# Strafford (Browning)/Act II
## Scene I

A HOUSE NEAR WHITEHALL.
(As in Act I. Scene I.)
The same Party enters confusedly; among the first, the younger VANE and RUDYARD.
RUDYARD.
Twelve subsidies!
VANE.
 O Rudyard, do not laugh At least!
RUDYARD.
 True: Strafford called the Parliament— 'Tis he should laugh!
A PURITAN (entering).
 —Out of the serpent's root Comes forth a cockatrice.
FIENNES (entering).
 —A stinging one, If that's the Parliament: twelve subsidies! A stinging one! but, brother, where's your word For Strafford's other nest-egg—the Scot's War?
THE PURITAN.
His fruit shall be a fiery flying serpent.
FIENNES.
Shall be? It chips the shell, man; peeps abroad: Twelve subsidies!—  Why, how now Vane?
RUDYARD.
 Hush, Fiennes!
FIENNES.
Ah? . . . but he was not more a dupe than I, Or you, or any here the day that Pym Returned with the good news. Look up, dear Vane! We all believed that Strafford meant us well In summoning the Parliament . . .
(HAMPDEN enters.)
VANE (starting up).
 Now, Hampden, Clear me! I would have leave to sleep again! I'd look the People in the face again! Clear me from having, from the first, hoped, dreamed Better of Strafford! Fool!
HAMPDEN.
 You'll grow one day A steadfast light to England, Vane!
RUDYARD.
 Ay, Fiennes, Strafford revived our Parliaments: before, War was but talked of; there's an army, now: Still, we've a Parliament. Poor Ireland bears Another wrench (she dies the hardest death!) Why . . . speak of it in Parliament! and, lo, 'Tis spoken!—and console yourselves.
FIENNES.
 The jest! We clamoured, I suppose, thus long, to win The privilege of laying on ourselves A sorer burthen than the King dares lay!
RUDYARD.
Mark now: we meet at length: complaints pour in From every county: all the land cries out On loans and levies, curses ship-money, Calls vengeance on the Star-chamber: we lend An ear: "ay, lend them all the ears you have," Puts in the King; "my subjects, as you find, Are fretful, and conceive great things of you: Just listen to them, friends: you'll sanction me The measures they most wince at, make them yours Instead of mine, I know: and, to begin, They say my levies pinch them,—raise me straight Twelve subsidies!"
FIENNES and others.
 All England cannot furnish Twelve subsidies!
HOLLIS.
 But Strafford, just returned From Ireland . . what has he to do with that? How could he speak his mind? He left before The Parliament assembled: Rudyard, friends, He could not speak his mind! and Pym, who knows Strafford . . .
RUDYARD.
 Would I were sure we know ourselves! What is for good, what, bad—who friend, who foe!
HOLLIS.
Do you count Parliaments no gain?
RUDYARD.
 A gain? While the King's creatures overbalance us? —There's going on, beside, among ourselves A quiet, slow, but most effectual course Of buying over, sapping, . .
A PURITAN.
 . . Leavening The lump till all is leaven.
A VOICE.
 Glanville's gone.
RUDYARD.
I'll put a case; had not the Court declared That no sum short of just twelve subsidies Will be accepted by the King—our House Would have consented to that wretched offer To let us buy off Ship-money?
HOLLIS.
 Most like, If . . . say six subsidies, will buy it off, The House. . . .
RUDYARD.
. . Will grant them! Hampden, do you hear? Oh, I congratulate you that the King Has gained his point at last . . our own assent To that detested tax! all's over then! There's no more taking refuge in this room And saying, "Let the King do what he will, We, England, are no party to our shame,— Our day will come!" Congratulate with me!
(PYM enters.)
VANE.
Pym, Strafford called this Parliament, 'tis like— But we'll not have our Parliaments like those In Ireland, Pym!
RUDYARD.
 Let him stand forth, that Strafford! One doubtful act hides far too many sins; It can be stretched no more—and, to my mind, Begins to drop from those it covers.
OTHER VOICES.
 Pym, Let him avow himself! No fitter time! We wait thus long for you!
RUDYARD.
