Which must be checked at once and instantly. Vergli, Isola shall not mock at me.”
[Retires pondering.
ACT FIRST.
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.
Time: Midnight; outside the Palace Gates.
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.”
[Maxim glides away. Enter King Hector and a boon companion].
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.”
[He turns on his heel, leaving Vergli alone.
SCENE II.
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.
Time: Early Dawn.
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.”
[Enter Vergli. All rise and greet him with looks of affection.
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.’”
[3]. The doctrine of the formation of woman out of a man’s rib is one degrading to her, and calculated to foster the belief held by many men, that the wife is the husband’s property. Since my esteemed ancestress “The Rib” was made an institution she has been treated as a chattel.—Author.
SCENE III.
Glen Glory on the Firth of Glory.
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?”
[Dies.
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.”
[He rises, closes his Mother’s eyes and leaves the room.
End of Act I.
ACT SECOND.
SCENE I.
A large Meeting Hall in Stairway, densely filled with people. The election of a member, for that district, to the House of Privilege, is over, the votes have been counted, and Vergli, to the intense surprise of the party, influenced by Sanctimonious, the Ardrigh of Saxscober, and which has hitherto been the paramount power in Stairway, has been declared to be the returned candidate. The crowded meeting is awaiting his arrival, to hear an address from him.
[Enter Vergli, Scrutus, Verita, Maxim and Members of Vergli’s Election Committee. He receives an immense ovation. The chair is taken by Verita, who, on silence being obtained, rises and introduces the new Member of Privilege for Stairway in the following speech:
Verita. “Friends; Right has triumphed. Vergli is returned. The Cause of Progress, Human love and Truth Has made another bound, and left behind The prison ground wherein it was confined. For what does Vergli’s advent here portend? Why, that the voice of Reason shall be heard, Not trembling in the slums, or whispering In muffled accents its convincing words; But ringing through the House of Privilege, Echoing in the Chamber of the Bores, Re-echoing in the press and through our land, Filling the brains of Men with new-born thought, Thought, recreated from a vanished past, Whose sombre clouds are hastening away, And with them the dark ages which they clothed. Now have the people won their voice a place, And soon that voice, falling from Vergli’s lips, Will cry aloud the human rights of Man, Which term, of course, includes the Woman too. Vergli is Woman’s friend, undoubtedly. His creed does not coerce her with its weight, No Saulite dictum soils his honest lips, To him the human rights are not controlled By that inhuman thief, Sex Privilege. His mission here is to assist the weak, To lift the suffering from out the mire, To give to all a chance of Happiness. To see appalling Contrasts shall not live, To order Labour to protect itself, And Capital to share with Labour’s toil The golden grain accruing from the two, Instead of fabricating Millionaires.”
A Voice. “Fat-stomached monsters! Greedy Cormorants!”
[Cheers and laughter.
Verita. “You wrong the Cormorant! He fills his pouch, To satiate hunger legitimate. ‘Fat-stomached Misshapes!’ That, I grant they are, Sinners, beside which all the lordly Bores, Are saints immaculate and preferable. Toil is ennobling, ease contemptible, ‘Away with such!’ That is our Vergli’s cry. But let him speak. We’ll listen to his voice, Hearken to accents that we love so well. I yield to our new representative, One who is such in deed, as well as name.”
Vergli (rising). “Comrades, my thanks to you of either sex, My cordial gratitude for all your toil, Which has resulted in a victory. Nor can I pass from Gratitude’s fond side, Till I have bidden her seek that of one, Whose heart is with us, though it beats behind The gilded barrier of Palace walls. Ye know that dauntless spirit, nameless here, Nameless, because its mention would entail Suffering on one, whose name our hearts revere. [Murmurs of assent. And yet one other I would speak of, too. One, who since last ye fondly greeted me, Has sunk to sleep in Nature’s kind embrace; My Mother, Merani, who taught Vergli To make the Cause of all who suffer woe, His own. To save the disinherited, And preach the Gospel of Fair Play and Truth. [Murmurs of assent. The Gospel of Fair Play means equal laws, And equal opportunities to all, Women and Men, to live an honoured life, To toil, but reap the fruits of honest toil. Fair Play demands that men who sow shall reap, Not toil to bolster up a selfish Log! For instance, let us take as an example Two men of Property. One owns a mill, The other owns a coal mine. Both pay well. How should these owners work their properties? Is not the wages system a mistake? Would not Co-operation simplify And bind together owner, workman, all? Let him who owns and those who work, receive Their fair division of the profits reaped. The owner gives the land and the machines To work the raw material, yielding gain. Let this be calculated as his toil, And grain, proportionate to such, bestowed, While those, whose labour has produced the grain, Receive their fair share of the profits too. Thus all would have an interest in the work, And feel they laboured not, nor toiled in vain. Strikes and disputes would fade like restless dreams, And Brotherhood would knit the hearts of men. Fair Play demands that money for the State Shall be collected, so that all shall pay, And pay in due proportion to their means, Allowance given for the right to live. He who earns just sufficient for his needs Should not be asked to give his daily bread, But all who profit by their toil should yield Unto the State their equitable share; Commodities required in daily life, And necessary to the weal of Man, Should not be taxable, but free as air, And luxuries alone be charged upon. Fair Play demands that Squalor shall not be, That bread and wholesome food shall be Man’s due, That able-bodied persons shall not loaf, That none shall be denied the right to work, That habitations must be fit abodes, Not dens of Misery and Pestilence, That cruelty to man or to the brute Shall be a most severely punished Crime, For Cruelty to anything that feels Is Crime undoubtedly. We have no right, No right, I say, and say it solemnly, To mete out pain to any sentient thing. The Gospel of Fair Play demands this. Hark! Comrades, its far-famed tenets sound aloud ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ ‘Be merciful, be just,’ ‘Do unto others what ye would have done Unto yourselves.’ These are Fair Play’s commands. He who would reap the grain of Happiness Must sow as he would reap. He must be just. And now I would point out that Truth derides, Derides with scorn all priestly superstition. If priests would be, they must adhere to Truth, They must not seek to bolster up a lie. Truth only dwells in Nature. She abides With her sole God, the endless Universe. Go, seek her there, and not in fairy tales, Proclaim her as she is, not cloaked in sham. Truth is a meteor leading on to more, Leading to where abounding knowledge reigns. Where Truth is not, Falsehood alone can be. Comrades, I pray ye, give your hearts to Truth And let your reasoning be drilled by her. Laws or Religions founded on a lie Cannot be good, nay more, they are pernicious. Laws born of Truth must be what men should frame. I go to struggle to attain this end. Now, let me map a programme and a creed, Both of which shall be our unerring guide, And which shall ultimately Freedom win And give to all the disinherited That which is theirs, their own, their simple right, The right of all things living to enjoy And to preserve their lives in Comfort’s arms. But first take in the fact that Human Life, And much of brute creation can exist, And is intended to exist on grain, On fruit, on vegetables, likewise herbs, And not upon the bleeding, tortured flesh Of animals, bred for immoral use, As such flesh-eating is, when Nature’s laws Proclaim Man and a part of brute Creation Intended to be non-carnivorous. I urge this point upon you. All around Land bids you live upon her wholesome fruit. Throughout the world the natural food of Man Teems in unbounded wealth awaiting him. Let him put forth his hand, and pluck, and eat. Rememb’ring always also Moderation. Kill not for food, and where Necessity Demands the sacrifice of sentient life, Kill with all kindness and with due regard To Physical—and Mental—feelings. Pain Is a nerve-racking, dread experience, Especially unto the dumb Creation, Who cannot question, yet are forced to bear That dread experience, all unwillingly. Our programme then must be to fashion laws Akin to Nature for the people’s good, To overturn the thief, Sex Privilege, To make all property, when worked by toil Co-operative in the profits shared, And land, the birthright of the Human race. Wealth must remember what its duties are, And never hoard its substance greedily. Taxation must be regulated by Far juster and more equitable laws Than now prevail. Justice must reign, and though Equality can never be until All men are perfect, we must have a care That ghastly contrasts are impossible. To Woman give all reverence. Hark! ye, Men, The crime of Prostitution, is a crime In Vergli’s eyes worse than foul murder’s act. Woman and Man were born to be together, But Nature’s tie should bind the two as one. It is the marriage service, which no creed Should dare to trample on or overturn. See here I stand a disinherited, I am the Prince of Scota, yet denied By that false creed of Sanctimonious, The right to call myself legitimate. By that same creed my mother was condemned And called a Prostitute, while Isola, Who did not wish to wed my father, holds The empty title of a Consort Queen And stands by him his legal prostitute. Oh! hideous travesty of Nature’s law, Oh! hateful doctrine of a priestly creed. Call it not God’s, for Nature cries it Shame! And Nature is alone the real, true God. So now I leave ye bent on Evolution. Men have declared us Revolutionists, Not so, we are but Evolutionists, Evolving Order out of Chaos, and Creating where Creation is required. Let us be true unto our principles, Come weal, come woe, stick to them everyone, And if we work and practise what we preach, Assuredly shall Victory be ours.”
[Amidst a scene of intense enthusiasm, Vergli declares the meeting at an end and leaves the hall with his supporters.
SCENE II.
The Palace of Dreaming, in the city of Infantlonia. King Hector and Sanctimonious, Ardrigh of Saxscober, are seated alone in the King’s Audience Chamber. It is the afternoon of a June day.
Sanctimonious (earnestly). “Sire, he is dangerous to Church and State, He seeks to fling defiance at us both; He would o’erturn our laws and ancient faith, And he possesses much the rabble’s love. This last concoction, called Humanity, Dares to exalt and glorify his name, And cast opprobrium on my saintly self, Because I represent the ancient creed— The creed I learnt upon my mother’s knee, From nurse and tutor, pastor and divine, Until at length I grew to think it true. Of course between us, Sire, and these four walls, I do not now believe it honestly, Nor more than you do, Sire, or anyone, Who thinks the matter out. Ne’erless ’tis best To steadfastly proclaim its sanctity, And force its worship on our youth and men, Especially our women folk, for these Are Church’s most devoted friends. Its foes Are more amongst the men, and yet methinks Queen Isola has opened Woman’s eyes To a degree disastrous, dangerous. Sire, I would pray your august Majesty To lay your strict commands upon the Queen That she abstain and instantly from this. Her precepts are the Evolutionists’. My chief of Peerers secretly reports, That Isola devotes her privy purse To bolster up these revolutionaries. I warn you, Sire, their principles will sap The privileges of the Church and State, And tumble them about our startled forms. Though Vergli is your son, he bastard is, But strenuously resists this law of ours. And now he has a powerful ally, Who will support him in the House of Bores, Isola’s brother, Prince of Bernia.”
King Hector (starting). “What Bernia dead? What Sanctimonious?”
Sanctimonious. “So says the Chief of Peerers, Sire, to-day, He bore me secret news. Fear not, ere long It will be quite officially confirmed. Shafto is now the Prince of Bernia, An evolutionist in heart and soul, Spit of Isola and of self-same mood, Indomitable and outspoken too.”
King Hector (smiling sadly). “And honest I suppose, but as you say This is not part of your concocted creed, Whose tenets we must own, though in our hearts We scorn them and the lie they bolster up. My part is one most difficult to play, I would be honest, yet may not be so. The influence of poor, dead Merani Surrounds my soul and whispers in my heart. Merani dead? If so, her spirit lives, For day and night I hear it whispering, It tells me to be fair and to be just, To clear her name of that unjust reproach, Which falsely termed religious laws ordain Shall be hurled at the Woman who declines To take the marriage vows ordained by them. And in my heart, Ardrigh, I must confess I look on Merani as my true wife, And Vergli as the rightful, royal heir. Isola did not love me. All her heart Was given to the noble Escanior. Yet Arco, Prince of Bernia, her stern sire, Slew him and forced her to become my Queen. But in my heart, and in your own you know That she is nothing but a prostitute, A slave, leased to me by unnatural laws Whom I dishonour, calling her my wife! And now I must coerce her to obey! You call on me to bid this toy of mine, This royalized and legalized machine, This Queen in name, but not in deed, this slave! To bend her neck and bow to bearing rein, That cruel goad and foe of Nature’s form, Nature, so fair when undeformed by man. ’Tis a hard part to play, Ardrigh, indeed. My humblest subject need not envy me, I’d rather far be honest yokel man Than a false Monarch of Saxscober land.”
