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, Here comes a woman. Ordella comes out from the Temple, veiled. Thier. Stand and behold her then. Mart. I think a fair one. Thier. Move not whilst I prepare her: may her peace, Like his whose innocence the gods are pleas'd with, Far purer than those fires, pull heaven upon her ; The happiest and the best (if the dull will Do not abuse thy fortune) France e'er found yet. Ordel. She's more than dull, sir, less and worse than wo man, That may inherit such an infinite As As you propound, a greatness so near goodness, Thier. Tell me this then, Was there e'er woman yet, or may be found, That for fair fame, unspotted memory, 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, A general blessing, lady. 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 weak ness In any other flesh but modest woman's, 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, I have a mind will hazard it. 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. Thier. 'Tis full of fearful shadows. Or any thing that's merely ours and mortal; D d Ordel. Ordel. I do Thier. And endless parting With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness, With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason: For in the silent grave, no conversation," 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 ; Thier. Then you can suffer? 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. 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 And those chaste dames that keep my memory, And 99 There is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest. Eccles. And what you do I'll suffer; and that blessing That you desire, the gods shower on the kingdom. you, The gods have will'd it so, they've made the blessing Ordel. Fear me not. Thier. And meet death like a measure, Ordel. I am stedfast. Thier. Thou shalt be sainted, woman, and thy tomb Succeeding peers of France that rise by thy fall, Ordel. I dare, sir. Thier. Ha! (Pulls off her veil: he lets fall his sword.) Mar. 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, The nearest to thy maker, and the purest That ever dull flesh shewed us,-Oh my heart strings.100 Dd2 Martel 100 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 Calantha in the Broken Heart of Ford, that has been embodied in fiction. She is a piece of sainted nature. Yet noble as Martel relates to Thierry the manner of Ordella's death. Mar. The griev'd Ordella, (for all other titles Love 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 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, shew 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. |