Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 21 “Nought’s had all’s spent. Where our desire is got without content.” Finally she brings an end to her brooding melancholy herself, realizing as keenly as her husband that her ambition was not worth the price she paid. Peace of mind is too dear a blessing to be sold, especially since it cannot be rebought. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth have both realized before their death their folly, and Shakespeare, in showing us their mistake, makes us acutely conscious of a better standard of behavior. He emphasizes the insignificance of prestige and wealth in stressing the value of a clear conscience. It does not seem likely that universal interest will ever be centered on the study of some class or form of organization rather than on the study of the individual. So it does not seem probable that Shakespeare will ever lose his pre¬ eminence, for as long as our chief occupation is the study of human nature, and as long as we believe that the great purpose of literature is to uplift and ennoble, Shakespeare and his dramas will maintain their place in the world’s literature. Esther Broudy, ’27. FROM THE DIARY OF MONSIEUR HENRI DE RIVORAL. June 1: This first day of June, 1917, marks the ninth day since the woman who calls herself Jacqueline Valny came to dwell under my roof. She thinks she is deceiving me, but I have proved satisfactorily to myself that she is a spy, a spy of those people who killed my three sons,—the Germans. I sigh no longer over the destruction of the village inn, for its demolition has given me my chance for revenge. But to-night I completed my plans. To-night I swore before the Almighty that this woman should pay for the death of my loved ones. To-morrow I hope to see my plans bear fruit. June 2: At breakfast this morning the reason of her presence here suddenly dawned upon me. The cure tells me that the German forces are rapidly advancing, and they wish, undoubtedly, to use my ancestral home to house their filthy soldiery. The thought of it increases my hatred a hundredfold. The Chateau de Rivoral a shelter for the foes of France? Never! It makes me twice as determined that I shall obtain the plans of the German advance, which I am certain she possesses. Then I will communicate them to Paris, thus saving my estates and the estates of my neighbors! If only my brother Jean were here to help me! But I have neither seen nor heard from him since my father disowned him, thirty long years ago. Even now I could pick him from among a thousand, but this is no time for idle musings, for to-night 1 must strike. In a few minutes Mademoiselle Valny will appear, so I must prepare myself. I sincerely hope that Madame Corteau, my only remaining servant, who is almost totally deaf, will remain in the sanctuary of her kitchen. June 5: I have committed a grievous sin. Who am I to wrest the power of revenge from the hands of our Creator? I shudder as I think of the mangled, torn, blood-stained corpse that lies at the foot of the stairs lead¬ ing to the wine vaults. If I had but given her a chance to deny my accusa¬ tions. I have often read of the tortured mind of a murderer, but to have murdered an innocent woman!

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20 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. that Banquo is dangerous to his peace, and his mind is all afire with the thought of getting rid of him. And in contemplation of this crime he says: “But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meals in fear, and sleep In the affliction of those terrible dreams That shake us nightly: better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy.” So it is seen that the strange effect of the crime on Macbeth is that he seems more alive to the dangers of his deed, than to the guilt of it, and his thoughts become almost frenzied in his efforts to ward off any possible danger to his security. He commits murder still, desperately seeking peace of mind, and each murder affects him only more strongly until he becomes almost indifferent about it, for, as he explains: “I am in blood Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er .” But Macbeth realizes before he dies, how his life has been wasted, realizes that fame and wealth were not worth the agonies and sacrifices he suffered, and that nothing can make up for the loss of a clear state of mind, for he exclaims sadly: “My way of life Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath Which the poor heart would vain deny, and dare not.” So Macbeth dies at the hand of Macduff, thus fulfilling the prophecies of the Weird Sisters, the precipitating cause of Macbeth’s crime, who have brought out the half-formed evil and temptation in Macbeth’s mind. By showing Macbeth’s crime, and by tracing his mental processes as a con¬ sequence of it, Shakespeare emphasizes the priceless value of a mind unstained by crime. The effect of the crime on Lady Macbeth is no less significant. Her suffer¬ ing, although different, is no less severe. It is her admirable self-control and will power which make her punishment different. It is not inborn heartlessness, but a courage “screwed to the sticking place” for the desires of ambition wrongly evaluated, that is the cause of her really greater participation in the crime. She has no hallucinations or delusions, because her existence is too evenly regu¬ lated by her will for any possible betrayal of her feelings. Her punishment is harder because she has the double burden of remorse and of hiding that remorse. It is only under the most trying conditions, over which she has no control, that she reveals the evidence of her suffering. Who can forget Lady Macbeth, with eyes staring straight before her, walking in her sleep, reenacting the scene of the murder and her suffering thereof? She gives vent to all the pent up agony of years and the revelation is pitifully enlightening. That she had remorse she has already shown to her husband in the words:

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22 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. Even now I seem to see her face in every corner, through every window, behind every portiere. Every minute of the past three days I have lived again that horrible hour. I met her at the foot of the staircase—led her into the library—seated her by the fireplace, all the while conscious of her unusual charm and beauty. It was then I made my accusation. I cursed both her and her nation and charged her with betraying my trust in her after she had begged my protection and hospitality. She rose, trembling, but before she could speak, I dealt her a blow with a heavy poker that I snatched up from beside the fireplace. What a horrible picture! Blood gushing forth from the deep wound which I had inflicted in her temple. However, not satisfied with this first cruel act, I allowed an insatiable thirst for human blood to overpower my finer feelings, and continued to rain blow after blow upon her unfeeling body. Soon fatigue compelled me to stop, but after a short rest I searched carefully through her clothing for any documents that might be hidden therein. Finding none, I came to the conclusion that they were secreted in her room. I then hurled the gore-clotted mass of human flesh down the long stairway leading to the wine vaults, securely locked the massive door at the head of the same stairway, and hurried in spite of my sixty odd years to the floor above. I went immediately to the room of the dead woman and began a feverish search through her meagre belongings. Suddenly I came upon a small gold locket, and out of idle curiosity I pried it open. Mon dieu! I had murdered some one who was dear to my brother, Jean de Rivoral. Suddenly I spied a letter in the same drawer where I had found the locket. Hastily I snatched it up. It was from the Secret Service Bureau of France and it announced the death of the girl’s father, Jean de Rivoral on July 14, 1917. I had killed my own niece, my brother’s daughter, a girl who had given her life to her country’s cause. That disfigured face seems to be reflected upon the page even as I write. I fear every minute lest the door of the wine vault should swing open and she should stand before me, she whom I murdered because I was too blind to see the truth. Sooner or later I know that I shall be called upon to pay for this deed. I fear lest I go insane as did my father before me, insane, insane, INSANE. June 7 : In due respect to my last master, Monsieur Henri de Rivoral, I, his last remaining servant, close his diary. The poor old gentleman flung himself into the river from the top¬ most parapet of his castle the night of June 5, 1917. I fear for my life, so I am leaving Rivoral before the Germans come. The Cure has promised to watch for Monsieur de Rivoral’s body, and also for the body of Mademoi¬ selle Valny, who we believe met with the same fate as my good master. I submit this diary, unread, to Monsieur Charles Manteau, the lawyer of Monsieur de Rivoral. Warren Reid, ’27.