Sanctimonious. “Sentiment, Sire; nothing but sentiment. Monarchs must not allow so soft a thing To take possession of their hearts. You reign. You are a King, and being such, must rule And shape your conduct by Saxscober’s laws.”
King Hector. “A sorry fate to have been born a King, Or rather, I should say, ‘the shade of one!’ My dullest Bores may vote, but I am mute, The gilded Puppet of a huge machine! Isola is my slave, but I am worse, I am the slave of an Automaton. But lo! I hear Isola’s voice outside, She comes to tell me of fierce Arco’s death, And of her brother Shafto’s accession, What——”
Sanctimonious (rising hurriedly). “Excuse the interruption, Sire, the Queen Loves not the presence of the Chief Ardrigh; Her tongue is cutting, though ’tis courteous, And I would fain escape its moral sting. With your permission, Sire, I will retire Through the aperture or the secret door, Which leads from here into the private room, Where you conduct your personal affairs, And correspondence intimate. But, Sire, Remember to admonish Isola, Bear in your mind that you are still The King, And sink all individuality; Be true to Church and State, uphold their laws, And force the Queen to humbly bow to them.”
[He retires hurriedly through the secret door.
Enter Isola, saying: “Hector, I thought old Sanctimonious Filled up the Audience Chamber’s narrow space; Is he not here? Whither has he vanished? Into that Heaven, where I am denied The right of entry, being Infidel? Or has he gone to Purgatory, where Repentant souls are burning off their sins? Or—dare I say it, Hector? To that Hell, Which God, the God of Sanctimonious, Has made to torture wicked infidels, And all such carrion, though of his Creation?”
Hector (sternly): “Isola, thou art over bold. Conform, And yield respect to our religious faith. What matters it if thou art infidel, And worship Nature’s God? Thou art my Queen, My Consort, my annointed property, My Co-mate on the throne of Saxscober. Now, understand that thou art this indeed, And must, as Queen, obey the laws of Church, As well as those of State. Defy me not. By those same laws I am thy master, girl, And will enforce submission. Yield it now. Goad me not to Coercion. I would fain Reign with thee peacefully and happily.”
Isola (passionately). “Hector, by an opponent law of Truth, I am your queen and slave, a consort queen, A gilded, dressed-up slave, not reigning, Sire, But just a sort of bauble, like a crown, A State-kept mother of your progeny, Each one of whom is given right to reign According to succession, while I am Declared to be a cast off ‘Dowager’! Is this right, Hector? No, ’tis infamy. A consort’s fate is pitiable indeed, Whatever be the sex of the Misshape, But of the two, the female one is most, Because Maternal rights are not her own. Mind you not, Hector, of that male consort, Of Queen Magenta, Prince of Citron called? He would not be her gilded bauble sire, But shared with her the right to reign as King, As I should share that right with you indeed, Were I your lawful Queen and wedded wife, And you my lawful mate, which I deny, Because by Nature’s law, poor Merani, Before you stole me from my Escanior, Was your true Queen, and Vergli your true heir, She having lived with you as wife, although She would not take those church-made marriage vows, Born of the creed preached by the great Saint Saul! Nor did you ask her to, because by law E’en had she wedded you by Saint Saul’s creed, A rotten civil law denies to her The right to take the title of the Queen. Because she was not a princess before She mated with you! Out on all such laws! Fruits of a creed the child of Selfishness, Mated with ill-omened Superstition. No, Hector; Isola will not conform, She treats with scorn such laws of Church and State, Nature’s true laws alone will she obey, She will not own a creed which is a lie, She will not practise laws which are unjust; Your slave she is, but most unwillingly. She casts defiance on unnatural law, Isola is an ‘Evolutionist’—”
Hector (aside). “And I, too, in a way; for although reared And dosed with selfish and ignoble tenets, Deep in my heart I feel Isola right, And that her dauntless spirit pleads for this. She is not Man’s opponent, but his friend, His true Co-mate, loving Companion, Who only asks of him Justice and Truth. Oh! sorry fate, that I must strive with her, And force submission where ’tis now withheld. Yet must I do so. ’Tis my Kingly fate To be a tyrant and to act the Sham.”
To Isola. “Isola, cease thy sentimental moans, Our age demands not feeling, but a Show; Give it a pageant, be it royal Pomp, Or a procession of dressed-up divines, And it will cheer them lustily and long. I am a ruling Puppet, thou my Queen, Our business is to play our sep’rate roles, I as the Public’s slave, and thou as mine. It is the Law and Custom of our land; We are bound by them. Them we must obey.”
(Pauses and then continues): “Understand this. Thou must obey our laws, Both civil and ecclesiastical. Thou must not be an Evolutionist, Thou must be what thou art, my Consort Queen. And play thy part upon the royal stage. Defy me not, Isola, bear in mind I am thy King, thy Master by the law.”
Isola (defiantly). “No need to tell me, for I know it well. But I defy you, Hector, and your law. A fig for all such false authority. I never sought to be your slave, nor asked To dangle at your side a bauble toy. Do as you will, but I will not conform, Nor bow to sham conventionality. Arco is dead, Shafto is Bernia’s prince, Let me return to Bernia’s hills and dales, Give me my freedom once again, I pray— If not, I’ll take it, Hector. Ponder well. Do as I ask; if not, I warn you, King. I will not act the part of decked out slave.”
[Retires.
SCENE III.
