_A room in the palace. Enter OCTAVIA and BRITANNICUS._
_BRITANNICUS._
Why art thou weeping, dearest? Has Nero been
Again unkind?
_OCTAVIA._
Most unkind.
_Br._ Weep not so.
Octavia, weep not so.
Count but my tears as thine, so shall my pity
Comfort thy wrongs. Nay, wert thou not my sister,
How must I feel to see so base a rival
Honoured before thyself in Cæsar’s palace!
Why even his mother could not grant him that 230
Unmoved, but wept with rage: while he himself,
I saw, was touched with shame.
_Oct._ Hush, hush! nay, ’tis not that;
I mind not that: at least they tell me now
I must not mind; and since he never loved me
It matters little. ’Tis not that at all.
_Br._ Then something fresh; what more?
_Oct._ I scarce dare tell.
What hast thou said or done, Britannicus,
That so could anger him?
_Br._ Ah! is’t with me then
He is angry? Dost thou weep for me?
_Oct._ For both.
_Br._ Now tell me all, sister.
_Oct._ O, ’tis the worst. 240
Here as I sat this morning strode he in,
More fired with rage than ever I have seen him,
More like his wicked mother, when her fury
Has made me tremble. All he said I heard not,
But this, that I, his wife, had turned against him
To plot with thee, and led thee on to boast
That being of age thou wert the rightful heir,
And more: what is his meaning?
_Br._ ’Tis his spite
To seek my fault in thee.
_Oct._ Nay, that were nothing.
Brother, I fear thou wilt be sent from Rome. 250
He dare not face the truth. He cannot brook
Thy title: thou must go, ay, thou wilt go
And leave me in my prison.
_Br._ ’Twas last night
I vexed him suddenly in his cups, but thought
’Twould be as soon forgotten.
_Oct._ Say, how was it?
_Br_. It was the feast of Saturn,—and as it chanced
(Or rather, I should say, ’twas so arranged
To please him, at his own desire) he drew
The lot of king of the feast, and when the company
Were drunk he used his silly privilege 260
To have me be their fool.
_Oct._ Didst thou rebuke him?
_Br._ It happened thus. When all the guests in turn
Had answered to their forfeit, as his humour
Prescribed to each, he turned on me, and bade me
Show them a tragic scene, foreseeing how
The incongruence of time and place, the audience
Of drunken sots would turn my best to worst,
And smother passion in a sea of laughter.
But, for the wine I had been constrained to taste
Had mounted to my head, I felt at heart 270
A force to wither up their sottish jeers,
And ere I knew my purpose I was sitting
Upright upon the couch, and with full passion
Singing the old Greek song thou saidst so well
Suited our fortunes.
_Oct._ O, would I had been there!
They could not laugh at thee.
_Br._ They did not laugh.
The sadness and the sweetness of the music,
After their low hoarse songs, startled to sense
Their sodden, maudlin brains: they listened all
To the end, and then with daunted appetite 280
Sat in constraint and silence.
_Oct._ Oh! well done!
And what said Nero?
_Br._ He but smiled until
The tale tells how the poor child disinherited
Was put to death by his usurping brother;
Then his eye sank; and last, when Paris rose
At the end and praised my acting, he grew wild,
And said the feast was o’er, and bade us go.
_Oct._ Alas! ’twas done too well.
_Br._ I mind it not:
I wear no mask: and manifold occasion
Will oft surprise our closest guard, provoking 290
Unbidden motions that betray the heart:
’Twere vain to seek to quell them: they are like our shadows,
Which, if the sun shine forth, appear and show
Our form and figure. Such haps cannot be helped.
_Enter Agrippina and attendants._
_ATTENDANT._
The Augusta, your royal mother.
_AGRIPPINA._
Good day, my son.
_Br._ Good morrow, mother.
_Agr._ Octavia still here! Child, why, know you not
’Tis long past noon, and Dionysius
Waits in the library? Begone, begone!
What! crying? Here’s a picture to recover 300
A husband’s favour!—Fulvia, attend my daughter
Into my tiring-room, and treat her eyes
To hide these scalded rings: and then, Octavia,
Go to the library, talk thy full hour;
Thy Greek is shameful. The rest go.
[_Exeunt Octavia and attendants._
My son,
I’d speak with thee.
_Br._ My mother’s pleasure?
_Agr._ Thou art my pleasure, child.
Fear me no more. I can be kinder to thee
Than ever I have been to my own true son. 309
_Br._ I thank your majesty.
_Agr._ Nay, now ’tis spoilt.
Best call me mother. Thou hast need of me.
I have heard all; what happed last night at supper.
Thou hast offended Cæsar.
