_A November night in 1654, six years later. MRS. CROMWELL'S bedroom in
Whitehall, where CROMWELL is now installed as Protector._
_MRS. CROMWELL, now aged ninety-four, is on her death-bed. Standing
beside her is ELIZABETH, ministering to her._
_Elizabeth:_
Is that comfortable?
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
Yes, my dear, very comfortable.
_Elizabeth:_
Bridget is coming now. I must go down to Cheapside. I must see that man
there myself.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
Very well, my dear. Bridget is a good girl. I may be asleep before you
come back. Good-night.
_Elizabeth_
(kissing her):
Good-night.
(Softly, at the door.)
Bridget.
_Bridget_
(from the next room):
Yes, mother.
_Elizabeth:_
Can you come? I'm going now.
_Bridget:_
Yes.
(She comes in and ELIZABETH goes.)
_Bridget:_
Shall I read, grandmother?
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
Yes, just a little. Mr. Milton was reading to me this afternoon. Your
father asked him to come. He has begun a very good poem, about Eden and
the fall of man. He read me some of it. He writes extremely well. I
think I should like to hear something by that young Mr. Marvell. He
copies them out for me--you'll find them in that book, there. There's
one about a garden. Just two stanzas of it. I have marked them.
_Bridget_
(reading):
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their incessant labours see
Crown'd from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.
And then this one?
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
Yes. Far other worlds, and other seas. I wish your father would come.
I want to go to sleep, and you never know.
_Bridget:_
I think father is coming now.
(CROMWELL comes in. He wears plain civilian clothes.)
_Cromwell:_
Well, mother dear.
(He kisses her.)
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
I'm glad you have come, my son. Though you are very busy, I'm sure.
_Cromwell:_
Is there anything I can do?
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
No, thank you. What date is this?
_Cromwell:_
The second of November.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
It's nearly a year since they made you Protector, then.
_Cromwell:_
Yes. I wonder.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
You need not, son. You were right. There was none other. And you were
right not to take a crown.
_Cromwell:_
The monarchy will return. I know that.
_Bridget:_
Why not always a commonwealth like this, father?
_Cromwell:_
Hereafter there shall be a true commonwealth. We have done that for
England. But there must be a king. There is no one to follow me. I am an
interlude, as it were. But henceforth kings will be for the defence of
this realm, not to use it. That has been our work. It is so, mother?
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
Truly, I think it. It will be a freer land because you have lived in it,
my son. Our name may be forgotten, but it does not matter. You serve
faithfully. I am proud.
_Cromwell:_
You have been my blessed friend.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
It was kind of Mr. Milton to come this afternoon. I can't remember
whether I thanked him as I should like to.
_Cromwell:_
He likes to come.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
Be kind to all poets, Oliver. They have been very kind to me. They have
the best doctrine.
_Cromwell:_
That is an aim of mine--to find all men of worth and learning and
genius--to give them due employment. The Lord speaks through them, I
know. I would have none fail or want under my government.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
I know that. Bridget, girl, be a stay to your father and your mother.
They love you. If you should wed again, may you wed well.
_Bridget:_
I will cherish my father's great estate, and I will be humble always.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
And now, I am tired. Bless you, Oliver, my son. The Lord cause His face
to shine upon you, and comfort you in all your adversities, and enable
you to do great things for the glory of your most high God, and to be a
relief unto His people. My dear son. I leave my heart with you. A good
night.
(They both kiss her.)
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
Is Amos Tanner here?
_Bridget:_
Yes, grandmother.
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
Ask him to sing to me. Very quietly. The song he sang that night at
Ely--you remember--when John and Henry were there.
(BRIDGET goes out.)
_Mrs. Cromwell:_
You have been a good son.
_Cromwell:_
Mother, dear.
(BRIDGET returns with AMOS. Very quietly he sings:)
When I shall in the churchyard lie,
Poor scholar though I be,
The wheat, the barley, and the rye
Will better wear for me.
For truly have I ploughed and sown,
And kept my acres clean;
And written on my churchyard stone
This character be seen;
"His flocks, his barns, his gear he made
His daily diligence,
Nor counted all his earnings paid
In pockets full of pence."
(While he is singing MRS. CROMWELL falls asleep and he goes. CROMWELL
stands for a time with BRIDGET, watching his mother asleep.)
_Cromwell:_
Daughter, we must be loving, one with another. No man is sure of
himself, ever. He can but pray for faith.
_Bridget:_
Father, you have done all that a man might do. You have delivered
England.
_Cromwell:_
I have said a word for freedom, a poor, confused word. It was all I
could reach to. We are frail, with our passions. We are beset.
(He prays at his mother's bedside, BRIDGET standing beside him.)
Thou hast made me, though very unworthy, a mean instrument to do the
people some good, and Thee service. And many of them have set too high a
value upon me, though others wish and would be glad of my death. But,
Lord, however Thou dost dispose of me, continue and go on to do good for
them. Give them one heart, and mutual love. Teach those who look too
much upon Thy instrument to depend more upon Thyself. Pardon such as
desire to trample upon the dust of a poor worm, for they are Thy people,
too. And pardon the folly of this short prayer, even for Jesus Christ's
sake. And give us a good night if it be Thy pleasure.
THE SCENE CLOSES
THE END
* * * * *
[Transcriber's Note:
The following text was printed at the beginning of the original book.
It is included here for historical interest only.]
Copyright, 1921, by Houghton Mifflin Company
Dramatic Rights in the United States
Controlled by William Harris, Jr
CAUTION
All dramatic rights for John Drinkwater's _Oliver Cromwell_ in North
America are owned and controlled by William Harris, Jr., Hudson Theatre,
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