 Perhaps, too long! Since nothing but the madness of the Court In thus unmasking its designs at once Had saved us from betraying England. Stay— This Parliament is Strafford's: let us vote Our list of grievances too black by far To suffer talk of subsidies: or best— That Ship-money's disposed of long ago By England; any vote that's broad enough: And then let Strafford, for the love of it, Support his Parliament!
VANE.
 And vote as well No war's to be with Scotland! Hear you, Pym? We'll vote, no War! No part nor lot in it For England!
MANY VOICES.
 Vote, no War! Stop the new levies! No Bishop's War! At once! When next we meet!
PYM.
Much more when next we meet!  —Friends, which of you Since first the course of Strafford was in doubt Has fallen the most away in soul from me?
VANE.
I sate apart, even now, under God's eye, Pondering the words that should denounce you, Pym, In presence of us all, as one at league With England's enemy!
PYM.
 You are a good And gallant spirit, Henry! Take my hand And say you pardon me for all the pain Till now! Strafford is wholly ours.
MANY VOICES.
 'Tis sure?
PYM.
Most sure—for Charles dissolves the Parliament While I speak here! . . . (Great emotion in the assembly.)  . . And I must speak, friends, now! Strafford is ours! The King detects the change, Casts Strafford off for ever, and resumes His ancient path: no Parliament for us— No Strafford for the King!  Come all of you To bid the King farewell, predict success To his Scots expedition, and receive Strafford, our comrade now! The next will be Indeed a Parliament!
VANE.
 Forgive me, Pym!
VOICES.
This looks like truth—Strafford can have, indeed, No choice!
PYM.
 Friends, follow me! he's with the King: Come Hampden, and come Rudyard, and come Vane— This is no sullen day for England, Vane! Strafford shall tell you!
VOICES.
 To Whitehall then! Come! (Exeunt omnes.)

## Scene II

WHITEHALL.
CHARLES seated, STRAFFORD standing beside a table covered with maps, &c.
CHARLES.
Strafford . . .
STRAFFORD.
 Is it a dream? my papers, here— Thus—as I left them—all the plans you found So happy—(look! The track you pressed my hand For pointing out!)—and in this very room Over these very plans, you tell me, Sire, With the same face, too,—tell me just one thing That ruins them! How's this? what may this mean? Sire, who has done this?
CHARLES.
 Strafford, none but I! You bade me put the rest away—indeed You are alone!
STRAFFORD.
 Alone—and like to be! No fear, when some unworthy scheme's grown ripe, Of those who hatched it leaving you to loose The mischief on the world! Laud hatches war, Falls to his prayers, and leaves the rest to me— And I'm alone!
CHARLES.
 At least, you knew as much When first you undertook the war.
STRAFFORD.
 My liege, Is this the way? I said, since Laud would lap A little blood, 'twere best to hurry o'er The loathsome business—not to be whole months At slaughter—one blow—only one—then, peace— Save for the dreams! I said, to please you both I'd lead an Irish Army to the West, While in the South the English . . . . . but you look As though you had not told me fifty times 'Twas a brave plan! My Army is all raised— I am prepared to join it . . .
CHARLES.
 Hear me, Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
. . . When, for some little thing, my whole design Is set aside—(where is the wretched paper?) I am to lead—(ay, here it is)—to lead This English Army: why? Northumberland That I appointed, chooses to be sick— Is frightened: and, meanwhile, who answers for The Irish Parliament? or Army, either? Is this my plan? I say, is this my plan?
CHARLES.
You are disrespectful, Sir!
STRAFFORD.
 Do not believe— My liege, do not believe it! I am yours— Yours ever—'tis too late to think about— To the death, yours! Elsewhere, this untoward step Shall pass for mine—the world shall think it mine— But, here! But, here! I am so seldom here! Seldom with you, my King! I—soon to rush Alone—upon a Giant—in the dark!
CHARLES.
My Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
 (Seats himself at the table; examines papers awhile; then, breaking off)
 . . "Seize the passes of the Tyne" . . . But don't you see—see all I say is true? My plan was sure to prosper,—so, no cause To ask the Parliament for help; whereas We need them—frightfully . . .
CHARLES.
 Need this Parliament?
STRAFFORD.
—Now, for God's sake, mind—not one error more! We can afford no error—we draw, now, Upon our last resource—this Parliament Must help us!
CHARLES.