_Br._ He does wrong
To use the freedom of the feast to insult me,
And then resent my freedom in repelling
His right-aimed insult.
_Agr._ True; the liberty
Should cover it: but in thy veins there runs
That which outcries thy speech; which, wert thou dumb,
Would speak thee guilty, and being tongued proclaims
Thy needful sentence. ’Twas done bitterly. 320
I know thy song. Dost thou believe, Britannicus,
That I could give the tale another ending?—
—Suppose, I say, I read it in some book
Writ differently: how that the proud usurper,
Owing all to his mother—dost thou follow me?—
How, when he came to power, instead of sharing
With her who had toiled for him, and in her love
Had parted from all praise, looking to reap
In him the fuller recompense of glory,
How he, when time came he should make return,
Denied her even the common duty owed 331
By son to mother, set her will aside,
Laughed at her, added to her shames, reproached her,
Mocked her with presents taken openly
Out of her treasures,—as to say outright,
All now is mine, thou hast no claim at all;
See what I choose to give, thank me for these—
Held her as nothing, hated her, brought in
His strumpet to her chamber,—that was the sum—
And she then, when she saw her love derided, 340
I say, repented, came to the boy she had wronged....
_Br._ I know, I know.
_Agr._ Then, if thou knowest, say;
What said he, when she told him she would turn
Her love on him, would set him in the place
Whence she had thrust him out? What said he?
_Br._ Nothing.
_Agr._ Nothing!
_Br._ Nay, I remember he said thus:
Wronged have I been by all, and none can right me;
All hath been false to me save sorrow only;
Justice and truth forsworn: There is no word 349
That I dare speak; yet if thou stoop to insult me
My tongue will show my wrongs are not forgotten.
_Agr._ My dearest boy, believe me.
_Br._ The last time
Thou call’dst me thus ’twas when my father died.
I thought then ’twas in kindness, afterwards
I found the meaning.
_Agr._ Yea, I confess I wronged thee;
That is my meaning now: had I not wronged thee,
My speech would have no sense at all: ’tis this
I come to urge: in this thou must believe me.
Canst thou not see, had I no pity in me,
No true remorseful pangs, yet still my wrongs 360
Would move me thus? Though thou trust not my love,
Read in these tears of anger and despair
The depth of my set purpose, my revenge.
_Br._ I partly do believe thee.
_Agr._ Believe me wholly,
And my revenge is thine.
_Br._ Nay, think not so.
There’s blood in thy revenge; I’ll none of it.
What are my private wrongs to Rome? If Cæsar
Stablish the empire, where’s the citizen
Will take exception that he hath wronged his brother?
Since were I Cæsar I would vail my rights 370
To theirs, I still will act as I were Cæsar.
_Agr._ O could’st thou see this offer as thy last
And only safety thou would’st not refuse me.
_Br._ I rather hope to be forgiven the thing
I never thought, than win by doing it.
_Agr._ Thou wilt not join with me?
_Br._ There’s nought to join,
Save to thy will to right me I might join
A hope of justice, to vain will vain hope.
_Agr._ Think for thy sister, boy. She cannot long
Be Cæsar’s wife. Then, were her brother Cæsar,
She might be matched with any excellence. 381
Octavia’s happiness lies on thy word.
_Br._ Octavia, dear Octavia—Now if thou’rt true
There is a way. This matter’s full presentment
Hath not been strange to me, though I have barred the thought
And held no purpose in it; there’s one way:
Those that have wronged can right. If thou would’st speak
With Burrus, he is plain and honourable,
And if he think there’s gain in the exchange,
And his heart goes with it, he has the guards,—my name, 390
The sense of right, the promise of a largess,
Will win them to a man. The senate follows:
In a day, an hour, without a drop of blood
My wrongs are righted. Wilt thou speak with Burrus?
_Agr._ I dare not.
_Br._ Then do nothing. Or if thou canst,
Assure thy son that from my helpless state
And suffering spirit he has nought to fear.
_Agr._ Nay, thou wert right: and though ’tis difficult,
I’ll speak with Burrus. ’Tis a most bold stroke,
But I can dare it. Good Burrus owes me much. [_Exit._
_Br._ Strange, strange indeed. I have heard it said that murder 401
Falls on itself: that in the guilty breast
The implacable crime ploughs up with rooting tusk
The bleeding strings of nature: and in this woman
Of no remorse hath fated vengeance stirred
Her heart to hate her son. O, I did wrong
Yielding a little. Yet, since Burrus loves me,
That he should rule my fate is my best safety.
For her, if she’s my foe, he may work on her.—
These days have brought much change and food for fear. 410