A rambling Castle, situated high up on the hillside of Rostraveen Mountain, overlooking the Lakes of Killareen. It is the Castle of Killareen, the Highland home of the Princes of Bernia. Shafto, Prince of that name, is at this time occupying it, and from his eyrie stronghold has defied the orders of his liege lord and King, to yield up to the latter, Isola, who has fled from Saxa Isle and claimed the protection of her brother, in consequence of having refused to act the part of a Consort Queen to King Hector, or to acknowledge her child by him as the Prince of Scota, averring that Vergli is the rightful heir. She has refused to act the part of Queen Consort on the principle that no reigning rights are attached to the dignity making of her a mere nonentity, such a principle being contrary to the Evolutionary principles of the Evolutionist Party, of which Vergli, Member of Privilege for Stairway, is the leader, Isola being a member thereof. Divorce proceedings have, in consequence, been commenced against her.
Isola (leaning on the stone parapet of the Castle ramparts, overlooking the lakes below, sings to herself): “Is there a fate on ev’ry life Which weaves o’er each its darksome thread? Is there a bosom free from strife? Is there a heart that has not bled? There are in life some gleams of joy, But Sorrow’s darker shadows fall, And tho’ sweet moments we enjoy, Pain lays its cruel grasp on all.”
Enter Vulnar. “A sad song, Lady Isola, methinks! Come, let me cheer your heart with lighter lay. Laughter and joy should shine in eyes so clear, And smiles oblige the pearly teeth to show; It is not good to mourn, and Life is young, Laugh while you can, and cast aside despair, A sorry imp to irritate your heart; Oh! Lady Isola, chase it away. [Sings
Love the enchanter Hovers all near, Longing to cheer thee But full of fear, Fear of offending What it loves best, Pining to give thee Joy’s perfect rest. ‘Wilt thou not love me?’ Love whispers low, ‘Let my caresses, On thee bestow Dreams of allurement, Visions of bliss, May not my fond lips Give thine one kiss?’ Hearts were not made sure, To pine alone? Drive away sorrow, Mourning begone! Call up love once more, He will respond, Lady tie once more Heaven’s sweet bond.”
Isola. “Vulnar, your voice is beautiful and rare, Where is the heart to whom you sing these words? Oh! yes, the bond of love is Heaven’s tie, Yet, when ’tis snapped, Hell’s chasms yawn below. ’Tis a fair world, and all might be so gay, Laughter and song, playing with gentle love, Were it not for bad laws and customs vile, And evil teaching meted out to youth. How happy had my lot been but for these. Nature gave me a birthright passing fair, First Life, then health, the power to love and feel, The opportunity to taste of each. Had Nature had her way, my path all strewn With fragrant flow’rs, would have been smooth indeed! But human selfishness makes mock of Truth, And rules life with one endless, searing lie. Thus it swooped down upon Isola’s path And makes the way, indeed, all stones and crags. Your song is sweet, Vulnar, but mine more true, I simply sang of stern reality.”
Vulnar. “Lady Isola, Hector claims divorce, And, doubtless, will obtain it speedily. Thus will the laws which bind you as his wife, Release you from the union you abhor. Freedom will then be yours. Ah! may I hope That you will love Vulnar as he loves you? Lady Isola, I have loved you long, Loved you all secretly, more than my life, Loved you since I was but a boy in years, Loved you in silence when Escanior Found favour in your eyes and won your heart. He was my friend, and your joy my whole life. I would not try to steal your love from him. But he is gone, passed to the Great Unknown, Passed o’er the boundless Ocean of Life’s space. Whither? Who knows? Beyond our mortal ken. Will you not try to give Vulnar your love? He would not force it on you, Isola, But be content to wait and hope for it. At any rate, his whole love would be yours, His heart no other Woman’s property.”
Isola. “Kind Vulnar, Nature’s Nobleman indeed. Ah! if such as you ask for were but there, It would go forth from my poor heart to you. But, Vulnar, what you seek no longer hides Its coy head in Life’s throbbing mechanism. Isola’s heart held love for one alone, That love went roving with Escanior, When the cold dagger drove him from the side Of Isola beneath the Ocean wave. I cannot give you what is mine no more, Vulnar, ’tis gone. It is with Escanior, Wedded with his, all indissoluble, Part of his being, as his was of mine. His love lives with me, ’tis imperishable; ’Twill guide me to the Great Unknown some day, There to unite with my own love again. Vulnar, your heart so noble and so kind Will understand and feel with Isola.”
Vulnar. “Lady Isola, if the love I seek Has passed away to rove with Escanior, Will you not give Vulnar the right he craves, The right to love you and to live for you? He will not ask for that which cannot be, Nor would he steal such love from Escanior, But give him just the right to care for you, To be with you through Life’s lone Pilgrimage. Ah! do not drive me from your side, I pray, I only ask to be with you. No more.”
Isola. “No, Vulnar, ’tis impossible, I say; To mate where love is not is Hell enough, But then at least, indifference can dull And make one callous and like frigid stone. But no true Woman could treat thus, a man So noble and so kind as you, Vulnar. Men such as you are not so numerous, Hearts such as yours are jewels scarce and rare. Isola would not wrong you as you ask; No, Vulnar, seek a fitter mate than me. And yet, if you will give her Friendship’s aid, She’ll cherish it as the most precious gift Which Vulnar’s Generosity can give, The dearest treasure left to her on earth.”
Vulnar. “’Tis yours, Isola, given heart and soul, Nothing you asked of me could I refuse; At least I ask but one return for it, It is that, though you cannot love Vulnar, He may be licensed to love Isola, All silently as in the past he’s loved, Loved with a love he feels can never die, A love which, unobtrusive, yet shall stand The test of time, faithful unto the end.”
Isola. “Brave heart, so tender and so true, pure soul, If gratitude for love so infinite Will give you solace, then indeed ’tis yours, Isola’s heart is grateful to Vulnar.”