 I've undone you, Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
 Nay— Nay—don't despond—Sire—'tis not come to that! I have not hurt you? Sire—what have I said To hurt you? I'll unsay it! Don't despond! Sire, do you turn from me?
CHARLES.
 My friend of friends!
STRAFFORD (after a pause).
We'll make a shift! Leave me the Parliament! They help us ne'er so little but I'll make A vast deal out of it. We'll speak them fair: They're sitting: that's one great thing: that half gives Their sanction to us: that's much: don't despond! Why, let them keep their money, at the worst! The reputation of the People's help Is all we want: we'll make shift yet!
CHARLES.
 Dear Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
But meantime, let the sum be ne'er so small They offer, we'll accept it: any sum— For the look of it: the least grant tells the Scots The Parliament is ours . . their staunch ally Is ours: that told, there's scarce a blow to strike! What will the grant be? What does Glanville think?
CHARLES.
Alas . . .
STRAFFORD.
 My liege?
CHARLES.
 Strafford . . .
STRAFFORD.
 But answer me! Have they . . . O surely not refused us all? All the twelve subsidies? We never looked For all of them! How many do they give?
CHARLES.
You have not heard . . .
STRAFFORD.
 (What has he done?)—Heard what? But speak at once, Sire—this grows terrible!
(The King continuing silent.)
You have dissolved them!—I'll not leave this man.
CHARLES.
'Twas Vane—his ill-judged vehemence that . . .
STRAFFORD.
 Vane?
CHARLES.
He told them, as they were about to vote The half, that nothing short of all the twelve Would serve our turn, or be accepted.
STRAFFORD.
 Vane! Vane! and you promised me that very Vane . . . O God, to have it gone, quite gone from me The one last hope—I that despair, my hope— That I should reach his heart one day, and cure All bitterness one day, be proud again And young again, care for the sunshine too, And never think of Eliot any more,— God, and to toil for this, go far for this, Get nearer, and still nearer, reach this heart— And find Vane there! (Suddenly taking up a paper, and continuing with a forced  calmness.) Northumberland is sick: Well then, I take the Army: Wilmot leads The Horse, and he with Conway must secure The passes of the Tyne: Ormond supplies My place in Ireland. Here, we'll try the City: If they refuse a loan . . . debase the coin And seize the bullion! we've no other choice. Herbert . . . (Flinging down the paper.) And this while I am here! with you! And there are hosts such, hosts like Vane! I go,— And, I once gone, they'll close around you, Sire, When the least pique, pettiest mistrust, is sure To ruin me—and you along with me! Do you see that? And you along with me! —Sire, you'll not ever listen to these men, And I away, fighting your battle? Sire, If they—if She—charge me—no matter what— You say, "At any time when he returns His head is mine." Don't stop me there! You know My head is yours . . only, don't stop me there!
CHARLES.
Too shameful, Strafford! You advised the war, And . . .
STRAFFORD.
 I! I! that was never spoken with Till it was entered on! That loathe the war! That say it is the maddest, wickedest . . . Do you know, Charles, I think, within my heart, That you would say I did advise the war; And if, thro' your own weakness, falsehood, Charles, These Scots, with God to help them, drive me back . . . You will not step between the raging People And me, to say . . .  I knew you! from the first I knew you! Never was so cold a heart! Remember that I said it—that I never Believed you for a moment!  —And, you loved me? You thought your perfidy profoundly hid Because I could not share your whisperings With Vane? With Savile? But your hideous heart— I had your heart to see, Charles! Oh, to have A heart of stone—of smooth, cold, frightful stone! Ay, call them! Shall I call for you? The Scots Goaded to madness? Or the English—Pym— Shall I call Pym, your subject? Oh, you think I'll leave them in the dark about it all? They shall not know you? Hampden, Pym shall not . . . .
(Enter PYM, HAMPDEN, VANE, &c.)
(Dropping on his knee.) Thus favoured with your gracious countenance What shall a rebel League avail against Your servant, utterly and ever yours? (To the rest) So, Gentlemen, the King's not even left The privilege of bidding me farewell Who haste to save the People—that you style Your People—from the mercies of the Scots And France their friend?  (To CHARLES) Pym's grave grey eyes are fixed Upon you, Sire!  (To the rest) Your pleasure, Gentlemen?
HAMPDEN.
