Is it possible the longing bride, whose wishes A power above these passions; this day France, And his fair course turn right. Mart. Happy woman, that dies to do these things! Thier. The gods have heard me now, and those that scorn'd That see their issue like the stars unnumber'd, That chaste Ordella brings me. Mart. The day wears, And those that have been offering early prayers, Thier. Stand and mark then. Mart. Is it the first must suffer? Thier. The first woman. Mart. What hand shall do it, sir? Thier. This hand, Martel: For who less dare presume to give the gods Mart. Would I were she, For such a way to die, and such a blessing, Can never crown my parting. Here comes a woman. ORDELLA comes out from the Temple, veiled. Thier. Stand and behold her then. Mart. I think a fair one. her: [me, Thier. Move not whilst I prepare her: may her peace, And all weak blood's affections, but thy hope, Fit for yourselves to ask, and me to offer. Do not abuse thy fortune) France e'er found yet. Ordel. She's more than dull, sir, less and worse than woman, That may inherit such an infinite As you propound, a greatness so near goodness, Thier. Tell me this then, Was there e'er woman yet, or may be found, For virtue's sake, and only for its self sake, Ordel. Many dead, sir, living I think as many. May from a woman's will receive a blessing, Ordel. A general curse light on her heart denies it. And such examples as the former ages Were but dim shadows of and empty figures. Ordel. You strangely stir me, sir, and were my weakness You should not ask more questions; may I do it? Above a moderate gladness; sir, you promise Thier. As ever time discover'd. Ordel. Let it be what it may then, what it dare, Thier, But hark ye, What may that woman merit, makes this blessing? Ordel. Only her duty, sir. Thier. 'Tis terrible. Ordel. 'Tis so much the more noble. Or any thing that's merely ours and mortal; Ordel. I do. Thier. And endless parting With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careful father's counsel, nothing's heard, Nor nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust and an endless darkness: and dare you, woman, Ordel. 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest; Children begin it to us, strong men seek it, And kings from height of all their painted glories Thier. Then you can suffer? Ordel. As willingly as say it. Thier. Martel, a wonder! Here is a woman that dares die. Yet tell me, Ordel. I am, sir. Thier. And have children? She sighs and weeps. sir. Thier. Dare you venture, For a poor barren praise you ne'er shall hear, Ordel. With all but Heaven, And yet die full of children; he that reads me 1 There is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave whither thou goest. Ecclesiastes. When I am ashes, is my son in wishes: And those chaste dames that keep my memory, Singing my yearly requiems, are my daughters. Thier. Then there is nothing wanting but my knowledge, And what I must do, lady. Ordel. You are the king, sir, And what you do I'll suffer, and that blessing That you desire, the gods shower on the kingdom. Thier. Thus much before I strike then, for I must kill you; The gods have will'd it so, they have made the blessing Must make France young again, and me a man. Keep up your strength still nobly. Ordel. Fear me not. Thier. And meet death like a measure. Thier. Thou shalt be sainted, woman, and thy tomb Succeeding peers of France that rise by thy fall, Ordel. I dare, sir. [Pulls off her veil; he lets fall his sword. Mart. O, sir, you must not do it. Thier. No, I dare not. There is an angel keeps that paradise, A fiery angel, friend: O virtue, virtue, Ordel. Strike, sir, strike; And if in my poor death fair France may merit, A thousand days. Thier. First let the earth be barren, And man no more remember'd. Rise, Ordella, heart-strings1! 1 I have always considered this to be the finest scene in Fletcher, and Ordella the most perfect idea of the female heroic character, next to Ca lantha in the Broken Heart of Ford, that has been embodied in fiction. She is a piece of sainted nature. Yet noble as the whole scene is, it must be confessed that the manner of it, compared with Shakspeare's finest scenes, is slow and languid. Its motion is circular, not progressive. Each MARTEL relates to THIERRY the manner of ORDELLA's death. But take away from that) having from me, Would break forth, in despite of the much sorrow And therefore in some part of recompense line revolves on itself in a sort of separate orbit. They do not join into one another like a running hand. Every step that we go we are stopped to admire some single object, like walking in beautiful scenery with a guide. This slowness I shall elsewhere have occasion to remark as characteristic of Fletcher. Another striking difference perceivable between Fletcher and Shakspeare, is the fondness of the former for unnatural and violent situations, like that in the scene before us. He seems to have thought that nothing great could be produced in an ordinary way. The chief incidents in the Wife for a Month, in Cupid's Revenge, in the Double Marriage, and in many more of his tragedies, show this. Shakspeare had nothing of this contortion in his mind, none of that craving after romantic incidents, and flights of strained and improbable virtue, which I think always betrays an imperfect moral sensibility. |