Enter the Prince of Bernia, exclaiming: “What, Vulnar here? Vulnar, news just to hand apprises me That Vergli is arrested, charged with Crime, The Crime, conspiring against Church and State. ’Twas in the House of Privilege he cast Defiance at their laws and pleaded hard For a reform of both, which he declared Must be both sweeping and far-reaching too. The overturning of his Labour Bill— Wherein Co-operation is enforced Upon employers who amass large hoards, By taking all the profits of men’s toil, Giving but wages in return, instead Of that which is the toiler’s rightful due, A share of Toil’s returns—aroused his ire. Because, I’m told when this same Bill was lost, Defeated by a large majority, The sneers and jeers, and cheers which hailed the fall Of his much-cherished infant, maddened him. He rose, and in impassioned accents, hurled The vials of his wrath on Church and State, So that men shouted ‘Treason!’ Wonder reigned, And all agape, demanded his arrest. This has been done, and Vergli is in gaol, A bad look-out for Evolutionism.”
Vulnar. “’Tis that, indeed, a cause has oft been lost By shutting up the brains that nurtured it, And closing lips that told it how to act. Vergli had power, his words were all inspired, They rose upon his lips like Heaven’s dew, And fell from them in show’rs of sparkling rain. He said they were Merani’s whisperings, A Woman’s voice, of which his was the echo; I doubt it not, believing, as I do That Woman, disinherited by laws As false as they are wrong and execrable, Has Mission, greater than to be a slave, That Mission to be Man’s true comforter By guiding him along the path of Truth, Not grovelling and fawning at his feet. Let her rise up and speak aloud that Truth, Let her assault base Superstition’s lie; ’Tis Superstition which has made her slave, The hideous lie of teachings orthodox. ’Tis they who have brought sorrow upon Man, Degrading Womanhood, in whose downfall Is swaddled up Humanity’s drear woes. [Sings.
“Behold! thy handiwork, Oh! man, The outcome of thy cursed laws, He who that wreck unmoved can scan, No friend of Woman is. Her cause Shivers and writhes within thy grasp, Thou death-importing, human asp; Thou who would’st seal her fate, I charge thee with her bitter woe, ’Tis thou who thus hast dragged her low, Hast doomed her to this state.
“Look at her in her form divine, A triumph of fair Nature’s art; Look at her in those clothes of thine Condemned to play the monkey’s part. Alas! from girlhood’s wasted days Base Superstition’s cruel ways Hold her in slavery! One aim in life consumes her soul, It is her one and only role, To grovel at thy knee.
“Where are her rights? She boasts of none, She is thy slave, by priests controlled; And as the Sculptor moulds his stone, So mouldest thou her soul. Look at that soul, caged and confined, Bound helpless where it long has pined, A dreary sight forlorn. With future empty, cramped and void, No hope to keep her spirit buoy’d, A toy which men adorn!
“Oh! Woman, wake. Behold the dawn Rising from out that bank of clouds. No longer grovel, cringe or fawn To Superstition, which enshrouds Thy liberty. Awake! Awake! I bid thee for thine own dear sake Cast off these cruel chains. Rise from thy many thousand years Of degradation. Wipe thy tears, Truth’s golden Dawn remains.”
Isola. “Vulnar, your invocation is not vain, Have I not half fulfilled it hitherto? See, I will act as you invoke, indeed. Vergli in prison! I will take his place, And carry on the War for Right and Truth. Shafto, go prove your title to be Prince, Speak out the truth unto your fellow Bores, Arouse the gilded chamber where it sleeps, And shake those dressed-up tyrants called divines. Make Sanctimonious tremble in his shoes, Shiver the awful Serpent they have raised And bid them practise Sacrilege no more. Brave Vulnar, you will stand by me, I know. Vergli in prison! Echoes of Merani! Your whisperings shall play upon my lips, I’ll shout them loudly into deafened ears, And make them ring throughout our wide wide Erth. Dear Erth, so beautiful, and yet how wronged By Superstition’s monster-featured creed.”
Shafto and Vulnar. “Agreed, agreed! Both of us are agreed!”
End of Act II.
ACT THIRD.
SCENE I.
A small room, sparsely furnished, in the Prison of Grillaway. The room is the cell of a first class misdemeanant. The windows are barred and look out on to exercising ground, which is surrounded by high walls. The cell in question is that of Vergli, who is confined therein.
Vergli, Solus: “Saxscober a free country? No, indeed! A slave of mummified and ancient laws, Created by the undeveloped brains Of men emerging from the feudal state. Must Evolutionism be controlled By relics of a past barbaric age, When human beings had no right to think And fashioned rules to suit their daily needs? What right have dead men to control us now? Must we be governed by their narrow vision? Shall rotten laws be solely the support Of an increasing substance, whose new needs Require the nourishment of true reform? Oh! prison bars, ye gaolers mute and dumb, Guess ye the torture which consumes my soul, Longing for freedom, longing for the pow’r To strike to earth Injustice and Untruth, And raise upon their ruins fairer scenes? Alas! for Evolutionism, who Will keep our party solid? Who will lead, Now I am a caged pris’ner in this hole? Scrutus and Verita will do their best, Good faithful hearts, yet lacking influence, And minus that great pow’r which can enthuse And weld together diff’rent characters. Well, I must seek to use the pow’r of Thought, And draw towards me that which my heart loves, Isola, can I make thee think of me? Can I enthuse thee to take Vergli’s place? The people love thee, thou can’st lead them well, If thou wilt take the lead, I have no fear. Isola, thou whom this lone heart adores, Although thou can’st not love me in return, Thy heart being wedded to Escanior, Wilt thou not fill the place I cannot fill? See, I will waft to thee intense desire, And by the force of thought fill up thy soul With the ambitions influencing me.”