The King dissolved us—'tis the King we seek And not Lord Strafford.
STRAFFORD.
 . . . . Strafford, guilty too Of counselling the measure: (To CHARLES) (Hush . . you know . . You have forgotten . . Sire, I counselled it!) —(Aloud) A heinous matter, truly! But the King Will yet see cause to thank me for a course Which now, perchance . . (Sire, tell them so!) . . he blames. Well, choose some fitter time to make your charge— I shall be with the Scots—you understand?— Then yelp at me!  Meanwhile, your Majesty Binds me, by this fresh token of your trust . . .
 (Under the pretence of an earnest farewell, STRAFFORD conducts CHARLES to the door, in such a manner as to hide his agitation from the rest: VANE and others gazing at them: as the King disappears, they turn as by one impulse to PYM, who has not changed his original posture of surprise.)
HAMPDEN.
Leave we this arrogant strong wicked man!
VANE and others.
Dear Pym! Come out of this unworthy place To our old room again! Come, dearest Pym!  (STRAFFORD just about to follow the King, looks back.)
PYM.
(To STRAFFORD) Keep tryst! the old appointment's made anew: Forget not we shall meet again!
STRAFFORD.
 Be it so! And if an Army follows me?
VANE.
 His friends Will entertain your Army!
PYM.
 I'll not say You have misreckoned, Strafford: time will . . . .  Perish Body and spirit! Fool to feign a doubt— Pretend the scrupulous and nice reserve Of one whose prowess is to do the feat! What share have I in it? Shall I affect To see no dismal sign above your head When God suspends his ruinous thunder there? Strafford is doomed!—Touch him no one of you!  (Exeunt PYM, HAMPDEN, &c.)
STRAFFORD.
Pym we shall meet again!
(Enter CARLISLE.)
 You here, girl?
CARLISLE.
 Hush— I know it all—hush, dearest Strafford!
STRAFFORD.
 Ah? Well. I shall make a sorry soldier, Lucy! All Knights begin their enterprise, you know, Under the best of auspices; 'tis morn— The Lady girds his sword upon the Youth— (He's always very young)—the trumpets sound— Cups pledge him, and . . . and . . . the King blesses him— You need not turn a page of the Romance To learn the Dreadful Giant's fate! Indeed We've the fair Lady here; but she apart,— A poor man, never having handled lance, And rather old, weary, and far from sure His Squires are not the Giant's friends: well—well— Let us go forth!
CARLISLE.
 Go forth?
STRAFFORD.
 What matters it? We shall die gloriously—as the book says.
CARLISLE.
To Scotland? not to Scotland?  Am I sick Like your good brother, brave Northumberland? Beside the walls seem falling on me!
CARLISLE.
 Strafford, The wind that saps these walls can undermine Your camp in Scotland, too! Whence creeps the wind? Have you no eyes except for Pym? Look here! A breed of silken creatures lurk and thrive In your contempt; you'll vanquish Pym? Friend, Vane Can vanquish you! And Vane you think to fly?— Rush on the Scots! Do nobly! Vane's slight sneer Shall test success—adjust the praise—suggest The faint result: Vane's sneer shall reach you there! —You do not listen!
STRAFFORD.
 Oh . . I give that up— There's fate in it—I give all here quite up. Care not what Vane does or what Holland does Against me! 'Tis so idle to withstand them— In no case tell me what they do!
CARLISLE.
 But Strafford. . . .
STRAFFORD.
I want a little strife, beside—real strife: This petty, palace-warfare does me harm: I shall feel better, fairly out of it.
CARLISLE.
Why do you smile?
STRAFFORD.
 I got to fear them, girl! I could have torn his throat at first, that Vane, As he leered at me on his stealthy way To the Queen's closet, Lucy—but of late I often found it in my heart to say "Vane—don't traduce me to her!"
CARLISLE.
 But the King . . .
STRAFFORD.
The King stood there, 'tis not so long ago, —There, and the whisper, Lucy, "Be my friend Of friends!"—My King! I would have . . .
CARLISLE.
 . . . Died for him?
STRAFFORD.
. . Sworn him true, Lucy: I will die for him.
CARLISLE.
