The Spanish Tragedy Part 24

BEL. [acting] Tyrant, desist soliciting vain suits; Relentless are mine ears to thy laments As thy butcher is pitiless and base Which seiz'd on my Erasto, harmless knight.

Yet by thy power thou thinkest to command, And to thy power Perseda doth obey; But, were she able, thus she would revenge Thy treacheries on thee, ign.o.ble prince;

Stabs him.

And on herself she would be thus revengd.

Stabs herself.

KING. Well said, old marshall! this was bravely done!

HIERO. But Bel-imperia plays Perseda well.

VICE. Were this in earnest, Bel-imperia, You would be better to my son than so.

KING. But now what follows for Hieronimo?

HIERO. Marry, this follows for Hieronimo!

Here break we off our sundry languages, And thus conclude I in our vulgar tongue: Haply you think--but bootless are your thoughts-- That this is fabulously counterfeit, And that we do as all tragedians do,-- To die today, for fashioning our scene, The death of Ajax, or some Roman peer, And, in a minute starting up again, Revive to please tomorrow's audience.

No, princes; know I am Hieronimo, The hopeless father of a hapless son, Whose tongue is tun'd to tell his latest tale, Not to excuse gross errors in the play.

I see your looks urge instance of these words: Behold the reason urging me to this!

Shows his dead son.

See here my show; look on this spectacle!

Here lay my hope, and here my hope hath end; Here lay my heart, and here my heart was slain; Here lay my treasure, here my treasure lost; Here lay my bliss, and here my bliss bereft.

But hope, heart, treasure, joy and bliss,-- All fled, fail'd, died, yea, all decay'd with this.

From forth these wounds came breath that gave me life; They murder'd me that made these fatal marks.

The cause was love whence grew this mortal hate: The hate, Lorenzo and young Balthazar; The love, my son to Bel-imperia.

But night, the cov'rer of accursed crimes, With pitchy silence hush'd these traitors' harms, And lent them leave--for they had sorted leisure-- To take advantage in my garden plot Upon my son, my dear Horatio.

There merciless they butcher'd up my boy, In black, dark night, to pale, dim, cruel death!

He shrieks; I heard--and yet, methinks, I hear-- His dismal out-cry echo in the air; With soonest speed I hasted to the noise, Where, hanging on a tree, I found my son Through-girt with wounds and slaughter'd, as you see.

And griev'd I, think you, at this spectacle?

Speak, Portuguese, whose loss resembles mine!

If thou canst weep upon thy Balthazar, 'Tis like I wail'd for my Horatio.

And you, my lord, whose reconciled son March'd in a net and thought himself unseen, And rated me for a brainsick lunacy, With "G.o.d amend that mad Hieronimo!"-- How can you brook our play's catastrophe?

And here behold this b.l.o.o.d.y handkerchief, Which at Horatio's death I weeping dipp'd Within the river of his bleeding wounds!

It as propitious, see, I have reserv'd, And never hath it left my b.l.o.o.d.y heart, Soliciting remembrance of my vow With these, O these accursed murderers!

Which now perform'd, my heart is satisfied.

And to this end the bashaw I became, That might revenge me on Lorenzo's life, Who therefore was appointed to the part And was to represent the knight of Rhodes, That I might kill him more conveniently.

So, viceroy, was this Balthazar thy son-- That Suleiman which Bel-imperia In person of Perseda murdered,-- Solely appointed to that tragic part, That she might slay him that offended her.

Poor Bel-imperia miss'd her part in this: For, though the story saith she should have died, Yet I, of kindness and of care for her, Did otherwise determine of her end.

But love of him whom they did hate too much Did urge her resolution to be such.

And princes, now behold Hieronimo, Author and actor in this tragedy, Bearing his latest fortune in his fist; And will as resolute conclude his part As any of the actors gone before.

And, gentles, thus I end my play!

Urge no more words, I have no more to say.

He runs to hang himself.

KING. O hearken, viceroy; hold Hieronimo!

Brother, my nephew and thy son are slain!

VICE. We are betray'd! my Balthazar is slain!

Break ope the doors; run save Hieronimo!

Hieronimo, do but inform the king of these events; Upon mine honour, thou shalt have no harm!

HIERO. Viceroy, I will not trust thee with my life, Which I this day have offer'd to my son: Accursed wretch, why stayst thou him that was resolv'd to die?

KING. Speak, traitor! d.a.m.ned, b.l.o.o.d.y murd'rer, speak!-- For, now I have thee, I will make thee speak!

Why hast thou done this undeserving deed?

VICE. Why hast thou murdered my Balthazar?

CAS. Why hast thou butcher'd both my children thus?

HIERO. O good words! As dear to me was Horatio As yours, or yours, my lord, to you.

My guiltless son was by Lorenzo slain; And by Lorenzo and that Balthazar Am I at last revenged thoroughly,-- Upon whose souls may Heav'n be yet aveng'd With greater far than these afflictions!

CAS. But who were thy confederates in this?

VICE. That was thy daughter Bel-imperia; For by her hand my Balthazar was slain,-- I saw her stab him.

KING. Why speak'st thou not?

HIERO. What lesser liberty can kings afford Than harmless silence? Then afford it me!

Sufficeth I may not nor I will not tell thee.

KING. Fetch forth the tortures!

Traitor as thou art, I'll make thee tell!

HIERO. Indeed?

Thou mayst torment me as his wretched son Hath done in murd'ring my Horatio; But never shalt thou force me to reveal The thing which I have vow'd inviolate.

And therefore, in despite of all thy threats, Pleas'd with their deaths, and eas'd with their revenge, First take my tongue, and afterwards my heart!

He bites out his tongue.

KING. O monstrous resolution of a wretch!

See, Viceroy, he hath bitten forth his tongue Rather than reveal what we require'd.

CAS. Yet can he write.

KING. And if in this he satisfy us not, We will devise th' extremest kind of death That ever was invented for a wretch.

Then he makes signs for a knife to mend his pen.

CAS. O, he would have a knife to mend his pen.

VICE. Here; and advise thee that thou write the troth,-- Look to my brother! save Hieronimo!

He with a knife stabs the DUKE and himself.