He seats himself as he speaks, and leaning his head in his hand, seeks to attract Isola to think of him and take up his cause by stepping into the breach which he has been forced to abandon. Suddenly he looks up, and intense relief is in his face as he exclaims: “A great calm fills my soul. I seem to hear The whisper of an inward voice, which says: ‘Vergli, fear not, Isola fills the breach And will uphold your cause till you are free.’ Is it a dream or glad reality? I feel it is the latter. As my thought Has sped into the mind of Isola, So has hers come to mine and brought me cheer, And filled my spirit with intense relief. Oh! Thought so wonderful, which has evolved A mind from matter and, endowed with life By this same matter, can magnetic-like Attract to us flashes of hidden things, As thou increasest in us, wilt thou not Vibrate into us knowledge now unknown, Knowledge of space and of infinity, Of what has been, and of what is to be, By some attractive force whose law is vague And still quite undeveloped in our minds, Yet, all the same, a law as positive As that great law which rules the Universe? If this attractive law can magnetise Mind unto mind, will it not magnetise Those hidden facts which, still unknown, ne’erless Are facts which Thought will some day penetrate And draw into our minds, thus fashioning A knowledge now unrealised, unknown. Yes, mighty, energetic, living Force— Give it what name you will, it matters not— Thy pow’r will wax so great within our brains As to attract to us that which we seek. As Thought meets Thought, or draws it from afar, As I have drawn the thought of Isola, So shall this unseen, veiled, but true reality Conquer the secrets of the Universe And give Materialists the light they need. Develop it, all scientific men! It is as much a substance, though unseen, As any of the unseen substances Which influence Creation’s mighty laws. Have you not studied much those things we see, And drawn conclusions from the truths unveiled? Go, study now the Unseen, cultivate That undeveloped faculty, whose sight Will penetrate the mysteries of Life And open up the mists enshrouding death. Oh! learned men, how unlearned yet ye are. ‘What! Thought a substance?’ sneeringly you ask. ‘I think it is,’ all humbly I reply, ‘It is a thing which, though unseen, vibrates With delicate pulsation all its own. Thought is the substance which shall solve the past And open wide the future to our eyes.’ Yes, Isola, my soul no longer fears, I feel that thou, attracted by this force, Wilt do as I desire and do it well. A woman who has buried Superstition And scorned to make herself the slave of Man, Albeit she is his loving friend and mate, Can lead and will lead on Humanity To win its freedom, and to recreate Noble conditions, elevating all By evolutionary principles. I feel thy answer to my mute appeal Circling around me like a soft, soft wind, Caressing with kind kiss my anxious brain And soothing it as sleep lulls tired thought. For thought being real and not imaginary, A substance not a shadow, form unseen Of ethereal property, can tire and hang Limp and all unemotional at times, Or dulled by over-use of its great pow’r Which sleep and rest restore unfailingly. My thanks Isola. From afar thy thoughts Have come to cheer me in my prison cell, My soul’s at peace. I hear thy whispered words ‘I come, Vergli, fear not, All shall be well.’”
Enter a Warder. “Your pardon, Sir, your lawyer’s clerk is here, He bears an order of admittance, too— Is it your pleasure I should show him in? He bade me say his mission was of note, Requiring your immediate attention.”
Vergli. “Pray show him in, my friend; I’ll see him now, ’Tis not so lively here that I should shun Or shirk communion with a fellow man, Even although it be a lawyer’s clerk, Whose visits mean a bill of long proportions, When that which he may do, or may not do, Is done or left undone. Oft’ner the last! Methinks if we paid by results, the Clique Known as solicitors and barristers Would find their present lucrative profession, Somewhat the contrary! ‘No fish; no pay,’ Would make these gentlemen a bit more keen And less inclined to pile up the expenses! Poor Vergli! But for thee, kind Isola, He could not have engaged the services Of one of these noteworthy gentlemen, To pick his pocket so to line his own! However, here he comes. I will attend And learn the purport of his mission here. Good evening, Sir. Vergli you wish to see? He am I, and the Prince of Scota, too.”
[Enter Maxim disguised as a Solicitor’s Clerk.
Warder. “I’ll leave you to yourselves. A Trinity Is rarely company, and often breeds That most ungainly infant, Controversy. Ring, when you have adjusted your affairs.”
Maxim. “Hist! Vergli; I am Maxim. Have a care. Ears are awake and eyes wide open, too. Secrets are not well kept in prison walls, There are too many listeners about. In a few days your trial will take place, Counsel is offered by the Government; Your grave Solicitor refused, howe’er, And said that ‘Vergli would defend himself.’ I just think that he will, and rightly, too; For one speech from his lips is worth ten score Of speeches from the windbags of the bar, Who set much store upon their oratory— Pricing it highly, changing briefs to gold And turning inside out their clients’ pockets.”
Vergli (laughing): “’Tis true, young clerk. Society’s odd ways Are manifold; but, all drift down the tide Whereon the bark of Might o’er-rides poor Right Seated in her frail skiff, and runs her down. ‘Out of my Way!’ cries Might. ‘Am I not large? Are you not frail and of no consequence? The weak should die, the strong alone prevail And Might rule over Right.’ This is the law, Or rather as it is administered. And how can it be ever otherwise, Until to Earth we strike the selfish creed, Which prating loud a few great Moral Truths, Forthwith defies them, and sets up a reign Of Superstition and of Mummery? Then, when men like myself would strike it down And change those civil laws which owe their birth To priestcraft and religious tyranny, Who in the past were Sires of many sins, They are cast into prison instantly And doomed therein to waste Life’s precious days. Oh! when will Man learn to be kind to Man And practise brotherhood throughout the world?”
Maxim. “Not yet awhile; but some day it will come, As sure as Night comes after Day, and Day Follows on Night, ever unerringly. But, Vergli, you’ll prepare your own defence, Although I fear nothing will clear your crime; The Ardrigh knows acquittal means his doom, And ev’ry influence which he commands Will be exerted to o’erthrow your cause And bolster up his own. Alas! I fear That nothing will avert your punishment. Think, Vergli, of the Pow’rs that you oppose, Think of the forces all arrayed in line Ready to crush you to the earth, to kill. ’Tis an unequal fight. Oh! Vergli, pause! Think of the future, think of liberty, Think of the horrid doom which will be yours. Be wise and claim King Hector’s clemency, Humble yourself to say the word ‘Forgive’; Plead guilty, crave his Mercy, quit the Cause Of which you have so rashly made adoption.”