(Aside.) What can he mean? You'd say he loved him still! (To STRAFFORD.) But go not, Strafford! . . . But you must renounce This project on the Scots! Die! wherefore die? Charles never loved you!
STRAFFORD.
 And he will not, now: He's not of those who care the more for you That you're unfortunate.
CARLISLE.
 Then wherefore die For such a master?
STRAFFORD.
 You that told me first How good he was—when I must leave true friends To find a truer friend!—that drew me here From Ireland,—"I had but to show myself And Charles would spurn Vane, Savile, and the rest"— You, girl, to ask me that?
CARLISLE.
(Aside.) If he have set His heart abidingly on Charles! (To STRAFFORD.) Dear friend I shall not see you any more!
STRAFFORD.
 Yes, girl— There's one man here that I shall meet!
CARLISLE.
 (Aside.) The King!— What way to save him from the King?  My soul . . That lent from its own store the charmed disguise That clothes the King . . he shall behold my soul! (To STRAFFORD.) Strafford . . . (I shall speak best if you'll not gaze Upon me.) . . . You would perish, too! So sure! . . . Could you but know what 'tis to bear, my Strafford, One Image stamped within you, turning blank The else imperial brilliance of your mind,— A weakness, but most precious,—like a flaw I' the diamond which should shape forth some sweet face Yet to create, and meanwhile treasured there Lest Nature lose her gracious thought for ever! . . .
STRAFFORD.
When could it be? . . . no! . . yet . . was it the day We waited in the anteroom, till Holland Should leave the presence-chamber?
CARLISLE.
 What?
STRAFFORD.
 —That I Described to you my love for Charles?
CARLISLE.
(Aside.) Ah, no— One must not lure him from a love like that! Oh, let him love the King and die! 'Tis past. . . . I shall not serve him worse for that one brief And passionate hope . . silent for ever now! (To STRAFFORD.) And you are really bound for Scotland, then? I wish you well: you must be very sure Of the King's faith, for Pym and all his crew Will not be idle—setting Vane aside!
STRAFFORD.
If Pym is busy,—you may write of Pym.
CARLISLE.
What need when there's your king to take your part? He may endure Vane's counsel; but for Pym— Think you he'll suffer Pym to . . .
STRAFFORD.
 Girl, your hair Is glossier than the Queen's!
CARLISLE.
 Is that to ask A curl of me?
STRAFFORD.
 Scotland——the weary way!
CARLISLE.
Stay, let me fasten it.  —A rival's, Strafford?
STRAFFORD.
(Showing the George.) He hung it there: twine yours around it, girl!
CARLISLE.
No—no—another time—I trifle so! And there's a masque on foot: farewell: the Court Is dull: do something to enliven us In Scotland; we expect it at your hands.
STRAFFORD.
I shall not fall in Scotland.
CARLISLE.
 Prosper—if You'll think of me sometimes!
STRAFFORD.
 How think of him And not of you? of you—the lingering streak (A golden one) in my good fortune's eve?
CARLISLE.
Strafford . . . .  Well, when the eve has its last streak The night has its first star! (Exit.)
STRAFFORD.
 That voice of hers . . . You'd think she had a heart sometimes! His voice Is soft too.  Only God can save him now. Be Thou about his bed, about his path! . . . His path! Where's England's path? Diverging wide, And not to join again the track my foot Must follow—whither? All that forlorn way— Among the tombs! Far—far—till . . . What, they do Then join again, these paths? For, huge in the dusk, There's—Pym to face!  Why then I have a Foe To close with, and a fight to fight at last That's worth my soul! What—do they beard the King— And shall the King want Strafford at his need— My King—at his great need? Am I not here?
. . . . Not in the common blessed market-place Pressed on by the rough artisans, so proud To catch a glance from Wentworth! They'll lie down Hungry and say "Why, it must end some day— Is he not watching for our sake?"  —Not there! But in Whitehall—the whited sepulchre— The . . .
 (At the Window, and looking on London.)  Curse nothing to-night! Only one name They'll curse in all those streets to-night! Whose fault? Did I make kings—set up, the first, a man To represent the multitude, receive All love in right of them—supplanting them Until you love the man and not the king—— The man with the mild voice and mournful eyes That send me forth . . .  To breast the bloody sea That sweeps before me—with one star to guide— Night has its first supreme forsaken star! (Exit.)