Vergli. “Hush! Maxim. Hush! ‘Never!’ is my reply, I mean to fight the Ogre Superstition, I mean to cry aloud the Woes of Man Born of that ancient and insensate lie, I mean to ask for Justice. If I fall Others will rise to fill the breach I quit. I war not against law and order, or Against the King and Government. I fight Against oppressive customs and beliefs, And social tyrannies which weigh men down, Making both men and women common slaves— Especially the latter. What I seek Is to give all Life’s opportunity. I prate not of the word Equality I know, that until Man attains Perfection, Equality is quite impossible; But give to all that pressing human right, The right to live, to work and to enjoy The recompense which is the due of toil, And opportunity to claim it, too. No, Maxim, tempt me not; my mind’s made up, I fight for all the disinherited.” [Rings.
Enter Warder: “You rang, Sir. Have you finished with your clerk?”
Vergli. “Yes, thank you, warder. Business is arranged, To-morrow follows my Solicitor.” (To Maxim) “Remember to enjoin on him to come.”
Maxim. “I will not fail. He’ll come assuredly.”
[Exit Maxim.
SCENE II.
A small villa standing in a pretty garden, surrounded by a high wall, in a quiet part of the suburbs of Elsington, and not far from the public gardens and the King’s Palace of that name. In a sitting room in the villa, seated at an escritoire, is Isola. She is no longer Queen of the Saxscober people, King Hector having obtained a divorce; and she is secretly engaged in carrying on the evolutionary agitation of which Vergli, before his arrest, was the leader. It is the day of his trial on a charge of conspiring against the Church and State laws of the Kingdom of Saxscober. Isola is dressed in male attire; her long hair has been cut off and now curls about her head in short tresses. Her disguise is complete and her appearance that of a slight youth.
Enter Verita (similarly disguised). She closes the door and says: “The trial is proceeding. Vergli’s speech Was something too magnificent for words, It held the Court enthralled, spellbound and mute; A dropping pin might have been heard, indeed, So still sat silence on the list’ning crowd. Truly he rose unto the great occasion And looked the Prince of Scota ev’ry inch. Majestic wrath fell from his scornful lips And bitter and sarcastic were his words. He seemed inspired. Thought flowed like running stream, Sparkling his wit, full of convulsing humour; Then pathos and hard-headed Fact spoke out And touched and forced conviction each in turn. If eloquence and truth could save Vergli, ’Twould not be long before our chief was free; And yet, Oh! Lady Isola, I feel That he is doomed. The verdict will be ‘Guilty.’”
Isola. “Hush, Verita, you must not name me thus; Remember I am ‘Fortunatus’ now. Yes Fortunatus, evolutionist, Deputed by Vergli to lead his cause. What matter if the wise men find him Guilty? We’ll save him e’er he reaches Grillaway. All is arranged, Vulnar is on the spot; The prison van goes down a quiet street Ere entering the crowded thoroughfare; A carriage and fleet-footed horses wait, And Vergli will be many miles away When they are searching for him in the town, Making conjecture as to where he is! Hasten now, Verita, back to the Court, Tell Scrutus that I go to join Vulnar, Bid him apprize us of the verdict quick, He knows where we will be. Ready, Waiting; He knows full well the part he has to play, Now go. Heav’n grant the Verdict will be fair.”
[Exit Verita.
SCENE III.
In the High Court of Justice. The Judge has completed his summing up. The jury, after a brief delay, have found the prisoner guilty of conspiring against the Church and State, a crime in Saxscober punishable with death. The usual question has been put “Say, prisoner at the bar, have you any reason to give why sentence should not be passed upon you?” and Vergli, who has been standing with folded arms, unfolds them and bows his head slightly in assent. The hum of voices in the Court, which had broken out when the foreman of the jury had uttered the word “Guilty,” at once subsides and a great silence falls as Vergli begins to speak.
Vergli. “Reason to give against my murder? Yes. For Murder it will be assuredly. What right have you to take from me God’s breath, Because I seek to see His laws prevail? What is my crime? To have demanded Truth? Truth in religion in the place of Sham? Yes, I have asked for that and pleaded, too, For a vast Revolution in the laws. I claim to be King Hector’s eldest son, The heir apparent to the Monarchy; I am the Prince of Scota, Prince Bernis By Natural law is not the King’s wife’s son. I claim that my dear Mother was that wife, I claim that she with Hector should have reigned, Reigned as a reigning not a Consort Queen; I claim the parents’ right, of either sex, To reign before their children. Out on laws Which make a child usurp its Mother’s place, Or, if a female be an elder child, Ousts her from heirship on account of sex! Imbecile law! Worthy of priestly craft, Worthy of Superstition and Saint Saul, Of men bedridden with such mistresses As are these soulless and unnatural laws. All law is bad which Nature has not framed, Be it of Civil or Religious sex, And all Religion is a cursèd lie Whose God is otherwise than Nature’s form. Away with your man-shaped and cruel God, In whose own image you declare you’re made, Faith! He must be an ugly Barbary Ape, If the majority of men reflect His Godlike features in their ill-formed masks. But here I fling to Earth the Monster creed With which you mystify our early years, Distort our reason, warp our faculties; And make that fatal transformation scene In Human character, which would be kind And sensible and brotherly in love, Were it not for the Orthodox tirade That moulds it with false teachings and precepts Throughput the whole of Life’s sad Pilgrimage. What right have you to make of Life a hell? To disinherit men of their just rights? Follow out Nature. To the fittest give The right to lead, to rule, to fashion law. The fittest should survive, the unfit pass Into the force that can evolve anew A better Life from Mediocrity. Men should not starve while others feast and laugh. By what Almighty Law of Nature’s God Do men step into Life outcasts and slaves? Why? Yes, why? I ask; for Opportunity Is Man’s inherent right. Sex should not be The disability you’ve made of it. Give all an equal opportunity, The fittest will arise and lead and rule, And make this world a heaven where now ’tis hell. Let all men work from Monarch to workman, Let all reap benefit from honest toil. Let Life be made Co-operative and See to it that Injustice shall be slain. Build up a new religion based on Love, Away with Cruelty to Man or Beast; Beasts have their rights just every much as Man, Are they not our own kin, our mute, dumb friends? We have no right to torture them for sport, For Scientific purposes or food. Blood was not made for Man’s consumption. Grain And fruit, and vegetables, and nuts and herbs Are what God Nature gives him for his food; And Health demands he should adopt as such. Give us a kind religion. Let the Truth Be the magnetic influence of our lives. Let Sham and Superstition be condemned As false and hideous idols of the past. Down with all law in Church and State which kills The holy rights of Nature, our true God. Oh! Woman, wake! Crush the black snake Untruth. Wake! Woman, wake! And you shall wake the World. Are these the sentiments which merit death?” [Cries of “No! No!” and “Yes! Yes!” “Should they not rather live eternally? Are they not true? Is not all Truth divine? What! Treason is it to condemn a lie? What made the lie? God? No. Just little Man. Man, still in an imperfect, undrilled state. Shall lies or laws based on them be immortal? Not so, I say. They must be executed. Vergli will be their executioner. Is he a Revolutionist? No, no. He is an Evolutionist. That’s all. Kill him? You cannot! Thought will never die, It is a part of Immortality. Silence this body? That which gives it life You cannot kill, because it is of God. It is that which is speaking to you now. Silence it? Never! ’Tis eternal Life. For Thought is Life and Life which cannot die, It is the Soul and deathless part of Man.”
[He ceases speaking. Loud applause breaks out which is with difficulty suppressed. The judge assumes the Black Cap and pronounces the death sentence. It is received in contemptuous silence by Vergli and gloomy silence in the Court.
As the prisoner is led away, Verita manages to pass near him and whispers: “Hist! Vergli! Isola is all prepared. Fear not! Ere long thou shalt be free as air.”
[She goes quickly away as she speaks.
SCENE IV.
A quiet side street in the City of Infantlonia, leading from the crowded thoroughfare of Rolling Motion to that of Drifting Tide. Off this side street runs a mews, the stables lining one side thereof, and a long wall facing them the other. This wall encloses a garden, lying at the back of an unpretentious house looking into the quiet street. It has been purchased by Vulnar, Lord of Avenamore, in the principality of Bernia; and is occupied by one Fortunatus, the youthful leader of the Evolutionist Party.
Fortunatus (entering the garden from a room on the ground floor): “Time’s dragging slowly. Scrutus should be here To tell us what the verdict is. Methinks ’Twill be one quite in keeping with the faith Which cries aloud ‘Judge not,’ and yet condemns Unceasingly all those who mock at it. Vergli will be condemned. Of course he will, Or I have much misjudged the character Of the fierce opposition of that clique Called ‘Church and State,’ which rules our destinies. Vergli will be condemned. A gibbet tree Will be the offering of barbarism— That ugly child, offspring of Superstition, Who crushes thought and dulls the intellect, Degrades the Woman and deforms the Man. Man who might be so noble, but for it. Let them condemn you, Vergli. Have no fear, We’ll save you, Prince of Scota. Escanior Loved you, Vergli; Isola loves you too, Because Escanior loved you, and because You will not trample Woman to the ground And bid her hearken to the great Saint Saul. You know her degradation is Man’s shame. You scout the orders of Most Holy Church. You advocate Fair Play to all Mankind, Mercy and tenderness unto the brute. You are a Man, as every Man should be— Brave, without fear, yet tender, loving, kind. Vergli, e’en if I feared the hand of Death, I’d grasp it eagerly to set you free. Let them condemn you. Freedom shall be yours, E’en though I lose thereby Sweet Liberty.”
A shrill whistle sounds in the street. Isola quickly draws one of these from her breast pocket and blows a clear note upon it, then passes rapidly through a door leading from the garden into the mews. The movement of many men’s feet can be heard therein. From afar a rumbling sound is heard, and the rapid trot of horses sends its echoes ahead. In the mews stand Vulnar and Fortunatus. Past them rushes a wild, eccentric looking man, singing:
“The Canyons are coming, They are not afar, The pigeons are homing, Go forth to the war, Strike hard for the freedom Of God’s noble son; They’d give him a cold tomb, We’ll give him Life’s Sun.”
Vulnar (in a low voice): “Ready, men! Ready! Hold yourselves alert! Hark! ’tis the rumble of the prison wheels. Make ready to rush forth at the first sign From Fortunatus. Watch his every move, You know the signal. Steady! Vergli’s life Hangs in the balance. All depends on you. Hark! It comes nearer, that revolving sound, That rumbling and that rapid, ringing trot, Hush now; all eyes on Fortunatus! Hush-sh-sh.”
Fortunatus, standing near the entrance to the mews, looks round suddenly, and drops a handkerchief. Instantly a score or more of men rush out into the street. A prison van, surrounded by mounted police, comes by at a rapid trot. The head of every horse is seized, and revolvers held pointed at their riders, others emptying the holsters of their captives. Vulnar, Scrutus, and Fortunatus make straight for the door of the van and demand, from the policeman inside, admittance. He refuses.
Vulnar. “Then, stand back, man, care for your life, have care! We’ll fire and smash the lock. Here, Volio, boy, Fire through the keyhole; quick, no time to lose, So ho! well done, you’ve shivered it in two. Open the door. Be quick. Vergli, art there? God bless thee, Vergli; we’d all die for thee.”
Vergli is hurried into the mews by Vulnar, Fortunatus and Scrutus, and disappears from sight. At the same time the reins are taken off the van horses, and bridles slipped off those of the mounted men. All is confusion, during which the conspirators, all of whom are masked, slip away unobserved. Some time elapses before the rescue becomes known. Policemen hurry to the spot. The van is entered and the policeman inside is found to be dead. He had not taken Vulnar’s warning, and the bullet which smashed the lock had entered his heart. (This rescue scene is taken from a notable one some ten years ago.)[[4]]
End of Act III.
[4]. Bears reference to the Fenian rescue of Colonel Kelly and Deasy, in 1867.
Author’s Note, 1877.
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.”
[Sits down.
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.”
[Sits down.
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.”
[Enter Vulnar and Fortunatus.
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!”
[He wrings Vulnar’s hand, who returns a silent clasp, and goes out.
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.”
[Exit Vergli, Fortunatus and Verita.
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.”
[Exit Conception.
(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.”
[Goes out.
End of Act IV.
